This morning I awoke with inspiration from a friend:
"This is the ultimate fact which we so quickly reach on this, as on every topic, the resolution of all into the ever-blessed ONE. Self-existence is the attribute of the Supreme Cause, and it constitutes the measure of good by the degree in which it enters into all lower forms... Power is, in nature, the essential measure of right. Nature suffers nothing to remain in her kingdoms which cannot help itself. The genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree recovering itself from the strong wind, the vital resources of every animal and vegetable, are demonstrations of the self-sufficing and therefore self-relying soul." -Emerson, Self-Reliance
Inspiration, however, did not keep all day. The day was an adventure, and was excellent; yet in repose, the narrative was prosaic at best. I carried on with the exercise of writing, hoping to capture a modicum of profundity. I typed out into sentence form the notes of today's thoughts, trudged through a post hoping that it would amount to something. As a result of a computer malfunction, the great effort was lost, the auto-save mechanism having froze. In disbelief, I felt like abandoning the effort altogether. After all, the blog has undergone a metamorphosis from documenting the narrative of daily experience to recording personal brushstrokes of thought; at a time like this, the present discouragement and futile attempt at forced inspiration were, on a broader scale, as though the caterpillar was cut out of the cocoon before it could develop wings, left to wither from malnourishment without ever having flown.
There were certainly highlights with their accompanying metaphors from today, as has been true of all days on the excellent adventure. The increasing sleepiness of the bike during cold mornings in high altitude: the demand of adherence to patience and love when it refuses to start, or dies at a traffic light. The Utah mountains along I-80: their uncanny presence dissolving the human sense of time grafted onto the world, and casting the manifold dramas orbiting a human life into the wind as mere trifles, like pebbles swept off their summits. The grazing of a tire shard from an 18-wheeler blowout off of my hip while passing through the Salt Lake City highway: how one moment can alter the course of a life entirely. The small pools of water remaining in the desert sand: a reminder of how we dodged a meteorological bullet over the last few days, and the underlying unpredictability of all we try with false certainty to forecast. All narrative is metaphor, as everything is what it is only relative to everything else. Yet one cannot dwell in profundity uninterrupted; one is always called back down to the ground. And the coldness of the smack into hard earth is sobering.
Perhaps it is the eager anticipation of reaching San Francisco - an impetus for our journey, the reunion with a kindred soul, the symbolism of coast-to-coast, and everything else - that prompts the current fleeting and wayward thoughts. Perhaps it is the hyper-stimulation, each day of the excellent adventure electrifying our being into numbness. Perhaps it is the projection of expectations, and the disappointment in the failure of insipid attempts to meet them. Perhaps it is all of these, or none at all.
In the spirit of autonomy, living only by the words of others eschews the universe within oneself; blindly pontificating the words of one's sages deprives them of the chance of absorption, to be internalized and articulated with one's own voice. Yet, when words are stepping stones that bridge the abyss, they are words to live by nonetheless. Tonight I visited another old friend, the angel-incarnate Rumi, and was nourished yet again by his guidance:
"Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.
Don't try to see through the distances.
That's not for human beings. Move within,
but don't move the way fear makes you move."
In the thick of the fog, the clarity that surrounds it is not visible. But keep on, and it will come again soon. As I finish typing this, a moth has fluttered by. He earned his wings. There's a lesson in that.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
Day 12 - Rock Springs, WY
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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Day 11 - Cody, WY
Since Yellowstone is roughly twice the size of our home state, there was no possible way we could get even "a good chunk" of it covered in one morning/afternoon. We resolved to drive a major loop, and stop along the way to take in sights that were particularly magnificent (which says quite a lot when choosing stops in Yellowstone, which is itself one enormous tract of magnificence). The accommodations were overpriced - one queen bed and a tiny bathroom for $162, and it was Snake's turn to blow up his sleeping pad and occupy the floor, a situation which had only happened once prior. He was somewhat reluctant after, while reading the previous evening, he noticed a mouse scurry under his chair into a sagging floorboard, which he promptly repositioned after his little friend's disappearance. But breakfast was surprisingly reasonable, and delicious - certified organic fair trade coffee, the sweetest tune to my awakening ears. After breakfast, we checked out, and loaded our gear back into the car - a leisurely change of pace from the various bungees and ratchet straps. The clock on the adjacent wall to the lobby check-in was labeled "Next predicted time of eruption, +/- 10-15 min." The clock was set to a little after 9, and it was 10:15. I asked our check-out assistant how frequently the ol' geyser blew, to which she replied, "oh, about every 90 minutes or so." After dumping gear into the trunk and backseat, we pulled up a seat on one of the surrounding benches to witness the natural wonder. At that time, only about 5 or 6 other people were doing the same. Over an hour later, the crowd had assembled. We likened it to an experience of rock stardom, where the performer withholds taking stage until the audience is sufficiently present or the cheer is enthusiastic enough. At this point, having initially assumed it would be a matter of minutes before we beheld the famous spectacle, we were thinking, "dah, you're all washed up old man. Take the stage before the crowd demands a refund." During the waiting game, we had more lovely chats with folks, continuing the motifs of adventure and the road. Then it blew. Hooray! Wow! Isn't it amazing? A natural wonder! Let's go. Something about the circumstances made the event much less eventful than my moment of zen 12 hours prior.
Our cruise through Yellowstone was as marvelous as one would expect. Herds of bison grazed the plains, and one herd was particularly close to the road - we didn't realize their prevalence, but it did not detract from their majesty. It was self-evident why the Native Americans had so revered them by their very presence alone.
We ditched the rental, picked up our faithful steeds, and were back on the road, but only to downtown Cody. I had two fresh tires - the front replaced upon a closer inspection at the recommendation of James - and they stuck to the road like Velcro. Snake informed me that this was what tires were supposed to feel like. Right on.
We booked a motel, dropped our gear off (after strapping it in minutes prior), and parked the bikes as we set out for downtown Cody by foot. At the recommendation of Jason, the other excellent individual at the repair shop, we stopped in the Silver Dollar for a burger and a beer. The beer selection included many local brews, and the burgers were delicious. The ambiance was what I envisioned to be a modern saloon - fellas jostlin' with each other, big cowboy hats, butt-smoking conversation, and great tunes on the jukebox. Within 10 minutes, the speakers played Led Zeppelin, The Band, and Creedence. Right on.
As we returned to the motel, our spirits high and ready to tackle the duration of the voyage to the left coast, we came across a man with a long white beard and bandana talking on his cell phone in the parking lot. He was leaning on his white Ford pickup, which had an old but bold hog strapped onto it, flame decals scorching across the gas tank. "Nice bike," I said quietly with a smile, so as not to intrude on his phone conversation. He held the phone away from his mouth, and replied, "Thanks - 30 years old and still running." "Nice!" I exclaimed en route to our door, "the one here in the corner is 33, and still going strong!" I emerged from the room 15 minutes later with a large trash bag full of what was about to be our first (and necessary) laundry load, and he called me over for more chatting. When I asked him if he was riding around the area, he returned, "Nah, coming from Boston. Headed back to California for the winter." "Boston?!? Get out! We're from there!" A kinship was instantly formed. His lady love was born and raised in Revere, just north of the city. She was inside getting ready for their dinner date. "I bring the bike out to Boston and ride all over New England in the spring and summer, and then trek it back to Long Beach, and ride all winter." He had gone cross-country 5 times, as well as several trips up to the Yukon and back. This man was a bona fide road warrior. He was eager to give us recommendations on good cruises, and began the bombardment of great rides when his love came out to join the conversation. Her sons were musicians, so the conversation continued on with livelihood. The road warrior used to be a bouncer at Harper's Ferry (a local spot in Allston where musician friends of ours have played, worked, laughed, cried, and drank beer), but when it was still a biker bar. This man was a hero. "Where you headed next?" he asked. "I - we don't know. Yellowstone has wet snow on tomorrow's forecast, so we're in the process of re-evaluating." He said he might swing by after dinner and knock on our door. It is after midnight, and the door has remained silent. Perhaps tomorrow. It is no matter, as our introduction alone was inspiration enough. We evaluated the game plan for the days to come, and it was even more favorable than we anticipated. All the excitement and enthusiasm of the excellent adventure returned stronger than ever, as it was revitalized now with all we had taken in thus far. The plan: San Francisco or bust in 4 days. Weather pending, of course.
Our cruise through Yellowstone was as marvelous as one would expect. Herds of bison grazed the plains, and one herd was particularly close to the road - we didn't realize their prevalence, but it did not detract from their majesty. It was self-evident why the Native Americans had so revered them by their very presence alone.
We ditched the rental, picked up our faithful steeds, and were back on the road, but only to downtown Cody. I had two fresh tires - the front replaced upon a closer inspection at the recommendation of James - and they stuck to the road like Velcro. Snake informed me that this was what tires were supposed to feel like. Right on.
We booked a motel, dropped our gear off (after strapping it in minutes prior), and parked the bikes as we set out for downtown Cody by foot. At the recommendation of Jason, the other excellent individual at the repair shop, we stopped in the Silver Dollar for a burger and a beer. The beer selection included many local brews, and the burgers were delicious. The ambiance was what I envisioned to be a modern saloon - fellas jostlin' with each other, big cowboy hats, butt-smoking conversation, and great tunes on the jukebox. Within 10 minutes, the speakers played Led Zeppelin, The Band, and Creedence. Right on.
As we returned to the motel, our spirits high and ready to tackle the duration of the voyage to the left coast, we came across a man with a long white beard and bandana talking on his cell phone in the parking lot. He was leaning on his white Ford pickup, which had an old but bold hog strapped onto it, flame decals scorching across the gas tank. "Nice bike," I said quietly with a smile, so as not to intrude on his phone conversation. He held the phone away from his mouth, and replied, "Thanks - 30 years old and still running." "Nice!" I exclaimed en route to our door, "the one here in the corner is 33, and still going strong!" I emerged from the room 15 minutes later with a large trash bag full of what was about to be our first (and necessary) laundry load, and he called me over for more chatting. When I asked him if he was riding around the area, he returned, "Nah, coming from Boston. Headed back to California for the winter." "Boston?!? Get out! We're from there!" A kinship was instantly formed. His lady love was born and raised in Revere, just north of the city. She was inside getting ready for their dinner date. "I bring the bike out to Boston and ride all over New England in the spring and summer, and then trek it back to Long Beach, and ride all winter." He had gone cross-country 5 times, as well as several trips up to the Yukon and back. This man was a bona fide road warrior. He was eager to give us recommendations on good cruises, and began the bombardment of great rides when his love came out to join the conversation. Her sons were musicians, so the conversation continued on with livelihood. The road warrior used to be a bouncer at Harper's Ferry (a local spot in Allston where musician friends of ours have played, worked, laughed, cried, and drank beer), but when it was still a biker bar. This man was a hero. "Where you headed next?" he asked. "I - we don't know. Yellowstone has wet snow on tomorrow's forecast, so we're in the process of re-evaluating." He said he might swing by after dinner and knock on our door. It is after midnight, and the door has remained silent. Perhaps tomorrow. It is no matter, as our introduction alone was inspiration enough. We evaluated the game plan for the days to come, and it was even more favorable than we anticipated. All the excitement and enthusiasm of the excellent adventure returned stronger than ever, as it was revitalized now with all we had taken in thus far. The plan: San Francisco or bust in 4 days. Weather pending, of course.
Day 10 - Yellowstone
Meteorologists? More like politicians.
We awoke to sunny skies. There was a slight chill at 8am, but with plenty of promise for a lovely day. A significant difference between East and West is the ability to perceive skies for hundreds upon hundreds of miles. One fellow biker shared with us an anecdote she and her husband recite to each other: "you can watch your dog run away for 2 days straight."
Breakfast is not only our first "fueling," but the time to reflect on the previous day and collect ourselves for the day ahead. As much planning as is demanded for an excellent adventure, one can only plan so much. We are perpetually at the mercy of Nature - arms open to receive her good tidings, and a clenched fist to combat her hardships. As we endured another sub-part "continental" breakfast, a couple in their 40s were conversing with a couple in their 70s. The elder twosome was Yellowstone-bound. The younger were residents of Cody, WY - the last town before Yellowstone, about 50mi from the park entrance. I politely interposed, and after briefly becoming acquainted, put forth our extensive forecast research results. The 40s man returned the local interpretation: "It's not like where you guys are from... around here, 30% chance of rain means almost definitely no rain. Not guaranteed, of course." Nothing ever is.
40s man assured us that lodging - both in Yellowstone, and immediately outside the park in sleepy neighboring towns - was available. Whether it was booked was another question, but at this time of year, the end of the tourist rush, we didn't anticipate much cause for concern. Time to return the options to the scale.
Last night, the endeavor to Yellowstone seemed futile - but through the lens of frustration, fatigue, and a tinge of nostalgia for home; ensnared by the impending blotch of green on the radar screen. Both of us, without expressing it to each other at the time, even considered turning back, as all of our potential destinations-to-be were soon blanketed with precipitation. Today, however, was a new day. "One day at a time." Voa was right again. Today, after careful consideration, we were Yellowstone-bound.
The first ten minutes into our ride landed us on the Cloud Peak Skyway, part of the 1.1 million acre Bighorn National Forest (one of the oldest government-protected forests in the country), and named after the Bighorn River, which was in turn named as such because of the bighorn sheep that were once abundant there. Disease decimated them, and hunting nearly finished the job. They disappeared. Conscientious effort was made to reintroduce them, and they are back today, although in lesser numbers. I wish we had crossed the path of one, so I could reiterate to him or her the magnificence of his/her residence. We wound through mountain passes and switchbacks amongst scattered evergreens, creeks nurturing sporadic yellow deciduous trees. In the distance, the Bighorn mountain range blended into the horizon of its snow-capped sister range, the Rockies. It was positively glorious - one of the most breathtaking scenes to date. There was no question in our minds that we had chosen wisely.
Exiting the skyway, we returned again to the plains - this time low hills of scrub shrubbery against a mountainous backdrop. We past through countless acres of farmland, predominantly sugar beets grown for sweetener. Hours later, we strolled into Cody, the namesake of Bill Cody, aka Buffalo Bill. Here his original saloon, hotel, and hunting lodging reside. It was the most developed town we had passed through in awhile (we had, hours before, passed a forgotten-named town, holding the population record of 10 - literally, two farmhouses.
Conversations were envisioned: "dinner at your place tonight?"). Cody is also a very motorcycle-friendly town. Fortunately.
We grabbed a quick lunch at Subway, and I mention this because it has not been recorded in the excellent journal that Subway absolutely dominates North America. No other chain can hold a candle to its presence, both in the US and Canada. That's right McD's, you have been served. The city limits of Cody bump against Buffalo Bill State Park, which was right on par with the morning's magnificence. Mountain passes along a pristine reservoir too beautiful not to stop and take in. I put my blinker on, signaling to Snake to pull off at the scenic viewpoint, when it happened.
A couple months back, my father who, given his background, is well-versed in Latin, introduced me to a fabulous - and, more recently, regularly applicable - term prevalent in Catholic doctrine. After returning the family car with a flat tire, I received a humorous email from him (he is famous for humorous emails) titled: "a felix culpa." Felix Culpa literally translates as something like "a fortunate fall." Its meaning is something akin to a blessing in disguise, though it tends to lean more on the side of a-shitstorm-that-brought-something-fortuitous. When my dad had brought the car in to replace the tire, the trusted mechanic informed him that the remaining three tires were the original tires from this inherited 2002 Buick, and were "blowouts waiting to happen." The email was signed, "Dad- the owner of 4 new tires." The blowout-on-hold became the blowout-that-never-was, all thanks to a flat. Hence, a felix culpa.
Back to the reservoir. As we coasted into the scenic area, I released my clutch - but the handle didn't move. I thought at first, "it's stuck, damn." I looked down, and to the left of my gauges was a broken clutch line, poised in the air like a cobra in attack posture. The cable had snapped. I popped the bike in neutral as fast as possible, and rolled into the turnoff. As Snake pulled up along side of me, I let him in on it. "Problem. Big problem."
Very fortunately, we were only 15 minutes outside Cody's city limits. More fortunately, right on the border of the city limits was a motorcycle repair shop. Even more fortunately, my new friend James immediately responded to my call by hitching a trailer to his truck to come rescue me. Most fortunately, of all the locations for something to go awry on the excellent adventure, this was one of the loveliest and most convenient. We walked down to the reservoir while we awaited James' arrival, and I sighed with a smile as I ran the water through my hair. Malleability - the great Noun of the excellent adventure.
James arrived. They had nothing in stock like the cable on this 33-year-old beauty. They would have to order one, and it was too late in the day for overnight. We strapped the bike in, I hopped in his truck, and Snake followed us back to town.
Time for plan B. We had already booked a room in Yellowstone (smack dab in front of Old Faithful - the only room they had left en route), as the few campgrounds that had not yet been closed would mean freezing nightly temperatures and unpredictable weather. In preparation for the trip, we had come across more than once the advice that Yellowstone weather can change frequently, and to be prepared for just about anything. Being New Englanders, we though "Ah hell, just another day." Anticipating the foul weather, and to justify bumming around a national treasure for an extra day rain or shine, we reserved the last available room for a price double what we had paid anywhere else. The question now loomed - how to get there. The folks at the shop were wonderful and let us leave our gear in their office while we resolved the current situation. We unloaded Snake's bike, and I hopped on the back. We high-tailed it to the airport (a tiny airport for Yellowstone-goers) in search of a rental car, as phone calls had yielded no results (two answering machines with the same woman's voice uttering the same message with a different company name). The rental was a success - a blue Subaru Imprezza. Snake took the opportunity for an oil change, and while loading our gear into the rental, James pointed out to me the condition of my rear tire. Status - bald. Change it. Yellowstone or bust.
Being back in a car was a bit of an adjustment. To ease the transition, we put the windows down and opened the sunroof, so as not to forget the sound of wind at high speed. Few words were spoken for the duration of the voyage, as we stared in awe at the passing surroundings. Nearing the park entrance, we noticed a large brown unidentified object in the middle of the road ahead. I slowed down to a stop. We could hardly believe our eyes. 5 feet away from us was a buffalo - an American emblem, and one of the most peaceful and majestic creatures I have ever set eyes upon. We scrambled to break the cameras out, and slowly followed it, the bison as unphased with our presence as the cluster of flies swarming its face and torso. I looked in my rear view for oncoming traffic, and noticed two cars stopped about 100 yards away, observing the two other bison in tow crossing the road. At the Badlands, we would have had to traverse an unpaved route for miles just to catch a (most likely) distant glimpse of these amazing animals. Now we were close enough to slap its behind. Not that we would.
We entered Yellowstone shortly before sunset. In the distance were visible flashes of lightning bolts. Rounding mountain passes, the smell of wet pavement wafting ahead, we noticed the dampness of the road. The temperature, in just 2o minutes or so, had dropped from 70 to 47 on our dashboard. Further ahead, patches of snow were still stuck to the road. Had we been on our course on two wheels several hours ago, nightmares would have been reality - bearing a snowy thunderstorm on a mountain pass. Now, we were witnessing the aftermath hours later, mostly from a distance except for the residual wetness, and with a roof and twice the wheel stability. A 30% chance of showers never looked like this in New England. Hence, a felix culpa.
We rounded Lake Butte right at sunset. Yellowstone. We made it. Many of the trees not far from the entrance were stripped bar, some charred to the core. Forest fires are frequent, particularly in dry periods (the fire danger indications next to Smoky the Bear were listed as "Very High" during our stay), and to allow the Great Mother to run her course, they are not deterred or extinguished except when nearing contact with park buildings or roadways. It was an eerily fascinating sight - especially after seeing flashes streak the sky minutes before.
Our accommodations for the night: Old Faithful Inn. Built during the winter of 1903-1904 from indigenous wood and stone, it was an amazing relic from a lost historic period. A gorgeous lodge, it conjured daydreams of the upper echelon of society visiting the park around the beginning of the 20th century, warming themselves and enjoying cocktails by the fire blazing in the enormous stone fireplace within the largest log hotel in the world. Atop the multiple log balconies stands a structure resembling a treehouse. Named "the Crow's Nest," it was thought to be the young architect's realization of a childhood fantasy. During the first years of the hotel, a small string orchestra would assemble there, nearly 80 feet above the ground level, and perform for the crowds dancing below. I imagine the acoustics must have been fantastic. After a 7.3 earthquake rocked the Inn, it was closed due to concerns with its condition being structurally unsound. The grandfather clock built onto the stone fireplace is colossal. It never went off, but its presence was awesome.
The Inn was packed. There were very unusual abundance of late-season tourists this year. Last year at this time, the temperatures were already at subzero digits, and the Inn was nearly deserted. This year, we booked one of the last available rooms. I speculate it has something to do with the current weakness of the dollar - foreign tourists abounded, from French to British to Japanese. And from all across the US as well, indicating that many who sought a vacation destination this year opted against traveling abroad.
After check-in, Snake stayed in the room to do some reading, and before too long I found myself amidst my writing fantasy: a wallflower in the balcony, sipping a delectable beer never before tasted (1554 - a black ale from CO brewers New Belgium), and jotting down the day's recap while an elderly gentleman named George Sanborn continued his now 19-year residence on piano; while people came and went, checked in, snapped pictures, sat and chatted over drinks, warmed themselves by the fire, and absorbed the surroundings. I was elated.
The bartender, eager to engage in conversation, informed me about the tourism boom this year, and the "warm" streak of weather, as well as his experience working in the national treasure. He was reading a book recommended by a fellow employee, who apparently was the source for good reads. They had a lot of downtime, so books circulated frequently. I inquired about the book, the title of which now escapes me. Something involving a plane's descent. "It's about a writer, struggling to be a writer, and continuously failing." I silently envisioned a work of mine someday circulating amongst bored folks surrounded by inspiration. Hopefully not about failing.
After his clock had struck gig's-end, George paused for a moment of repose, closed the keyboard cover on the baby grand, and approached me. We had a pleasant chat with each other which ended with sincere thanks on both parts - ostensibly, for playing and for listening, but below the surface, for our own reasons that amounted to much more than just entertainment.
I went outside to observe the stars before calling it a night. As I exited the Inn, I heard a splashing sound that didn't immediately register among the low hum of entrance conversation. It crashed into consciousness as I overheard a girl smoking a cigarette remark, "God, it sounds like a waterpark." I became immediately aware of the sound, and jogged into the darkness following its trail. In front of a canopy of starlight, a huge white cloud of steam and water emerged. Old Faithful had just erupted. I stood in awe until it was through. Soon, the sound of splashing gave way to mountain winds grazing the trees. If I could ever display to someone what enlightenment was, I would enmesh my fingers in theirs, and with hands held, walk with him or her in silent unison to this moment.
We awoke to sunny skies. There was a slight chill at 8am, but with plenty of promise for a lovely day. A significant difference between East and West is the ability to perceive skies for hundreds upon hundreds of miles. One fellow biker shared with us an anecdote she and her husband recite to each other: "you can watch your dog run away for 2 days straight."
Breakfast is not only our first "fueling," but the time to reflect on the previous day and collect ourselves for the day ahead. As much planning as is demanded for an excellent adventure, one can only plan so much. We are perpetually at the mercy of Nature - arms open to receive her good tidings, and a clenched fist to combat her hardships. As we endured another sub-part "continental" breakfast, a couple in their 40s were conversing with a couple in their 70s. The elder twosome was Yellowstone-bound. The younger were residents of Cody, WY - the last town before Yellowstone, about 50mi from the park entrance. I politely interposed, and after briefly becoming acquainted, put forth our extensive forecast research results. The 40s man returned the local interpretation: "It's not like where you guys are from... around here, 30% chance of rain means almost definitely no rain. Not guaranteed, of course." Nothing ever is.
40s man assured us that lodging - both in Yellowstone, and immediately outside the park in sleepy neighboring towns - was available. Whether it was booked was another question, but at this time of year, the end of the tourist rush, we didn't anticipate much cause for concern. Time to return the options to the scale.
Last night, the endeavor to Yellowstone seemed futile - but through the lens of frustration, fatigue, and a tinge of nostalgia for home; ensnared by the impending blotch of green on the radar screen. Both of us, without expressing it to each other at the time, even considered turning back, as all of our potential destinations-to-be were soon blanketed with precipitation. Today, however, was a new day. "One day at a time." Voa was right again. Today, after careful consideration, we were Yellowstone-bound.
The first ten minutes into our ride landed us on the Cloud Peak Skyway, part of the 1.1 million acre Bighorn National Forest (one of the oldest government-protected forests in the country), and named after the Bighorn River, which was in turn named as such because of the bighorn sheep that were once abundant there. Disease decimated them, and hunting nearly finished the job. They disappeared. Conscientious effort was made to reintroduce them, and they are back today, although in lesser numbers. I wish we had crossed the path of one, so I could reiterate to him or her the magnificence of his/her residence. We wound through mountain passes and switchbacks amongst scattered evergreens, creeks nurturing sporadic yellow deciduous trees. In the distance, the Bighorn mountain range blended into the horizon of its snow-capped sister range, the Rockies. It was positively glorious - one of the most breathtaking scenes to date. There was no question in our minds that we had chosen wisely.
Exiting the skyway, we returned again to the plains - this time low hills of scrub shrubbery against a mountainous backdrop. We past through countless acres of farmland, predominantly sugar beets grown for sweetener. Hours later, we strolled into Cody, the namesake of Bill Cody, aka Buffalo Bill. Here his original saloon, hotel, and hunting lodging reside. It was the most developed town we had passed through in awhile (we had, hours before, passed a forgotten-named town, holding the population record of 10 - literally, two farmhouses.
Conversations were envisioned: "dinner at your place tonight?"). Cody is also a very motorcycle-friendly town. Fortunately.
We grabbed a quick lunch at Subway, and I mention this because it has not been recorded in the excellent journal that Subway absolutely dominates North America. No other chain can hold a candle to its presence, both in the US and Canada. That's right McD's, you have been served. The city limits of Cody bump against Buffalo Bill State Park, which was right on par with the morning's magnificence. Mountain passes along a pristine reservoir too beautiful not to stop and take in. I put my blinker on, signaling to Snake to pull off at the scenic viewpoint, when it happened.
A couple months back, my father who, given his background, is well-versed in Latin, introduced me to a fabulous - and, more recently, regularly applicable - term prevalent in Catholic doctrine. After returning the family car with a flat tire, I received a humorous email from him (he is famous for humorous emails) titled: "a felix culpa." Felix Culpa literally translates as something like "a fortunate fall." Its meaning is something akin to a blessing in disguise, though it tends to lean more on the side of a-shitstorm-that-brought-something-fortuitous. When my dad had brought the car in to replace the tire, the trusted mechanic informed him that the remaining three tires were the original tires from this inherited 2002 Buick, and were "blowouts waiting to happen." The email was signed, "Dad- the owner of 4 new tires." The blowout-on-hold became the blowout-that-never-was, all thanks to a flat. Hence, a felix culpa.
Back to the reservoir. As we coasted into the scenic area, I released my clutch - but the handle didn't move. I thought at first, "it's stuck, damn." I looked down, and to the left of my gauges was a broken clutch line, poised in the air like a cobra in attack posture. The cable had snapped. I popped the bike in neutral as fast as possible, and rolled into the turnoff. As Snake pulled up along side of me, I let him in on it. "Problem. Big problem."
Very fortunately, we were only 15 minutes outside Cody's city limits. More fortunately, right on the border of the city limits was a motorcycle repair shop. Even more fortunately, my new friend James immediately responded to my call by hitching a trailer to his truck to come rescue me. Most fortunately, of all the locations for something to go awry on the excellent adventure, this was one of the loveliest and most convenient. We walked down to the reservoir while we awaited James' arrival, and I sighed with a smile as I ran the water through my hair. Malleability - the great Noun of the excellent adventure.
James arrived. They had nothing in stock like the cable on this 33-year-old beauty. They would have to order one, and it was too late in the day for overnight. We strapped the bike in, I hopped in his truck, and Snake followed us back to town.
Time for plan B. We had already booked a room in Yellowstone (smack dab in front of Old Faithful - the only room they had left en route), as the few campgrounds that had not yet been closed would mean freezing nightly temperatures and unpredictable weather. In preparation for the trip, we had come across more than once the advice that Yellowstone weather can change frequently, and to be prepared for just about anything. Being New Englanders, we though "Ah hell, just another day." Anticipating the foul weather, and to justify bumming around a national treasure for an extra day rain or shine, we reserved the last available room for a price double what we had paid anywhere else. The question now loomed - how to get there. The folks at the shop were wonderful and let us leave our gear in their office while we resolved the current situation. We unloaded Snake's bike, and I hopped on the back. We high-tailed it to the airport (a tiny airport for Yellowstone-goers) in search of a rental car, as phone calls had yielded no results (two answering machines with the same woman's voice uttering the same message with a different company name). The rental was a success - a blue Subaru Imprezza. Snake took the opportunity for an oil change, and while loading our gear into the rental, James pointed out to me the condition of my rear tire. Status - bald. Change it. Yellowstone or bust.
Being back in a car was a bit of an adjustment. To ease the transition, we put the windows down and opened the sunroof, so as not to forget the sound of wind at high speed. Few words were spoken for the duration of the voyage, as we stared in awe at the passing surroundings. Nearing the park entrance, we noticed a large brown unidentified object in the middle of the road ahead. I slowed down to a stop. We could hardly believe our eyes. 5 feet away from us was a buffalo - an American emblem, and one of the most peaceful and majestic creatures I have ever set eyes upon. We scrambled to break the cameras out, and slowly followed it, the bison as unphased with our presence as the cluster of flies swarming its face and torso. I looked in my rear view for oncoming traffic, and noticed two cars stopped about 100 yards away, observing the two other bison in tow crossing the road. At the Badlands, we would have had to traverse an unpaved route for miles just to catch a (most likely) distant glimpse of these amazing animals. Now we were close enough to slap its behind. Not that we would.
We entered Yellowstone shortly before sunset. In the distance were visible flashes of lightning bolts. Rounding mountain passes, the smell of wet pavement wafting ahead, we noticed the dampness of the road. The temperature, in just 2o minutes or so, had dropped from 70 to 47 on our dashboard. Further ahead, patches of snow were still stuck to the road. Had we been on our course on two wheels several hours ago, nightmares would have been reality - bearing a snowy thunderstorm on a mountain pass. Now, we were witnessing the aftermath hours later, mostly from a distance except for the residual wetness, and with a roof and twice the wheel stability. A 30% chance of showers never looked like this in New England. Hence, a felix culpa.
We rounded Lake Butte right at sunset. Yellowstone. We made it. Many of the trees not far from the entrance were stripped bar, some charred to the core. Forest fires are frequent, particularly in dry periods (the fire danger indications next to Smoky the Bear were listed as "Very High" during our stay), and to allow the Great Mother to run her course, they are not deterred or extinguished except when nearing contact with park buildings or roadways. It was an eerily fascinating sight - especially after seeing flashes streak the sky minutes before.
Our accommodations for the night: Old Faithful Inn. Built during the winter of 1903-1904 from indigenous wood and stone, it was an amazing relic from a lost historic period. A gorgeous lodge, it conjured daydreams of the upper echelon of society visiting the park around the beginning of the 20th century, warming themselves and enjoying cocktails by the fire blazing in the enormous stone fireplace within the largest log hotel in the world. Atop the multiple log balconies stands a structure resembling a treehouse. Named "the Crow's Nest," it was thought to be the young architect's realization of a childhood fantasy. During the first years of the hotel, a small string orchestra would assemble there, nearly 80 feet above the ground level, and perform for the crowds dancing below. I imagine the acoustics must have been fantastic. After a 7.3 earthquake rocked the Inn, it was closed due to concerns with its condition being structurally unsound. The grandfather clock built onto the stone fireplace is colossal. It never went off, but its presence was awesome.
The Inn was packed. There were very unusual abundance of late-season tourists this year. Last year at this time, the temperatures were already at subzero digits, and the Inn was nearly deserted. This year, we booked one of the last available rooms. I speculate it has something to do with the current weakness of the dollar - foreign tourists abounded, from French to British to Japanese. And from all across the US as well, indicating that many who sought a vacation destination this year opted against traveling abroad.
After check-in, Snake stayed in the room to do some reading, and before too long I found myself amidst my writing fantasy: a wallflower in the balcony, sipping a delectable beer never before tasted (1554 - a black ale from CO brewers New Belgium), and jotting down the day's recap while an elderly gentleman named George Sanborn continued his now 19-year residence on piano; while people came and went, checked in, snapped pictures, sat and chatted over drinks, warmed themselves by the fire, and absorbed the surroundings. I was elated.
The bartender, eager to engage in conversation, informed me about the tourism boom this year, and the "warm" streak of weather, as well as his experience working in the national treasure. He was reading a book recommended by a fellow employee, who apparently was the source for good reads. They had a lot of downtime, so books circulated frequently. I inquired about the book, the title of which now escapes me. Something involving a plane's descent. "It's about a writer, struggling to be a writer, and continuously failing." I silently envisioned a work of mine someday circulating amongst bored folks surrounded by inspiration. Hopefully not about failing.
After his clock had struck gig's-end, George paused for a moment of repose, closed the keyboard cover on the baby grand, and approached me. We had a pleasant chat with each other which ended with sincere thanks on both parts - ostensibly, for playing and for listening, but below the surface, for our own reasons that amounted to much more than just entertainment.
I went outside to observe the stars before calling it a night. As I exited the Inn, I heard a splashing sound that didn't immediately register among the low hum of entrance conversation. It crashed into consciousness as I overheard a girl smoking a cigarette remark, "God, it sounds like a waterpark." I became immediately aware of the sound, and jogged into the darkness following its trail. In front of a canopy of starlight, a huge white cloud of steam and water emerged. Old Faithful had just erupted. I stood in awe until it was through. Soon, the sound of splashing gave way to mountain winds grazing the trees. If I could ever display to someone what enlightenment was, I would enmesh my fingers in theirs, and with hands held, walk with him or her in silent unison to this moment.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Day 9 - Buffalo, WY
While packing the gear this morning, an 81 year old man was packing up his Mini Cooper next to me. Earnest eyes, a hearing aid protruding from his right ear, and large, worn hands, he inquired about our trip. He and his wife had driven from Virginia to Alaska - 12,000 miles, through Canada - and were on their return home. They would be on the road for over 2 months after all was said and done. The man grew up in northern Minnesota, as an outdoor and fishing guide in his youth, and later came to teaching at a community college. He reflected aloud on the joys of teaching, which, having two parents who are educators, I understand well. "Can't put a dollar value on that," he remarked, in regards to touching the lives of students. He talked a lot, relishing in his own memories as he recited them. "I'm 81, and I'm shooting for 100! No meds or anything right now." "Go for it," I told him with earnest. "I'm sure the traveling helps... keeps you healthy." "Oh, you betcha."
We stopped for an hour and a half or so in Rapid City, an hour from Wall, at a Honda dealership, and took a bit to drool over bikes and grab a bite while Snake's rear tire was changed. Soon enough, we were back on the road. As I watched the wind enigmatically emerge and disappear through swirls in grass and corn (much less corn than before... just sporadic patches now), self-awareness kicked in. I was observing the two of us living what we had fantasized about just weeks ago. It was akin to an out-of-body experience; the simple but elegant consciousness of doing what we were doing.
We headed down 16 to pay a visit to Mt. Rushmore, less than an hour from Rapid City. I met the monument with ambivalence. The sheer act of sculpting four faces into a mountainside is something that must be witnessed to be believed. It is amazing what a vision can achieve with a few sticks of dynamite. But each presidential figure, and his particular legacy, carry murky complications that were glazed over or outright ignored in the history we were taught in schools. Admittedly, I have a hypersensitivity to such expressions of uber-patriotism knowing, and feeling the weight of, the dark past that too often remains unspoken regarding our country. I have a polarized relationship with my national identity: one the one hand, feeling tremendous gratitude for being born into the time and place I have, and having the ability and liberty to choose my own path (for the most part); and on the other, a total disgust for the profane exploitation and manipulation of the tenants of the Constitution from so many, and the millions of Americans who succumb to laziness, lethargy, and comfortable ignorance as a result of their Constitutional rights. We are a paradoxical country. And to snap a picture or even just catch a glimpse of Rushmore costs you $10.
We next traveled to the monument of Crazy Horse. I wasn't aware that such a thing existed until spotting the informational brochures at the motorcycle shop, and was quickly eager to visit it granted that it wasn't too far out of our way. And it wasn't. Crazy Horse's monument is a project currently underway; only the head has been constructed so far, with a torso, extended arm, and head and upper body of his horse sketched out and underway. He is a solitary face in a mountainside in contrast to the four presidents, and of all five of them, arguably the most deserving to have his face blown into a mountainside. The invitation for the project was originally extended by a tribal council representative to a sculptor in the first half of the 20th century; slowly, but surely, their vision of the largest stone monument in the entire country was being realized. The monument site at present consists of a large museum, gift shop, informational movie on the construction process, restaurant, and a view from a large window of the work-in-progress. I read Black Elk Speaks a number of years ago after questioning a family friend, who is a very knowledgeable source on Native Americans, where to start in educating myself on Native history beyond the public school books. Black Elk's story hit home, and he instantly became an inspiration. He depicts in his conversations with the author, John Neihardt, Crazy Horse as a remarkable chief and leader, and explains his side of Crazy Horse's persecution, arrest, and death. It is paradigmatic of the treachery and deceit against indigenous America by the colonists, all in the name of Progress and Glory. I have great reverence for Native Americans; they embody the purity of the freedom described by the Constitution, and their way of living in such integrated harmony with nature was unprecedented in colonial life, and never replicated. The genocide against them was all but obscured in our history books. As I gazed upon the monument-in-progress, I felt my eyes well up with tears. Seeing a photograph of Black Elk on the wall, the first tear streamed down my face. I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion - the symbolism of the Native people and their struggle to retain their sanctity threw me back into myself, and into the whole human drama at large. Yet Crazy Horse, Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, Lincoln, me, you, all of us - we all inherit the iniquities of history. Despite how warped a story can become, no one can ever truly erase the past. It has been done. None of us can alter what happened prior to our inception - our births are the culminations of all that preceded us. What we can do is understand the past, and expiate the wrongs outside of our control to shape the present for a better future. Future generations will, if all continues as planned, bear witness to a monument of someone whose story represents the horrors of the past, but also the lessons to be learned, and the flame to be rekindled.
Our sightseeing coming to a close for the day, we continued a cruise through the Black Hills. It was strongly recommended to us by fellow bikers to take this route. The Black Hills are only black from a distance; up close, they are hills of evergreen forests. Relative to the surroundings, they are a lovely change of pace; but for New Englanders, they are nothing extraordinary. However, they did invoke thoughts of home, which were welcomed.
The more scenic end of the drive came as we exited the Black Hills and neared the Wyoming border. Gulches, scarcer patches of evergreens (eventually receding away entirely), scattered mountainous terrain, and scrub shrubbery all blended into the rolling plains. It was the exemplary landscape of country-western movies, and was a joy to cruise through. And the wind was much tamer for the most part than our prairie experience. At one point, the Union Pacific ran parallel to us. Since our road was straight and well-paved, with few autos traversing it, I began to alternate between counting the train cars and watching the road; one, two, three - look at the road - four, five six - look at the road. This was made easier by the two-tone color selection of the cars - I could count until the color changed, usually by twos or threes. I went as far as 47, until we passed a patch of trees; when we emerged, the rest of the train was visible. It extended over a mile. I gave up counting. This marvelous sight of railroads with endless cargo cars against the backdrop of southwest plains came in and out as we pushed on.
We were bound for Buffalo, WY, where we had booked a room for the night. As the sun set, the inert cloudscape grew darker. Before we knew it, we were approaching charcoal skies to the left and right, with hazy streaks indicating distant downpours. 16 had merged into I-90, a 75 mph road. We were hauling ass in an effort to make it before sundown, and to avoid another potential deluge. We had been fortunate with weather the last few days, and recent forecasts predicted this coming to an end. We raced against the inevitable, and oddly enough, the road seemed to skirt both horizons of malevolence. We were back in hilly terrain, when we rounded a corner - the magenta beams bursting out from beneath the clouds covering the last bit of sun disappeared, and in front of us was nothing but looming darkness. I thought of Crazy Horse, and resolved that some force beyond our control had kept us dry and safe this long, so I would now receive what was to come with open arms. Although it seemed hopeless, the storm never hit us. It was dark when we reached Buffalo; the streets were wet from the rain's passing, but we were dry.
Upon arriving at the motel, we tuned internet and television into weather information for the days to come. According to the present predictions, we will soon be trapped by an approaching rainstorm, to last several days. It already hailed and poured in Arizona. And snowed in Nevada. There is no route we can take that will totally avoid a chance of passing rain or thunderstorms for the next several days. Unfortunately, to traverse into, or even across, Yellowstone under these conditions is out of the question. We take for granted in New England that if foul weather hits, we can always pull off the nearest exit for gas, food, or lodging. In this part of the country, it is otherwise. The last gas station before Buffalo was 60 miles away. The contours of Yellowstone nearly guarantee an intensification of whatever foul weather is to come, and once inside the park, there is nowhere to shelter from the passing thunderstorms on the forecast for the next two days. Following the thunderstorm prediction is a mix of rain and snow. Even if we made it through the park, there is nowhere to lodge for over a hundred miles, meaning after 6 hours of riding in potentially horrible conditions, we would have to continue on almost another two before we were in a town large enough for a motel to be present. We have to circumvent Yellowstone. It is unfortunate, but not as unfortunate as the potential consequences of risk we would enter into alternatively. We have to take each cruise by the day. "One day at a time" now has a whole other layer of meaning.
We stopped for an hour and a half or so in Rapid City, an hour from Wall, at a Honda dealership, and took a bit to drool over bikes and grab a bite while Snake's rear tire was changed. Soon enough, we were back on the road. As I watched the wind enigmatically emerge and disappear through swirls in grass and corn (much less corn than before... just sporadic patches now), self-awareness kicked in. I was observing the two of us living what we had fantasized about just weeks ago. It was akin to an out-of-body experience; the simple but elegant consciousness of doing what we were doing.
We headed down 16 to pay a visit to Mt. Rushmore, less than an hour from Rapid City. I met the monument with ambivalence. The sheer act of sculpting four faces into a mountainside is something that must be witnessed to be believed. It is amazing what a vision can achieve with a few sticks of dynamite. But each presidential figure, and his particular legacy, carry murky complications that were glazed over or outright ignored in the history we were taught in schools. Admittedly, I have a hypersensitivity to such expressions of uber-patriotism knowing, and feeling the weight of, the dark past that too often remains unspoken regarding our country. I have a polarized relationship with my national identity: one the one hand, feeling tremendous gratitude for being born into the time and place I have, and having the ability and liberty to choose my own path (for the most part); and on the other, a total disgust for the profane exploitation and manipulation of the tenants of the Constitution from so many, and the millions of Americans who succumb to laziness, lethargy, and comfortable ignorance as a result of their Constitutional rights. We are a paradoxical country. And to snap a picture or even just catch a glimpse of Rushmore costs you $10.
We next traveled to the monument of Crazy Horse. I wasn't aware that such a thing existed until spotting the informational brochures at the motorcycle shop, and was quickly eager to visit it granted that it wasn't too far out of our way. And it wasn't. Crazy Horse's monument is a project currently underway; only the head has been constructed so far, with a torso, extended arm, and head and upper body of his horse sketched out and underway. He is a solitary face in a mountainside in contrast to the four presidents, and of all five of them, arguably the most deserving to have his face blown into a mountainside. The invitation for the project was originally extended by a tribal council representative to a sculptor in the first half of the 20th century; slowly, but surely, their vision of the largest stone monument in the entire country was being realized. The monument site at present consists of a large museum, gift shop, informational movie on the construction process, restaurant, and a view from a large window of the work-in-progress. I read Black Elk Speaks a number of years ago after questioning a family friend, who is a very knowledgeable source on Native Americans, where to start in educating myself on Native history beyond the public school books. Black Elk's story hit home, and he instantly became an inspiration. He depicts in his conversations with the author, John Neihardt, Crazy Horse as a remarkable chief and leader, and explains his side of Crazy Horse's persecution, arrest, and death. It is paradigmatic of the treachery and deceit against indigenous America by the colonists, all in the name of Progress and Glory. I have great reverence for Native Americans; they embody the purity of the freedom described by the Constitution, and their way of living in such integrated harmony with nature was unprecedented in colonial life, and never replicated. The genocide against them was all but obscured in our history books. As I gazed upon the monument-in-progress, I felt my eyes well up with tears. Seeing a photograph of Black Elk on the wall, the first tear streamed down my face. I was unexpectedly overcome with emotion - the symbolism of the Native people and their struggle to retain their sanctity threw me back into myself, and into the whole human drama at large. Yet Crazy Horse, Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, Lincoln, me, you, all of us - we all inherit the iniquities of history. Despite how warped a story can become, no one can ever truly erase the past. It has been done. None of us can alter what happened prior to our inception - our births are the culminations of all that preceded us. What we can do is understand the past, and expiate the wrongs outside of our control to shape the present for a better future. Future generations will, if all continues as planned, bear witness to a monument of someone whose story represents the horrors of the past, but also the lessons to be learned, and the flame to be rekindled.
Our sightseeing coming to a close for the day, we continued a cruise through the Black Hills. It was strongly recommended to us by fellow bikers to take this route. The Black Hills are only black from a distance; up close, they are hills of evergreen forests. Relative to the surroundings, they are a lovely change of pace; but for New Englanders, they are nothing extraordinary. However, they did invoke thoughts of home, which were welcomed.
The more scenic end of the drive came as we exited the Black Hills and neared the Wyoming border. Gulches, scarcer patches of evergreens (eventually receding away entirely), scattered mountainous terrain, and scrub shrubbery all blended into the rolling plains. It was the exemplary landscape of country-western movies, and was a joy to cruise through. And the wind was much tamer for the most part than our prairie experience. At one point, the Union Pacific ran parallel to us. Since our road was straight and well-paved, with few autos traversing it, I began to alternate between counting the train cars and watching the road; one, two, three - look at the road - four, five six - look at the road. This was made easier by the two-tone color selection of the cars - I could count until the color changed, usually by twos or threes. I went as far as 47, until we passed a patch of trees; when we emerged, the rest of the train was visible. It extended over a mile. I gave up counting. This marvelous sight of railroads with endless cargo cars against the backdrop of southwest plains came in and out as we pushed on.
We were bound for Buffalo, WY, where we had booked a room for the night. As the sun set, the inert cloudscape grew darker. Before we knew it, we were approaching charcoal skies to the left and right, with hazy streaks indicating distant downpours. 16 had merged into I-90, a 75 mph road. We were hauling ass in an effort to make it before sundown, and to avoid another potential deluge. We had been fortunate with weather the last few days, and recent forecasts predicted this coming to an end. We raced against the inevitable, and oddly enough, the road seemed to skirt both horizons of malevolence. We were back in hilly terrain, when we rounded a corner - the magenta beams bursting out from beneath the clouds covering the last bit of sun disappeared, and in front of us was nothing but looming darkness. I thought of Crazy Horse, and resolved that some force beyond our control had kept us dry and safe this long, so I would now receive what was to come with open arms. Although it seemed hopeless, the storm never hit us. It was dark when we reached Buffalo; the streets were wet from the rain's passing, but we were dry.
Upon arriving at the motel, we tuned internet and television into weather information for the days to come. According to the present predictions, we will soon be trapped by an approaching rainstorm, to last several days. It already hailed and poured in Arizona. And snowed in Nevada. There is no route we can take that will totally avoid a chance of passing rain or thunderstorms for the next several days. Unfortunately, to traverse into, or even across, Yellowstone under these conditions is out of the question. We take for granted in New England that if foul weather hits, we can always pull off the nearest exit for gas, food, or lodging. In this part of the country, it is otherwise. The last gas station before Buffalo was 60 miles away. The contours of Yellowstone nearly guarantee an intensification of whatever foul weather is to come, and once inside the park, there is nowhere to shelter from the passing thunderstorms on the forecast for the next two days. Following the thunderstorm prediction is a mix of rain and snow. Even if we made it through the park, there is nowhere to lodge for over a hundred miles, meaning after 6 hours of riding in potentially horrible conditions, we would have to continue on almost another two before we were in a town large enough for a motel to be present. We have to circumvent Yellowstone. It is unfortunate, but not as unfortunate as the potential consequences of risk we would enter into alternatively. We have to take each cruise by the day. "One day at a time" now has a whole other layer of meaning.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Day 8 - Wall (Drug), SD; The Badlands
It is astonishing how one event can wield the power to belittle one's strongest sentiments.
The excellent adventure is, among other things and perhaps underscoring them, a culmination of the concatenated results of great efforts of introspection and self-development. It is the nascent direction of articulating these results to both expand upon them and create an invitation for others to explore themselves and, if the invitation succeeds, wrestle constructively with their own experiences and ultimately solidify a more foundational sense of meaning.
Inadequacy and self-doubt crept in this morning - the great stifling forces of progress, and cancers to resoluteness. The passing of my grandmother cast a shadow over all the aforementioned intentions of the trip. My greatest efforts to date suddenly reek of vanity and perfunctoriness. Such triviality! Who do I think I was? What unmitigated pomp! What righteous ostentation! How could I be so shallow? Such thoughts were complicated by the unavoidable protrusion of the remnants of my former intentions, which gave the current emotional force a certain impotence - a pathetic passion run amok - which made me pity myself. I loathe self-pity.
At breakfast, a group of women arrived and occupied the two tables nearest us. I recognized several of them as part of the congregation assembled last night in one of the hotel conference rooms. My initial thought, after piecing the group together with the assortment of out-of-state license plates in the hotel parking lot, was Oh, a family reunion... how nice. One of the ladies received a phone call at the breakfast table from her brother, phoning her from afar. This group had indeed reunited, but not for its own sake. They were there for a funeral. The spirits did not seem particularly somber; there appeared an air of relief among them. The woman on the phone relayed to her brother that one of her daughters, living far from home, was unable to make it, and apparently stricken with guilt: "I told her, 'sweetie, when you're two-thousand miles away, these things happen. It's okay.'" I felt the pit in my stomach ascend to my throat. Snake had returned to the room to tackle tonight's accommodations (we had learned fast that it saves money to book in advance), as well as call a motorcycle shop in proximity to our next destination about a new rear tire. I stayed in the breakfast room, and played the wallflower to this woman's conversation for awhile longer. It brought a sense of comfort. We all have to go at life ourselves, but there is solace in assuring that we're never wholly alone in our sentiments.
The forecast for the Badlands: 80s and sunny. Less than a week ago, we were watching the frost melt off our tents in the hills of Ontario. Going south, although it meant a reroute that erased Glacier, our first big destination, from the map, was the right choice. Sacrifices are imperative for greater gains.
We fueled up and hopped back on 14W - a single-lane highway with no dividing medium. I started the day opting for no facemask or bandana, welcoming the sobering whip of prairie wind in my face. I embraced the opportunity to be slapped around. The opportunity came quick. We barreled through the worst winds to date, worse even than the winds sweeping off of Superior.
Miles and miles of prairie. 360 degrees of flatness, periodically interrupted by dappled clusters of trees. Pungent wafts of cow dung grazed our noses on and off. I had to tuck myself behind the windshield with every passing big rig to avoid my sunglasses shooting off my face. We spent nearly as much time at a 70 degree angle than we did totally upright. Today was 230 mi - the shortest stint to date, second only to our deluge interruption around Niagra. But it was a good day for a smaller stint; little stood in the way to assuage the prairie wind from beating our asses up. To make the best of the situation, I screamed "HII!" any time I caught the gaze of a cow; partly anticipating a response, but mostly for cheap entertainment.
I was seated on the bike after our first gas stop - emptying my thoughts into my little pocket notebook to clear room for new ones instead of of falling victim to preoccupation with the retention of key thoughts, thus obscuring others and missing what I should be taking in - when a trucker strolled right up. A tall cowboy hat, boots, the whole getup, accompanied by his trucker coterie. "How's the heat work on that thing?" he jested with a smile. A pretty weak joke, but I appreciated his attempt at extending himself for conversation. "Heat works just fine," I returned, "but little shelter from the wind. It's wild here on the prairie... coming from Boston." "Oh, you ain't seen nothin' yet."
He wasn't kidding there. The winds picked up steadily as we carried on, calming briefly only when we briefly slowed to 35 mph through small towns that 14 wound through, and for a slightly longer period around Pierre as the contours shaped into rolling hills. We pulled over at one point after I pulled up to Snake and yelled "SUNFLOWERS!!" Miles and miles of sunflower fields, just past their prime but beautiful nonetheless. We snapped some pictures, had a brief repose over the sight, then it was back on the bikes, and back to being slapped around, the brutal gusts returning shortly thereafter.
For the next hundred miles en route to the Badlands, 14 was lined with modestly sized tacky billboards for a place called Wall Drug. Snake mentioned at a rest stop that this Wall Drug business was nothing special, essentially a tourist trap (he had been to the Badlands before, although not on a motorcycle - a totally different experience). Yet with all the signs, one could easily assume otherwise. They were about every quarter of a mile, each different than its predecessor: "89 miles - Wall Drug", "Wallways in season! - Wall Drug", "It's cool - Wall Drug", "Ice cream! - Wall Drug", "Hot coffee! - Wall Drug", "Breakfast rolls - Wall Drug", "Wall Drug or Bust", "Ahead soon! - Wall Drug", "Historic Pictures - Wall Drug", "Cowboy up! - Wall Drug", "30 minutes! - Wall Drug". And so on. Each accompanied by a silly little picture. Every quarter of a mile. For over a hundred miles. Our motel was in Wall (aka Wall Drug); we decided against camping, as the motel was $20 more, and guaranteed not waking up freezing, or sweating profusely as soon as the sun rose with no shade. As we neared Wall (Drug), the temperature had climbed into the 80s, and not a cloud in the sky.
We pulled into a gas station about 40 min away, and were greeted by the sweetest German Shepherd ever. I love most animals, but have a special affinity for Shepherds - two stood guard by my stroller and crib as an infant. They are the guardian spirits in the symbolism of my subconscious. We dropped a layer, and both went bandana style (avoiding sun- and windburns). I tried unsuccessfully to drip water into my pup pal's mouth. A trucker came over and reiterated that we were "a loong way from home." He concurred with our decision not to camp in the Badlands. "I wouldn't ever camp in the Badlands. There's... nothing there." There was trepidation in his voice; a slight fear protruded from behind his ice blue eyes.
Approaching our destination, we passed through the lowest-populated town yet - Cottonwood, SD. Population: 12. We arrived at Wall (Drug) and were greeted by "the 80 ft Dinosaur of Wall Drug!", a large green brontosaurus statue reminiscent of Peewee's Big Adventure. The hype was for naught. As we were about to enter our room, Snake pointed out the gargantuan wasp on the inside of the window. After opening said window, and some unsuccessful coercion attempts to guide the wasp out, I stood on the outside of the glass and gave a few taps to try and startle him out. No luck. tapped a little harder. No luck. I gave a bang on the glass, and the window shattered, scattering glass shards on the sill and ground. I took a moment of astonishment and questioned my strength before informing the young kid at the front desk, who, for whatever reason, apologized to me, and promptly moved us to a different room. Maybe it was the disruption of my equilibrium from the wind's thrashing in one ear, maybe it was the signs, maybe it was the 80 ft dinosaur, but Wall Drug was already driving me mad. We hadn't been here longer than 10 minutes.
I took a few to snap out of it, jot down some notes, and make myself the usual snack - almond butter and jelly, this round with locally made organic jelly from a woman in northern MN that I picked up at a rest stop. It was delicious. We dropped more layers, and were Badlands-bound. The way Snake had explained his previous experience: "you're just cruising through the prairie, and then BAM! There's this." Precisely.
37 million years ago, as it is said, volcanic activity deposited ash in the watershed of what is now western-central South Dakota. Aquatic erosion deposited the ash, which became clay, which hardened into rock. The result: miles upon miles of castle-esque hills, canyons, and rock formations, some with various hues of red and pink, the rest neutral earthtones. It was magnificent.
The trucker was mistaken - there is much in the Badlands. Even here, life thrives. Our first wildlife encounter: mountain sheep/rams, sitting peacefully atop a rock formation with several-hundred foot drops steps away in each direction. It brought to mind one of my favorite poems of Rilke, "Exposed on the Cliffs of the Heart." They were the poem's breathing embodiment. We cruised on, winding through the formations at perfect cruising speed on the smoothly paved path. I felt transported to another time, some prehistoric period. Our steel horses were anachronistic in this state, but it was of little consequence. Nature had done it again - I was in complete awe. The intractable questions returned: How is all of this what it is? From what has it come into being? What IS existence? I knew I would never fully answer them - I couldn't, no one could - and I was content with that. After days across the prairie, this cruise bolstered our spirits and then some. Purpose returned, the heart was affirmed, and doubt was extinguished. We were back on track, adhering to our individual and collective intentions. Today I had lived. Voa would be proud.
The excellent adventure is, among other things and perhaps underscoring them, a culmination of the concatenated results of great efforts of introspection and self-development. It is the nascent direction of articulating these results to both expand upon them and create an invitation for others to explore themselves and, if the invitation succeeds, wrestle constructively with their own experiences and ultimately solidify a more foundational sense of meaning.
Inadequacy and self-doubt crept in this morning - the great stifling forces of progress, and cancers to resoluteness. The passing of my grandmother cast a shadow over all the aforementioned intentions of the trip. My greatest efforts to date suddenly reek of vanity and perfunctoriness. Such triviality! Who do I think I was? What unmitigated pomp! What righteous ostentation! How could I be so shallow? Such thoughts were complicated by the unavoidable protrusion of the remnants of my former intentions, which gave the current emotional force a certain impotence - a pathetic passion run amok - which made me pity myself. I loathe self-pity.
At breakfast, a group of women arrived and occupied the two tables nearest us. I recognized several of them as part of the congregation assembled last night in one of the hotel conference rooms. My initial thought, after piecing the group together with the assortment of out-of-state license plates in the hotel parking lot, was Oh, a family reunion... how nice. One of the ladies received a phone call at the breakfast table from her brother, phoning her from afar. This group had indeed reunited, but not for its own sake. They were there for a funeral. The spirits did not seem particularly somber; there appeared an air of relief among them. The woman on the phone relayed to her brother that one of her daughters, living far from home, was unable to make it, and apparently stricken with guilt: "I told her, 'sweetie, when you're two-thousand miles away, these things happen. It's okay.'" I felt the pit in my stomach ascend to my throat. Snake had returned to the room to tackle tonight's accommodations (we had learned fast that it saves money to book in advance), as well as call a motorcycle shop in proximity to our next destination about a new rear tire. I stayed in the breakfast room, and played the wallflower to this woman's conversation for awhile longer. It brought a sense of comfort. We all have to go at life ourselves, but there is solace in assuring that we're never wholly alone in our sentiments.
The forecast for the Badlands: 80s and sunny. Less than a week ago, we were watching the frost melt off our tents in the hills of Ontario. Going south, although it meant a reroute that erased Glacier, our first big destination, from the map, was the right choice. Sacrifices are imperative for greater gains.
We fueled up and hopped back on 14W - a single-lane highway with no dividing medium. I started the day opting for no facemask or bandana, welcoming the sobering whip of prairie wind in my face. I embraced the opportunity to be slapped around. The opportunity came quick. We barreled through the worst winds to date, worse even than the winds sweeping off of Superior.
Miles and miles of prairie. 360 degrees of flatness, periodically interrupted by dappled clusters of trees. Pungent wafts of cow dung grazed our noses on and off. I had to tuck myself behind the windshield with every passing big rig to avoid my sunglasses shooting off my face. We spent nearly as much time at a 70 degree angle than we did totally upright. Today was 230 mi - the shortest stint to date, second only to our deluge interruption around Niagra. But it was a good day for a smaller stint; little stood in the way to assuage the prairie wind from beating our asses up. To make the best of the situation, I screamed "HII!" any time I caught the gaze of a cow; partly anticipating a response, but mostly for cheap entertainment.
I was seated on the bike after our first gas stop - emptying my thoughts into my little pocket notebook to clear room for new ones instead of of falling victim to preoccupation with the retention of key thoughts, thus obscuring others and missing what I should be taking in - when a trucker strolled right up. A tall cowboy hat, boots, the whole getup, accompanied by his trucker coterie. "How's the heat work on that thing?" he jested with a smile. A pretty weak joke, but I appreciated his attempt at extending himself for conversation. "Heat works just fine," I returned, "but little shelter from the wind. It's wild here on the prairie... coming from Boston." "Oh, you ain't seen nothin' yet."
He wasn't kidding there. The winds picked up steadily as we carried on, calming briefly only when we briefly slowed to 35 mph through small towns that 14 wound through, and for a slightly longer period around Pierre as the contours shaped into rolling hills. We pulled over at one point after I pulled up to Snake and yelled "SUNFLOWERS!!" Miles and miles of sunflower fields, just past their prime but beautiful nonetheless. We snapped some pictures, had a brief repose over the sight, then it was back on the bikes, and back to being slapped around, the brutal gusts returning shortly thereafter.
For the next hundred miles en route to the Badlands, 14 was lined with modestly sized tacky billboards for a place called Wall Drug. Snake mentioned at a rest stop that this Wall Drug business was nothing special, essentially a tourist trap (he had been to the Badlands before, although not on a motorcycle - a totally different experience). Yet with all the signs, one could easily assume otherwise. They were about every quarter of a mile, each different than its predecessor: "89 miles - Wall Drug", "Wallways in season! - Wall Drug", "It's cool - Wall Drug", "Ice cream! - Wall Drug", "Hot coffee! - Wall Drug", "Breakfast rolls - Wall Drug", "Wall Drug or Bust", "Ahead soon! - Wall Drug", "Historic Pictures - Wall Drug", "Cowboy up! - Wall Drug", "30 minutes! - Wall Drug". And so on. Each accompanied by a silly little picture. Every quarter of a mile. For over a hundred miles. Our motel was in Wall (aka Wall Drug); we decided against camping, as the motel was $20 more, and guaranteed not waking up freezing, or sweating profusely as soon as the sun rose with no shade. As we neared Wall (Drug), the temperature had climbed into the 80s, and not a cloud in the sky.
We pulled into a gas station about 40 min away, and were greeted by the sweetest German Shepherd ever. I love most animals, but have a special affinity for Shepherds - two stood guard by my stroller and crib as an infant. They are the guardian spirits in the symbolism of my subconscious. We dropped a layer, and both went bandana style (avoiding sun- and windburns). I tried unsuccessfully to drip water into my pup pal's mouth. A trucker came over and reiterated that we were "a loong way from home." He concurred with our decision not to camp in the Badlands. "I wouldn't ever camp in the Badlands. There's... nothing there." There was trepidation in his voice; a slight fear protruded from behind his ice blue eyes.
Approaching our destination, we passed through the lowest-populated town yet - Cottonwood, SD. Population: 12. We arrived at Wall (Drug) and were greeted by "the 80 ft Dinosaur of Wall Drug!", a large green brontosaurus statue reminiscent of Peewee's Big Adventure. The hype was for naught. As we were about to enter our room, Snake pointed out the gargantuan wasp on the inside of the window. After opening said window, and some unsuccessful coercion attempts to guide the wasp out, I stood on the outside of the glass and gave a few taps to try and startle him out. No luck. tapped a little harder. No luck. I gave a bang on the glass, and the window shattered, scattering glass shards on the sill and ground. I took a moment of astonishment and questioned my strength before informing the young kid at the front desk, who, for whatever reason, apologized to me, and promptly moved us to a different room. Maybe it was the disruption of my equilibrium from the wind's thrashing in one ear, maybe it was the signs, maybe it was the 80 ft dinosaur, but Wall Drug was already driving me mad. We hadn't been here longer than 10 minutes.
I took a few to snap out of it, jot down some notes, and make myself the usual snack - almond butter and jelly, this round with locally made organic jelly from a woman in northern MN that I picked up at a rest stop. It was delicious. We dropped more layers, and were Badlands-bound. The way Snake had explained his previous experience: "you're just cruising through the prairie, and then BAM! There's this." Precisely.
37 million years ago, as it is said, volcanic activity deposited ash in the watershed of what is now western-central South Dakota. Aquatic erosion deposited the ash, which became clay, which hardened into rock. The result: miles upon miles of castle-esque hills, canyons, and rock formations, some with various hues of red and pink, the rest neutral earthtones. It was magnificent.
The trucker was mistaken - there is much in the Badlands. Even here, life thrives. Our first wildlife encounter: mountain sheep/rams, sitting peacefully atop a rock formation with several-hundred foot drops steps away in each direction. It brought to mind one of my favorite poems of Rilke, "Exposed on the Cliffs of the Heart." They were the poem's breathing embodiment. We cruised on, winding through the formations at perfect cruising speed on the smoothly paved path. I felt transported to another time, some prehistoric period. Our steel horses were anachronistic in this state, but it was of little consequence. Nature had done it again - I was in complete awe. The intractable questions returned: How is all of this what it is? From what has it come into being? What IS existence? I knew I would never fully answer them - I couldn't, no one could - and I was content with that. After days across the prairie, this cruise bolstered our spirits and then some. Purpose returned, the heart was affirmed, and doubt was extinguished. We were back on track, adhering to our individual and collective intentions. Today I had lived. Voa would be proud.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Day 7 - Huron, SD
Yet another night of vivid dreaming. I saw Voa, and she was smiling. I woke up serene, and with a vivified sense of purpose. There was not a could in a sky.
Breakfast at the Comfort Inn: eggs, sausages, make your own waffles, and various bakery items. It was enough incentive for us to get online and book the nearest Comfort Inn to our next destination. It would be a shorter ride today - around 280, compared to the previous day's 400. The next two days will split the distance to the Badlands. I was content with a shorter day, as I spent the morning typing the previous post and the note to my family. The thought of being absent at the funeral of my grandmother still turns my stomach from grief, but I know, as my mother assured me, that ultimately it was the decision more in accordance with what would be Voa's wishes. I last saw her several months ago, when her health began declining at a more rapid pace. We went as a family - my mom, dad, brother, and I - to say goodbye. She still held on for months afterward. My remorse of not being with my family, despite doing what I know is right, is coupled by relief that she has finally let go, and is out of pain. She was with loved ones, who helped her to let go at the end. I am confident that her last thoughts were bucolic.
As we were eating breakfast, we overheard a man talking to his wife and kids about the cougar he saw last night. He looked in my direction, and acknowledged my fascinated countenance. "You saw a cougar last night? Where at?" I inquired. "Were you guys the bikers outside last night? I was the weird guy poking around about 20 ft away. It was just around the corner of the hotel."
We were off to a later start than usual, but I needed the time to collect myself and devote attention to expressing my thoughts to my family. Snake was patient, and politely abided. After the packing ritual, we made a run to Target across the street from the Comfort Inn in preparation for the road ahead. The forecast for Yellowstone in the days to come was very wet. We know better at this point than to bestow complete trust upon meteorology, but we also know better than to be unprepared. The shopping list: rain gear, fuel injector, small can of WD-40 (to silence the squeak in my front wheel), binoculars, a plastic bowl (for camping, so I wouldn't have to borrow Snake's), a cheap pair of low-cut shoes (in case my riding pair got soaked again), and bandanas. Bandanas are great to have as an on-hand rag for general purposes, as well as face protection from sun and prairie/desert dust. Today, I sported a fresh one as a reminder to keep vigilant at the helm, in honor of Voa. A rebel with a cause. From this point on, I was riding for two.
We took an alternate route to bypass the interstate, which traced the Minnesota border southward. The quaint rural landscapes of Northern Minnesota farmland that rekindled my romanticism were soon superseded by the insidious side of agriculture: the juggernaut of industry. Miles and miles of cornfields; monolithic factories interrupting the flatland; giant tillers decimating acres of dead husks a thousand a minute; and most directly hazardous to us, semi rigs exacerbating the crosswinds to dangerous gusts. Present before our eyes was the hideous bastard sibling of our local neighbors at the herb farm in South Dartmouth. The scale of such agriculture is so massive as to seem permanently irreversible. Such is the present demand and expectation of large-scale agriculture: to produce food for millions. We were cruising through towns with populations a fraction of my high school graduating class, many of which were centered around such huge production plants that no doubt employed a majority of the town. Everybody has to make a buck, true enough. But something about the process at this magnitude is so unnerving and so unnatural to me. In addition to the terror that the very sight of this flavor of agriculture inspired, many if not all of the sugar beet and cornfields we passed were surely Roundup ready crops. Again, not the time or place for a rant, but to anyone informed as to the practices, suppressed data, and consequences of the unchecked power of Monsanto and its cohorts, the horror of bearing witness to ground zero speaks for itself. I couldn't help but wonder as we cruised through, is there no other way at present? Has the situation become such that something catastrophic must happen before we re-evaluate the implications and impact of our actions? There are two sides to every story, no doubt. Jobs are limited in this part of the country, and such farming practices aren't prefaced by malevolent intentions. This is simply the state of affairs; but it does not make it less unfortunate, and doesn't mean it must always be so.
This thought stream was interrupted by the brake lights of a passing police officer. We saw him turn around in our rear views, and before we knew it, we were pulled over. We weren't driving more than 5 mph over the speed limit, which was relatively slow in contrast to others on the road. Turns out Minnesota requires motorcycle headlights to be on at all times, and mine had been off. In the back of my mind was my mother's observation that I never really learned deference to authority. I immediately assumed, okay, this guy is pulling two bikers over to screw with us. Don't they have anything better to do in a small town? The officer was very kind, and although he issued me a warning, he was a healthy exception to my expectation. He asked us about our trip, and cautioned us that the sugar beet trucks left dirt tracks on the road that, when wet, were a serious hazard to all vehicles, and motorcycles in particular. I thanked him for his kind words, and, had I the time for a proper explanation, would also have thanked him for the modicum of faith in authority he had restored in me. It was a pleasant surprise to be proven wrong.
We cruised onward. Miles and miles of corn. Time started playing tricks on me in the way that one underwater can have difficulty discerning up from down. I had no time telling device, and was relying on the sun to determine the hour, in conjunction with the clocks at gas stops that brought a little sense of order back. It was a day of shorter mileage, but a day of deep contemplation. Memories of my grandmother, my discomfort at the thought that I would be blazing through the country as my family would be gathering at the wake and the funeral, and my return to vigilance and keeping Voa's lessons as close as they had always been in my better moments circulated through my head for the duration of the day. As the sun descended, slowly disappearing below the boundless prairie horizon, I reminded myself that the day was a blessing. Every day is a blessing if we will it to be. Voa's incandescence burned brightly within.
Breakfast at the Comfort Inn: eggs, sausages, make your own waffles, and various bakery items. It was enough incentive for us to get online and book the nearest Comfort Inn to our next destination. It would be a shorter ride today - around 280, compared to the previous day's 400. The next two days will split the distance to the Badlands. I was content with a shorter day, as I spent the morning typing the previous post and the note to my family. The thought of being absent at the funeral of my grandmother still turns my stomach from grief, but I know, as my mother assured me, that ultimately it was the decision more in accordance with what would be Voa's wishes. I last saw her several months ago, when her health began declining at a more rapid pace. We went as a family - my mom, dad, brother, and I - to say goodbye. She still held on for months afterward. My remorse of not being with my family, despite doing what I know is right, is coupled by relief that she has finally let go, and is out of pain. She was with loved ones, who helped her to let go at the end. I am confident that her last thoughts were bucolic.
As we were eating breakfast, we overheard a man talking to his wife and kids about the cougar he saw last night. He looked in my direction, and acknowledged my fascinated countenance. "You saw a cougar last night? Where at?" I inquired. "Were you guys the bikers outside last night? I was the weird guy poking around about 20 ft away. It was just around the corner of the hotel."
We were off to a later start than usual, but I needed the time to collect myself and devote attention to expressing my thoughts to my family. Snake was patient, and politely abided. After the packing ritual, we made a run to Target across the street from the Comfort Inn in preparation for the road ahead. The forecast for Yellowstone in the days to come was very wet. We know better at this point than to bestow complete trust upon meteorology, but we also know better than to be unprepared. The shopping list: rain gear, fuel injector, small can of WD-40 (to silence the squeak in my front wheel), binoculars, a plastic bowl (for camping, so I wouldn't have to borrow Snake's), a cheap pair of low-cut shoes (in case my riding pair got soaked again), and bandanas. Bandanas are great to have as an on-hand rag for general purposes, as well as face protection from sun and prairie/desert dust. Today, I sported a fresh one as a reminder to keep vigilant at the helm, in honor of Voa. A rebel with a cause. From this point on, I was riding for two.
We took an alternate route to bypass the interstate, which traced the Minnesota border southward. The quaint rural landscapes of Northern Minnesota farmland that rekindled my romanticism were soon superseded by the insidious side of agriculture: the juggernaut of industry. Miles and miles of cornfields; monolithic factories interrupting the flatland; giant tillers decimating acres of dead husks a thousand a minute; and most directly hazardous to us, semi rigs exacerbating the crosswinds to dangerous gusts. Present before our eyes was the hideous bastard sibling of our local neighbors at the herb farm in South Dartmouth. The scale of such agriculture is so massive as to seem permanently irreversible. Such is the present demand and expectation of large-scale agriculture: to produce food for millions. We were cruising through towns with populations a fraction of my high school graduating class, many of which were centered around such huge production plants that no doubt employed a majority of the town. Everybody has to make a buck, true enough. But something about the process at this magnitude is so unnerving and so unnatural to me. In addition to the terror that the very sight of this flavor of agriculture inspired, many if not all of the sugar beet and cornfields we passed were surely Roundup ready crops. Again, not the time or place for a rant, but to anyone informed as to the practices, suppressed data, and consequences of the unchecked power of Monsanto and its cohorts, the horror of bearing witness to ground zero speaks for itself. I couldn't help but wonder as we cruised through, is there no other way at present? Has the situation become such that something catastrophic must happen before we re-evaluate the implications and impact of our actions? There are two sides to every story, no doubt. Jobs are limited in this part of the country, and such farming practices aren't prefaced by malevolent intentions. This is simply the state of affairs; but it does not make it less unfortunate, and doesn't mean it must always be so.
This thought stream was interrupted by the brake lights of a passing police officer. We saw him turn around in our rear views, and before we knew it, we were pulled over. We weren't driving more than 5 mph over the speed limit, which was relatively slow in contrast to others on the road. Turns out Minnesota requires motorcycle headlights to be on at all times, and mine had been off. In the back of my mind was my mother's observation that I never really learned deference to authority. I immediately assumed, okay, this guy is pulling two bikers over to screw with us. Don't they have anything better to do in a small town? The officer was very kind, and although he issued me a warning, he was a healthy exception to my expectation. He asked us about our trip, and cautioned us that the sugar beet trucks left dirt tracks on the road that, when wet, were a serious hazard to all vehicles, and motorcycles in particular. I thanked him for his kind words, and, had I the time for a proper explanation, would also have thanked him for the modicum of faith in authority he had restored in me. It was a pleasant surprise to be proven wrong.
We cruised onward. Miles and miles of corn. Time started playing tricks on me in the way that one underwater can have difficulty discerning up from down. I had no time telling device, and was relying on the sun to determine the hour, in conjunction with the clocks at gas stops that brought a little sense of order back. It was a day of shorter mileage, but a day of deep contemplation. Memories of my grandmother, my discomfort at the thought that I would be blazing through the country as my family would be gathering at the wake and the funeral, and my return to vigilance and keeping Voa's lessons as close as they had always been in my better moments circulated through my head for the duration of the day. As the sun descended, slowly disappearing below the boundless prairie horizon, I reminded myself that the day was a blessing. Every day is a blessing if we will it to be. Voa's incandescence burned brightly within.
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