I’m no Southerner, lets get this straight. I like my hot dogs disgusting and my requests for time answered with a cut “fuck you”. But I couldn’t resist one last shot at tasting the South. As fate would have it, I was in Louisville in time for the good ol’ Kentucky State Fair.
I honestly had no idea what to expect. Maybe some giant melons, both grown and implanted. A few heifers, bovine and otherwise. And maybe I’d see their world-famous mullets (it’s a type of fish, look it up).
Oh, it was all that and more. It was like Trace Adkins, the cast of High School Musical, and the Village People all in one place. Never before have I seen such an unholy clusterfuck of latent homoeroticism, dated references, modern pop assholes, and sheer unadulterated redneck. I’m actually unable to truly explain it. But let me put it to you this way: Trace Adkins, the cast of High School Musical, and the Village People were all slated to perform in concert.
The fairgrounds were absolutely massive. The parking lots seemed to dwarf Disney. The complex was so massive it functioned as a convention center and a minor league baseball stadium simultaneously during the fair off-season. So massive that people used golf carts to drive from Point A to B. That was especially fun, as some rich old money was in attendance. The more influential the visitor, the more tricked out their golf cart.
Upon entering, I wandered around a great hall, equal parts confused and scared. I was tripping harder than on cough syrup. I was in a giant room, one which could easily fit a football field, within which stretched an endless ocean of livestock. Cows, horses, pigs, and sheep, lovingly tended by their owners. The sheared sheep even had sweaters, ironically made of wool, with patterns ranging from military fatigues to superhero tights.
Escaping this twilight zone, I found myself just in time for the National Horse Championship. Forsaking the need for a ticket, I sat down in one of the nice seats near the front. If that seems wrong to you, consider how empty the stands really were. Even in this redneck paradise no one cared. When I saw what the ‘competition’ was, I realized why. Little ponies trotted out pulling little carts that resemble old Model T’s without an engine or chassis, containing unusually short men in formal wear. They loop around the room, performing breathtaking maneuvers at 5mph, getting judged on imperceptible differences. The most interesting part was that apparently William Shatner was in the audience somewhere. I never saw him. I was disappointed, having already seen George Takei at Pridefest and Leonard Nemoy turning tricks on the street corner.
Speaking of George Takei, there was a surprising density of gays at the State Fair. Maybe they came for the Village People. Or the cast of High School Musical.
As I continued on, the rooms only got bigger. The central terminal looked just that, like an airport terminal. A redneck airport full of airplane-sized people. The amount of fat was uncanny. There may have been even more fatty scooters than golf carts. One of the jetplane hanger-sized rooms contained all the commercial shit, hicks hawking their wares, ranging from clothes to hats to jewelry to expensive remote-controlled mechanical horses from Panasonic. The jewelry was most interesting, ranging from expensive and classy to rhinestone spellings of slogans including “I like cats”, “I [heart] slots” and “Bitch!”. This room connected to the competition hall, the bread and butter of your State Fair. Everything conceivable was judged, including vegetables, pies, quilts, beer, old postcards, older toys, ancient Christmas ornaments, and surprisingly, art, both classical and modern. Most of the animal judging was elsewhere, but the fish competition was in this hall. Someone entered a turtle in the fish-judging competition. I’m guessing it was the man with the rattail and Bluetooth headset, a wonderful commentary on the modern South.
Considered the potpourri of a State Fair to the one or two people who know that dictionary zinger, the Demonstration Room was the most interesting, at least to me. It had all the miscellaneous things. For example, each county in the state had its own posterboard and display. One county proudly showcased a working moonshine still from one of their many illegal cottage booze factories. The police had a few displays, including a car safety demonstration with a mechanized rolling car chassis, a tractor crash safety demonstration with a rolling tractor (apparently there are far more tractor-related deaths than I would’ve guessed), and a gun safety booth for kids featuring Freedom the Gun Safety Eagle. Also for children was the National Guard’s inflatable obstacle course – the military, having trouble meeting their recruitment goals because of Iraq, is apparently again widening their age range. The state legislature had Civics Jeopardy, a surprisingly high-brow exhibit at the fair. Unsurprisingly, I trounced the people who actually lived in the state. The Historymobile made a cameo appearance. And the Department of Healthy gave out free screenings for almost every ailment imaginable… except obesity.
The food booths including a wide variety of fares, including faux-italian, faux-greek, and faux-healthy. The overall variety wasn’t all that noteworthy. What is worth mention was the variety of things one could find deep fried. Deep fried dough, deep fried potatoes, Deep fried Snickers, Oreos, Twinkies, hot dogs, and PB&J sandwiches – crustless, naturally.
My cast-iron stomach finally rendered queasy, I figured it was time to make a break for it. As I made my way back through the “As Seen On TV” Hell I’d passed through before, I noticed a few fantastic booths I’d missed on my first pass. First was the weapons booth, where the one-armed Vietnam vet from the Simpsons was selling comically oversized knives. I wisely declined to ask what happened to the arm. The sausage booth purported to sell grinded meat from nearly every non-endangered animal obtainable, including emu, alligator, and cat. I wisely declined to mention the irony of pussy sausage. The Australian hat-and-boomerang booth naturally caught my attention. The man behind the counter met my gaze with a bombastic “G’day, mate!” I asked him what part of Australia he was from. He responded, “Sydney, mate!” in his exceedingly thick accent. “Where in Sydney?”, I countered. “I was born in Newcastle but moved here when I was young,” came his now nearly accentless response.
Oh, and how could I forget the booth head and shoulders above all the rest in popularity and business, the lotto booth.
I’d learned a few valuable life lessons from the Kentucky State Fair. One, there isn’t much that cant be deep fried. Two, trying to make a record-breaking giant vegetable will just result in a horrifying unedible mutant. Three, tractors are rather dangerous, treacherous things. And finally, most stereotypes about the South were very much true. Hell, that’s what my whole road trip taught me. I came to experience different ways of life, and experience them I did. I was ready to return to my little speck of blue in the giant sea of red. Four hours later, I did just that.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Man of Science
I have a strong resistance to peer pressure. But the thing is, I usually want to do these things. If I think it’ll be fun, or interesting, or merely something I’ve never done before, I’ll try it. So it only took a few moments of convincing, mainly an explanation of the side effects, before I bottom-upped a bottle of Robitussin.
The main ingredient of Robitussin is DXM (dextromethylsomething). In small amounts, its an intoxicant, like booze. In large amounts, you trip balls. For me, nothing happened. For the first hour, anyway. I merely lay back and type in this blog, astounding everyone with ability to type without looking. Easily impressed, these Louisville folks are.
I stand up to get a drink of water, but immediately feel woozy. You know that feeling you get when you stand up too fast? It was like that, and presumably for the same reason. I thought nothing of it. It would take another half an hour before I felt anything.
Do you know what my problem is? I’ll give you a hint: It has nothing to do with the fact that I drank Robitussin for fun. See, I’m a compulsive scientist. Everything I do is a test or experiment. It can be as trivial as testing a bounce function of a free rubber ball, or as pathological as my dating life.
But I’m not treading new ground here. Exploring altered consciousness is as old as illicit drugs. The terminology because famous with the rise of college students and LSD – Psychonauts, spaced out in their own brain.
I continued typing on my laptop, and thanks to it, I can describe pretty well what the experience was like. However, it’s worth noting that I was able to do that at all. The screen was fuzzy and wrong. My sense of touch was lacking, my arms felt distant and tyrannosaurus small, the ground shook under me. But my laptop was always held delicately, placed gently, typed accurately, despite lack of coherence in my thoughts.
Really, a hallucination is hard to describe if you aren’t experiencing it, but I’ll try. Imagine the world is like a giant posterboard. There are creases in reality. Things are flat and 2 dimensional. People look like cartoons, and occasionally dogs. The room behind me was a different dimension, and open doorways were solid barriers. People sitting next to me ceased to exist until they spoke, at which point they flipped from the ceiling into reality. Time was irrelevant; conversations took either 5 seconds or 2 weeks. I could easily get up and walk around, maybe to go to the bathroom or get a cup of water, but I couldn’t remember I did it until I saw the full cup. The whole time I was convinced I was dreaming the whole thing and was still in my apartment in St. Louis.
The hardest to understand is the art of the conversation. The hippies in Nashville tried to explain the concept of “non-linear discussion” to me, but it made no sense for obvious reasons. A discussion must follow a linear flow of logic to make any sense. Unless you’re on drugs. The laptop would not suffice; I pulled out my audio recorder.
Puzzled by it, my new friends asked, and recoiled in understandable horror when I said I was a reporter. But we quickly changed topics to talk about cowboys, and I forgot the rest. I frequently had to stop and ask them how we got to where we were in the conversation. They didn’t know either.
I still don’t know what “Vermin Love Supreme leads rainbow parades” means.
Perhaps the most interesting thing was my watch. Time may have been irrelevant, but it remained concrete and unflinching no matter where my mind went. I could be in a different world, but a quick glance at my watch would immediately pull me back. It remained a constant tether to reality.
Really, I think the Louisville folks enjoyed robotripping with me. They warned me not to drink as much as I did, but I simply took that as a challenge. They feared I’d freak out or need babysitting, but I found the experience exhilarating and liberating. Sure, shit was bananas, but no matter how fucked I was, I knew it was simply a matter of perception. An 8.0 earthquake rattled the world as I took a piss, but the stream stayed steady. I announced what I thought and felt as I said them, and illuminated the process to them fresh. They’re so used to it, they forget how remarkable the experience truly is. I let them remember by telling them.
But this wasn’t just about jollies and fun. I’m a man of science, dammit, and my quest to experiment with alternate consciousness was quenched. I’m done, right?...
The main ingredient of Robitussin is DXM (dextromethylsomething). In small amounts, its an intoxicant, like booze. In large amounts, you trip balls. For me, nothing happened. For the first hour, anyway. I merely lay back and type in this blog, astounding everyone with ability to type without looking. Easily impressed, these Louisville folks are.
I stand up to get a drink of water, but immediately feel woozy. You know that feeling you get when you stand up too fast? It was like that, and presumably for the same reason. I thought nothing of it. It would take another half an hour before I felt anything.
Do you know what my problem is? I’ll give you a hint: It has nothing to do with the fact that I drank Robitussin for fun. See, I’m a compulsive scientist. Everything I do is a test or experiment. It can be as trivial as testing a bounce function of a free rubber ball, or as pathological as my dating life.
But I’m not treading new ground here. Exploring altered consciousness is as old as illicit drugs. The terminology because famous with the rise of college students and LSD – Psychonauts, spaced out in their own brain.
I continued typing on my laptop, and thanks to it, I can describe pretty well what the experience was like. However, it’s worth noting that I was able to do that at all. The screen was fuzzy and wrong. My sense of touch was lacking, my arms felt distant and tyrannosaurus small, the ground shook under me. But my laptop was always held delicately, placed gently, typed accurately, despite lack of coherence in my thoughts.
Really, a hallucination is hard to describe if you aren’t experiencing it, but I’ll try. Imagine the world is like a giant posterboard. There are creases in reality. Things are flat and 2 dimensional. People look like cartoons, and occasionally dogs. The room behind me was a different dimension, and open doorways were solid barriers. People sitting next to me ceased to exist until they spoke, at which point they flipped from the ceiling into reality. Time was irrelevant; conversations took either 5 seconds or 2 weeks. I could easily get up and walk around, maybe to go to the bathroom or get a cup of water, but I couldn’t remember I did it until I saw the full cup. The whole time I was convinced I was dreaming the whole thing and was still in my apartment in St. Louis.
The hardest to understand is the art of the conversation. The hippies in Nashville tried to explain the concept of “non-linear discussion” to me, but it made no sense for obvious reasons. A discussion must follow a linear flow of logic to make any sense. Unless you’re on drugs. The laptop would not suffice; I pulled out my audio recorder.
Puzzled by it, my new friends asked, and recoiled in understandable horror when I said I was a reporter. But we quickly changed topics to talk about cowboys, and I forgot the rest. I frequently had to stop and ask them how we got to where we were in the conversation. They didn’t know either.
I still don’t know what “Vermin Love Supreme leads rainbow parades” means.
Perhaps the most interesting thing was my watch. Time may have been irrelevant, but it remained concrete and unflinching no matter where my mind went. I could be in a different world, but a quick glance at my watch would immediately pull me back. It remained a constant tether to reality.
Really, I think the Louisville folks enjoyed robotripping with me. They warned me not to drink as much as I did, but I simply took that as a challenge. They feared I’d freak out or need babysitting, but I found the experience exhilarating and liberating. Sure, shit was bananas, but no matter how fucked I was, I knew it was simply a matter of perception. An 8.0 earthquake rattled the world as I took a piss, but the stream stayed steady. I announced what I thought and felt as I said them, and illuminated the process to them fresh. They’re so used to it, they forget how remarkable the experience truly is. I let them remember by telling them.
But this wasn’t just about jollies and fun. I’m a man of science, dammit, and my quest to experiment with alternate consciousness was quenched. I’m done, right?...
Lower Louisville
I had never intended for Louisville to be much of a stop. Mostly, I was going to drive all day, sleep on some guy’s floor, and go to St. Louis early the next morning. However, when I decided to leave Shenendoah a few hours early, things changed. Suddenly I had time to drive to Charleston, and add West Virginia to my list of states. Then, with the shorter drive to Louisville, I had time to go to a distillery, Buffalo Trace, and sample one of their 300,000+ barrels of whiskey, as well as see the world’s largest bat at the Louisville Slugger factory. But when I set off for my couchsurfing host’s place, I intended for a quiet restful evening.
The house was in an old slum just outside the city. A row of houses, paint flaking and wood rotting. Across the street, an aborted abandoned factory full of scrap. My host was sitting on his porch playing Magic with half a dozen of his closest friends. My host was shirtless, showing off his bowtie tattoo. His friends sported various odd piercings, shaved heads, mohawks, yellow teeth, and speedos. My host stood to greet me, 10 minutes later when the game ended; I pretty much hovered around until then, wondering if I was in the right place.
But I was, and my host was actually quite friendly. He gave me the short tour. Packrat garbage littered the entire house. The porch, their playing field, was sprinkled with empty beer cans and robitussin bottles. On the desk, amid the empty soymilk containers and marijuana paraphernalia was an Encyclopedia of Hallucinogenic Plants (a surprisingly thick tome). In one bathroom, the toilet was flanked by a sink spotted with pubic hair and blood on one side, and a clogged tub filled with turbid water, dead moths, and live mosquito larva on the other. The other bathroom, toilet only, sported glow in the dark psychedelic posters, a blacklight, and heavy metal music linked to the light switch. In the backyard, an industrial stove/oven combo and an oversized kiddy pool, ripped and drained. The front lawn was ornamented by stripped bicycle corpses surrounded a tree trimmed with white plastic chairs.
I sat around as a colorful cast of characters came and went. Conversations buzzed around me, history-laden and entirely separate from me. I was not unwelcome, but I was barely acknowledged. Only the dog seemed to realize I was there, and she was out for my blood.
I tried to make smalltalk, but ultimately threw in the towel, deciding to take a nap and study the GREs or something. Louisville was he bust I expected. I lay on the couch and close my eyes, for a few moments atleast. My host shook me awake. “Hey, we’re going to take our bikes and go exploring the sewer tunnels. You wanna come with?” He didn’t need to ask me twice.
Turns out in addition to being unemployed bums, my host and friends were talented bike repairers. They picked up and reanimated the corpses on the lawn, attaching wheels, chains, seats, and brakes. One was handed to me. It was small, pink, and its brakes were mostly decoration. We took off, but my broken gears wouldn’t let me go faster than a speedy jogging pace. I quickly fell behind.
At some point, one of them remembered I don’t live here, and came back to guide me. We arrived at the drainage ditch. The storm drain was basically a small canal, if a canal is a river of suspended shit. It smelled fecal and foul; mysterious slime and ambiguous mud coated the cracked concrete banks. We rode through the sludge, past the mundane graffiti, dodging overhanging tree branches and undercover rocks, ignoring the putrid splatter on our pants.
The canal was all well and good, but we came for the sewer tunnels. Our first attempt at underground penetration was a dank dripping set of stairs. We climbed about four steps before the group turned back, repelled by an overpowering stench. I didn’t mind, as I’m used to bad smells from my job in Vermont. Pussies.
Our second attempt was met by a dead-end wall. Third attempt by an opening that narrowed too soon. Fourth by flooding. Fifth time’s the charm. We decided to leave our bikes by the entrance and walk.
The tunnel was blissfully dry and relatively stench-free. Relatively. Between the 6 of us, we had one small flashlight and one headlamp. I carried neither but walked confidently in the dark, my fear killed long ago by the demands of my job. Somebody raced ahead, only to predictably jump out on us a few minutes later. Most of the group shrieked, except for myself who saw the whole thing coming, and the bald guy who didn’t seem to notice the world outside his head.
It seems if I knew about this trip in advance, I would’ve been more useful. I have a large flashlight. I have a compass. I have a streetmap of Louisville. I have small flags we could wave from under the manhole covers. I even have rat handling gloves. But I’m afraid I was left unequipped and only amble to tag along for the ride. Eventually, when they got bored, we turned around and left. I would’ve carried on.
The ride to our exit point was much like the ride in, only wetter and more booby trapped. Somehow my miraculous instinctual sense of balance, which never stops me from tripping but always stops me from falling over, saved me from being marinated in the hobo stew. We escaped the aqueduct to a large abandoned lot in midtown. Maybe there was a factory here once, or a warehouse, or slum. All that remains now is a seasonal hobo shanty. The site was littered with metal shrapnel and children’s toys, rusted machinery and ripped mattresses. Broken china littered the site, and any plate or cup that remained partially intact was soon fully fractured by us.
We had biked through a river of shit to get to a microcosm of the end of the world. Like “The Shawshank Redeption”, but replace the tropical heaven with a hobo hell. It was awesomely dystopian and full of tetanus.
Still, all good things must come to an end, and as the sun set, we biked home. I quickly remembered my bike had no breaks. Afterwards, we celebrated with drive-thru Mexican food. Frankly, I wanted to eat inside, but they were still wearing their speedos.
The house was in an old slum just outside the city. A row of houses, paint flaking and wood rotting. Across the street, an aborted abandoned factory full of scrap. My host was sitting on his porch playing Magic with half a dozen of his closest friends. My host was shirtless, showing off his bowtie tattoo. His friends sported various odd piercings, shaved heads, mohawks, yellow teeth, and speedos. My host stood to greet me, 10 minutes later when the game ended; I pretty much hovered around until then, wondering if I was in the right place.
But I was, and my host was actually quite friendly. He gave me the short tour. Packrat garbage littered the entire house. The porch, their playing field, was sprinkled with empty beer cans and robitussin bottles. On the desk, amid the empty soymilk containers and marijuana paraphernalia was an Encyclopedia of Hallucinogenic Plants (a surprisingly thick tome). In one bathroom, the toilet was flanked by a sink spotted with pubic hair and blood on one side, and a clogged tub filled with turbid water, dead moths, and live mosquito larva on the other. The other bathroom, toilet only, sported glow in the dark psychedelic posters, a blacklight, and heavy metal music linked to the light switch. In the backyard, an industrial stove/oven combo and an oversized kiddy pool, ripped and drained. The front lawn was ornamented by stripped bicycle corpses surrounded a tree trimmed with white plastic chairs.
I sat around as a colorful cast of characters came and went. Conversations buzzed around me, history-laden and entirely separate from me. I was not unwelcome, but I was barely acknowledged. Only the dog seemed to realize I was there, and she was out for my blood.
I tried to make smalltalk, but ultimately threw in the towel, deciding to take a nap and study the GREs or something. Louisville was he bust I expected. I lay on the couch and close my eyes, for a few moments atleast. My host shook me awake. “Hey, we’re going to take our bikes and go exploring the sewer tunnels. You wanna come with?” He didn’t need to ask me twice.
Turns out in addition to being unemployed bums, my host and friends were talented bike repairers. They picked up and reanimated the corpses on the lawn, attaching wheels, chains, seats, and brakes. One was handed to me. It was small, pink, and its brakes were mostly decoration. We took off, but my broken gears wouldn’t let me go faster than a speedy jogging pace. I quickly fell behind.
At some point, one of them remembered I don’t live here, and came back to guide me. We arrived at the drainage ditch. The storm drain was basically a small canal, if a canal is a river of suspended shit. It smelled fecal and foul; mysterious slime and ambiguous mud coated the cracked concrete banks. We rode through the sludge, past the mundane graffiti, dodging overhanging tree branches and undercover rocks, ignoring the putrid splatter on our pants.
The canal was all well and good, but we came for the sewer tunnels. Our first attempt at underground penetration was a dank dripping set of stairs. We climbed about four steps before the group turned back, repelled by an overpowering stench. I didn’t mind, as I’m used to bad smells from my job in Vermont. Pussies.
Our second attempt was met by a dead-end wall. Third attempt by an opening that narrowed too soon. Fourth by flooding. Fifth time’s the charm. We decided to leave our bikes by the entrance and walk.
The tunnel was blissfully dry and relatively stench-free. Relatively. Between the 6 of us, we had one small flashlight and one headlamp. I carried neither but walked confidently in the dark, my fear killed long ago by the demands of my job. Somebody raced ahead, only to predictably jump out on us a few minutes later. Most of the group shrieked, except for myself who saw the whole thing coming, and the bald guy who didn’t seem to notice the world outside his head.
It seems if I knew about this trip in advance, I would’ve been more useful. I have a large flashlight. I have a compass. I have a streetmap of Louisville. I have small flags we could wave from under the manhole covers. I even have rat handling gloves. But I’m afraid I was left unequipped and only amble to tag along for the ride. Eventually, when they got bored, we turned around and left. I would’ve carried on.
The ride to our exit point was much like the ride in, only wetter and more booby trapped. Somehow my miraculous instinctual sense of balance, which never stops me from tripping but always stops me from falling over, saved me from being marinated in the hobo stew. We escaped the aqueduct to a large abandoned lot in midtown. Maybe there was a factory here once, or a warehouse, or slum. All that remains now is a seasonal hobo shanty. The site was littered with metal shrapnel and children’s toys, rusted machinery and ripped mattresses. Broken china littered the site, and any plate or cup that remained partially intact was soon fully fractured by us.
We had biked through a river of shit to get to a microcosm of the end of the world. Like “The Shawshank Redeption”, but replace the tropical heaven with a hobo hell. It was awesomely dystopian and full of tetanus.
Still, all good things must come to an end, and as the sun set, we biked home. I quickly remembered my bike had no breaks. Afterwards, we celebrated with drive-thru Mexican food. Frankly, I wanted to eat inside, but they were still wearing their speedos.
West Virginia and Kentucky, Quickly
West Virginia has hills. Pretty hills. West Virginia has coal. Lots of coal. West Virginia has redneck gas stations where everyone has mullets or various other styles from the 1950’s. West Virginia has a shiny capitol building and a lovely old-fashioned capitol city called Charleston. The only city in the state, as far as I can tell. In Charleston, everything closes early. In Charleston, the Italian restaurant boasts Italian cuisine from around the world, as opposed to from Italy.
Kentucky has grass. Lots of grass. Kentucky has factories. Giant ugly factories. Kentucky has gas stations with ATMs that still use dial-up modems. Kentucky has bourbon distilleries. Distilleries that sell bourbon, shotglasses, clothes, books, candles, pancake batter, steak sauce, and chocolate, all of which somehow incorporate bourbon. Kentucky has a capitol city, Frankfort, which is small, meaningless, like a small office park. It doesn’t count as a city. Luckily, there is Louisville. Louisville is a good sized, modern city. Louisville has lots of industrial decay, abandoned warehouses, and a thriving hobo population.
So what do these neighboring but vastly different states have in common? They both have an infuriating amount of roadwork and zero cell reception outside their respective one city. Fuck these states.
Kentucky has grass. Lots of grass. Kentucky has factories. Giant ugly factories. Kentucky has gas stations with ATMs that still use dial-up modems. Kentucky has bourbon distilleries. Distilleries that sell bourbon, shotglasses, clothes, books, candles, pancake batter, steak sauce, and chocolate, all of which somehow incorporate bourbon. Kentucky has a capitol city, Frankfort, which is small, meaningless, like a small office park. It doesn’t count as a city. Luckily, there is Louisville. Louisville is a good sized, modern city. Louisville has lots of industrial decay, abandoned warehouses, and a thriving hobo population.
So what do these neighboring but vastly different states have in common? They both have an infuriating amount of roadwork and zero cell reception outside their respective one city. Fuck these states.
Survival Training, pt 2
Since the last post, we'd walked some more, which is rather unnoteworthy since that's all we ever did. In fact, it was far more interesting when we weren't walking. We stopped for a quick lunch in a clearing with a large park map, which gave us the welcome combination of shade and open space. Just then, a man came running up. He had tennis shoes, and was surprisingly spry for his anorexic frame and oversized backpack. He had the beard of a mountain hippy, and an official looking hat. He was a trailrunner for the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club, and it was his job to help maintain the trail and protect hikers on it. Up and down for months on end he’s walk the week-long trail, until he was ready to kill himself. Then he’d get a few months off and do it again. Never met a man happier about his job. He was endlessly fascinating, and we talked everything from bear stories to crazy hiker stories.
You’d think a man like that would be health conscious, but somehow, he worked his way through a whole pack of cigarettes in the time he talked to us. Which, to be fair, was two hours. The company of a third was wonderful, but unfortunately, his job kept him from sticking with us. So we just made our lunch very very long. He told us about a great place to camp, a rock ledge just off the trail with a beautiful view of the valley below, before running off to help whatever animals or hikers were in need. We continued.
Getting to that beautiful campsite entailed walking up a mountain. Doable, sure, but you try walking steep uphill for 4 hours straight on a bum ankle. Even the SEAL, in perfect physical health, was having a hard time of it. We needed something to take our minds off the sheer unpleasantness that was this section of the trail. So we debated. The more controversial, the better. We talked the war (surprisingly, he’s against it), elections (hates Bush, wants Hillary), the environment (global warming bad, drilling in ANWR good), God (he’s vaguely Christians, kinda agnostic) and even abortion (he didn’t like it). I made sure to spend a good deal of time on gay marriage. He was against it, but willing to hear my point of view. By the time we reached the top of the mountain, he relented, admitting he was wrong and vowing to never vote in favor of a gay marriage ban. That alone made the trip up worth it, but the campsite’s sprawling views didn’t hurt none either. The wind was a problem though, so I set up my tent and he set up his tarp, and we hung our bear hangs (food in a sack suspended off the ground) behind us so any bear who wanted our food had to stomp all over us to get it. Then we called it a night.
This is where you came in. After breakfast, I decided to go back down the trail a bit and search the rocky cliffs for Timber Ratlesnakes, which the trailrunner suggested may be there. I clamored all over pointy rocks, stuck my hands in dark holes, leaned over the side of the mountain, and generally ignored my self-preservation instinct again. Such happens when I’m after wildlife.
Afterwards, I need to take a shit. Such a thing is a big production in the woods. See, whenever I’ve gone camping so far, I’ve taken a crap in an outhouse. This time, no outhouse. So I grab my bright orange trowel and walk off into the woods. I didn’t bring my topo map. I found a nice tree, dug a hole at its base, leaned against its trunk and let out a respectable log. I wiped my ass with the biodegradable toilet paper I specifically packed for this event, and dropped it in the hole with my turd. As I buried the fertilizing package at the base of the tree with my little orange trowel, I felt proud of myself, Perhaps I didn’t follow through on my mission of solitude, silence, and self-reliance, but at least I took a dump in the woods.
From here, all that remained was a morning hike to lunch and my exit spot. Only one obstacle stood in my path: idiot hikers. Despite many signs to the contrary, we eventually came across a couple feeding a wild deer. The stupid thing just stood there and ate nuts the man threw at it. I secretly wished it gored him with its antlers. We took our requisite close-up photo of the animal and carried on. We then passed a large Japanese tour group on a narrow ledge, and individually greeted every one of the 20+ overpolite motherfuckers while secretly wishing they’d fall over the side.
I was glad when I saw the sign indicating our impending arrival at the last campground. It meant it was time for lunch. It meant it was time to go. It meant I’d walked over 1/3 of the whole park in only 2 and a half days. I almost didn’t even notice the bear cub near the sign.
See, bear cubs are a problem. They’re cute and fuzzy and harmless, but the mama bear is not. We looked at each other, silent, unsure of what to do. He held out his stick like a club, while I picked up the heaviest rock I could find and wished it were a mace. I started creeping slowly around it, when the SEAL decided it’d be much smarter to yell and scream and throw rocks at it. Much smarter. Terrified, I kept creeping. I’ll let the soldier sacrifice himself; he’s almost 40, and I still have a lot more living to go.
Neither the screaming nor the rocks had an effect. Seems even bear cubs have the ‘fuck you’ attitude all bears in this park seemed to have. But we managed to get away without ever seeing a sign of mama bear. We breathed a sign of relief as we left the trail and made it to lunch without being lunch.
After a pleasant final chat, my traveling companion left me and carried on his own way, as they seemed to always do. I pulled out a piece of cardboard and a sharpie I’d brought, wrote the name of the lot I parked in on the sign, sat down on the ground, and held it up. I hoped for better hitching luck this time. After all, luck seemed on my side in Shenandoah.
I was wrong. I sat for nearly 2 hours. Another long lunch. Not even the ranger that stopped to question my suspicious-looking self offered me a ride. But, good things come to those who wait, and eventually a man stopped for me. He, like his truck, was old, beat up, and dusty. But I welcomed whatever help I could get. Turns out he was nearly as interesting as my Navy SEAL. He was a trucker who’d lived all over the country. He told his life story for nearly half an hour, which was how long it took to drive back to my starting point. Yes, it took half an hour to drive what I’d walked in 2 and a half days, uphill on a bum ankle. I was impressed.
Though, part of that time was due to a bear jam. You know, when people stop in the middle of the road in national parks because they see a bear. It was on a ledge above us. I was glad for my one last opportunity to snap a photo of a bear, being far too scared shitless last time to even think about it. Unfortunately, it was behind shrubs, and I never could get a good shot. Fuck shrubs. Fuck bears.
I got back to my car, and checked to make sure I still had everything. The rest of my belongings were still safely in my trunk. However, when I picked up my laptop backpack, my heart froze. “Someone stole my laptop!” I anxiously tore open the zipper, only to discover the computer just where I left it. I was confused for a moment, until I realized where I’d been for the past 3 days. The 10 pound laptop backpack was practically helium compared to the 40+ pound camping backpack.
Satisfied and slightly smug, I sat down in the driver’s seat, put the car into drive, and drove for four hours. It really didn’t seem like much after hiking for hours on end. I only stopped once, at a McDonalds, to change my shoes, take a piss, and eat a burger. I realized from the looks people were giving me I must’ve seemed like a leper: dirty, smelly, unbrushed teeth and hair, long broken fingernails, pimples, bruises, blisters, possible athlete’s foot, and an odd limp. Mission accomplished, I’d say.
You’d think a man like that would be health conscious, but somehow, he worked his way through a whole pack of cigarettes in the time he talked to us. Which, to be fair, was two hours. The company of a third was wonderful, but unfortunately, his job kept him from sticking with us. So we just made our lunch very very long. He told us about a great place to camp, a rock ledge just off the trail with a beautiful view of the valley below, before running off to help whatever animals or hikers were in need. We continued.
Getting to that beautiful campsite entailed walking up a mountain. Doable, sure, but you try walking steep uphill for 4 hours straight on a bum ankle. Even the SEAL, in perfect physical health, was having a hard time of it. We needed something to take our minds off the sheer unpleasantness that was this section of the trail. So we debated. The more controversial, the better. We talked the war (surprisingly, he’s against it), elections (hates Bush, wants Hillary), the environment (global warming bad, drilling in ANWR good), God (he’s vaguely Christians, kinda agnostic) and even abortion (he didn’t like it). I made sure to spend a good deal of time on gay marriage. He was against it, but willing to hear my point of view. By the time we reached the top of the mountain, he relented, admitting he was wrong and vowing to never vote in favor of a gay marriage ban. That alone made the trip up worth it, but the campsite’s sprawling views didn’t hurt none either. The wind was a problem though, so I set up my tent and he set up his tarp, and we hung our bear hangs (food in a sack suspended off the ground) behind us so any bear who wanted our food had to stomp all over us to get it. Then we called it a night.
This is where you came in. After breakfast, I decided to go back down the trail a bit and search the rocky cliffs for Timber Ratlesnakes, which the trailrunner suggested may be there. I clamored all over pointy rocks, stuck my hands in dark holes, leaned over the side of the mountain, and generally ignored my self-preservation instinct again. Such happens when I’m after wildlife.
Afterwards, I need to take a shit. Such a thing is a big production in the woods. See, whenever I’ve gone camping so far, I’ve taken a crap in an outhouse. This time, no outhouse. So I grab my bright orange trowel and walk off into the woods. I didn’t bring my topo map. I found a nice tree, dug a hole at its base, leaned against its trunk and let out a respectable log. I wiped my ass with the biodegradable toilet paper I specifically packed for this event, and dropped it in the hole with my turd. As I buried the fertilizing package at the base of the tree with my little orange trowel, I felt proud of myself, Perhaps I didn’t follow through on my mission of solitude, silence, and self-reliance, but at least I took a dump in the woods.
From here, all that remained was a morning hike to lunch and my exit spot. Only one obstacle stood in my path: idiot hikers. Despite many signs to the contrary, we eventually came across a couple feeding a wild deer. The stupid thing just stood there and ate nuts the man threw at it. I secretly wished it gored him with its antlers. We took our requisite close-up photo of the animal and carried on. We then passed a large Japanese tour group on a narrow ledge, and individually greeted every one of the 20+ overpolite motherfuckers while secretly wishing they’d fall over the side.
I was glad when I saw the sign indicating our impending arrival at the last campground. It meant it was time for lunch. It meant it was time to go. It meant I’d walked over 1/3 of the whole park in only 2 and a half days. I almost didn’t even notice the bear cub near the sign.
See, bear cubs are a problem. They’re cute and fuzzy and harmless, but the mama bear is not. We looked at each other, silent, unsure of what to do. He held out his stick like a club, while I picked up the heaviest rock I could find and wished it were a mace. I started creeping slowly around it, when the SEAL decided it’d be much smarter to yell and scream and throw rocks at it. Much smarter. Terrified, I kept creeping. I’ll let the soldier sacrifice himself; he’s almost 40, and I still have a lot more living to go.
Neither the screaming nor the rocks had an effect. Seems even bear cubs have the ‘fuck you’ attitude all bears in this park seemed to have. But we managed to get away without ever seeing a sign of mama bear. We breathed a sign of relief as we left the trail and made it to lunch without being lunch.
After a pleasant final chat, my traveling companion left me and carried on his own way, as they seemed to always do. I pulled out a piece of cardboard and a sharpie I’d brought, wrote the name of the lot I parked in on the sign, sat down on the ground, and held it up. I hoped for better hitching luck this time. After all, luck seemed on my side in Shenandoah.
I was wrong. I sat for nearly 2 hours. Another long lunch. Not even the ranger that stopped to question my suspicious-looking self offered me a ride. But, good things come to those who wait, and eventually a man stopped for me. He, like his truck, was old, beat up, and dusty. But I welcomed whatever help I could get. Turns out he was nearly as interesting as my Navy SEAL. He was a trucker who’d lived all over the country. He told his life story for nearly half an hour, which was how long it took to drive back to my starting point. Yes, it took half an hour to drive what I’d walked in 2 and a half days, uphill on a bum ankle. I was impressed.
Though, part of that time was due to a bear jam. You know, when people stop in the middle of the road in national parks because they see a bear. It was on a ledge above us. I was glad for my one last opportunity to snap a photo of a bear, being far too scared shitless last time to even think about it. Unfortunately, it was behind shrubs, and I never could get a good shot. Fuck shrubs. Fuck bears.
I got back to my car, and checked to make sure I still had everything. The rest of my belongings were still safely in my trunk. However, when I picked up my laptop backpack, my heart froze. “Someone stole my laptop!” I anxiously tore open the zipper, only to discover the computer just where I left it. I was confused for a moment, until I realized where I’d been for the past 3 days. The 10 pound laptop backpack was practically helium compared to the 40+ pound camping backpack.
Satisfied and slightly smug, I sat down in the driver’s seat, put the car into drive, and drove for four hours. It really didn’t seem like much after hiking for hours on end. I only stopped once, at a McDonalds, to change my shoes, take a piss, and eat a burger. I realized from the looks people were giving me I must’ve seemed like a leper: dirty, smelly, unbrushed teeth and hair, long broken fingernails, pimples, bruises, blisters, possible athlete’s foot, and an odd limp. Mission accomplished, I’d say.
Survival Training, pt 1
The bastard sun in my eyes woke me up. He was already boiling water from God-knows-what stagnant hole in the ground he found. Millipedes crawled over everything, including on my sleeping bag and inside my shoes. The Navy SEAL looked around with trepidation, clearly bothered by the deluge of roly-polys. For a man who was until recently getting shot at by terrorists with automatic rifles, he was a bit of a sissy about bugs. His stove and prepackaged dehydrated food also struck me as lacking in authenticity. However, by this point I’d already lost my resolve and ate a hot egg sandwich from the grill in the woods, so who was I to talk?
Confused? You should be. I skipped ahead a few days. After my day at the Smithsonian and my night at a Couchsufer’s place watching Phelps rack up a record medal count with my host, his girlfriend, and their psychotic dog, I set off the next morning for Shenandoah National Park. Known for is beauty and bears, I intended it to be 3 days of silence, solitude, and self-reliance on the Appalachian Trail, with nothing but trail mix and my inner thoughts to sustain me. How long you think hat lasted?
It was raining when I arrived, but by the time I filled out my paperwork and lied about my intended hitchhiking escape (I brought a sign this time!), the sun was peeking through. I felt optimistic. I chose what I thought would be a nice starting point where after 3 days I would find a busy intersection of trail and road and accommodating old woman to drive me back to my car. Coincidentally, another hiker, a man who I guessed was in his thirties, crossed the road and continued on the trail as I pulled up. I wondered if I’d cross paths with him again.
I came prepared for this. Lots of dried nuts and chips and such. 3 liters of purified water and plenty of purifying pills. A detailed topographic map and compass. A tent, sleeping mat, sleeping bag, and pillow. A first aid kit. And in case of emergencies, my ipod. I would need barely half that.
For starters, the topo map was useless. The trail was clearly marked, and continually crossed Skyline Drive, the main road through the park, so you never really got lost. The trail went basically due south at all times, so no compass. I thought I might need them to find water or a campsite, but the springs (read: small concrete tub in woods full of muddy water) were on clearly labeled side trails. And the campsites, well, I broke rules both nights.
I discovered the marked springs, to my mild disappointment, after less than an hour of walking. The older man was walking up a side path and making his way back down the main trail as I approached. I walked behind him, and said nothing for another half an hour. After that hour, I was already ready for a rest; my ankle was still killing me and I was still an aspirin junkie. As fate had it, he was ready for a rest himself, and the two of us coincidentally stopped at the same sunny spot. This time I struck up a conversation. I learned he was a Navy SEAL, back from Iraq, with a wife and a new kid waiting for him at home. This trip was his last hurrah before settling into domestic life. I listened intently as he talked, occasionally piping in with my thoughts but fully aware I was still some dumb unmarried pacifist kid.
The man must’ve been paranoid about keeping his water bottles full, because as I realized my water was running low, we came across another marked spring, and both decided we needed to fill up. I had my purification pills ready, but he offered to let me use his drops. They only took half an hour to work, which was much better than the 4 hours mine took. So we shared drops. We returned to the trail, silent now, enjoying our nature walk. But in the silence, something had clearly happened. Without saying a word, we became traveling companions. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, he said “We’d better make camp sometime soon”, and I agreed.
As luck would have it, and luck continually showed itself on this trip, we didn’t need to make camp. Just as we were deciding where to stop, we saw a sign for one of the rentable cabins on the AT in Shenandoah. As much as I wanted to rough it, I’d already broke my promise by talking to the SEAL for hours on end. So we went to the cabin. It was locked, but the porch would still nice. It was sheltered and off the ground, which was good for him because he feared spiders and snakes. The porch even had a fireplace. We raided the woodbox on the side of the house and took some schmuck’s hard-cut timber and made us a fire, wholly unnecessary in the August evening. He busted out his portable stove and prepackaged food, while I stubbornly but wistfully ate my cold beans. He then pulled out a portable radio from his TARDIS of a backpack, and put on NPR, something that seemed out of character for a backpacker and a Navy SEAL at that. We spread out our sleeping bags, forgoing the tens and to the calming sounds of dry liberal media I passed out.
In the morning, the bastard sun woke me up. The Navy SEAL was already up boiling water for his coffee. My urine steamed as I took a piss in the surprisingly chill morning air. When I returned, he presented me with a gift: he thought it would be only proper to restock some of the wood we used, but he saved one stick for me to use as a walking stick. He thought it’d help my noticeable limp. We ate a snack, packed our stuff, and carried on.
Breakfast wasn’t satisfying, and nuts and banana chips tends not to be. I was hungry after an hour. It was about that moment that we tripped upon the campground. There were 3 drive-in campgrounds on the AT in Shenandoah; because the road and the trail are basically parallel, the trail passes through all 3 campgrounds. Naturally, we pass through one just as we were getting hungry, and the campground had a general store. The SEAL decided to stock up, and I figured maybe I’d cheat and buy some M&Ms.
Turns out the general store had a full grill. The SEAL, with no rules to break, quickly jumped on the opportunity to buy hot breakfast. I stubbornly refused, until I saw him blissfully eating his. I broke down, and bought a hot sandwich, milk, cheese, and chocolate fudge. I also decided to try package of freeze dried food, which I found out later sucked ass. The cheese, however, was the greatest 80 cents I ever spent in my entire life.
With all this tasty food in our packs, I started to wonder if a bear would gain interest in us. No, no bears ever stalked us, but Shenandoah has an average of one bear per square mile. It didn’t take long for me to find our first one. It was at a short rest in the morning, along the short stone fence where the trail and road met for the umpteenth time. We saw rustling on the other side of the road, and wondered if it was bear, deer, or hiker. I decided to investigate. I crossed the street and stealthily crept down towards the sound. I could see a large dark shape, a Black Bear. I edged ever closer, blissfully lacking self-preservation instinct. I got surprisingly close, but eventually the bear noticed me and walked off with a distinct lack of haste. It was taller and stronger than me, and was clearly not afraid. I went to take a photo, only to realize I’d left my camera in my backpack. I ran back topspeed, grabbed, it and stealthily ran back. By that point, the bear was too far away to get a good photo through the trees. Ah well, I figured, I’d get another chance.
I did, to be fair, but at no point did I ever get a good photo. Fuck bears.
Confused? You should be. I skipped ahead a few days. After my day at the Smithsonian and my night at a Couchsufer’s place watching Phelps rack up a record medal count with my host, his girlfriend, and their psychotic dog, I set off the next morning for Shenandoah National Park. Known for is beauty and bears, I intended it to be 3 days of silence, solitude, and self-reliance on the Appalachian Trail, with nothing but trail mix and my inner thoughts to sustain me. How long you think hat lasted?
It was raining when I arrived, but by the time I filled out my paperwork and lied about my intended hitchhiking escape (I brought a sign this time!), the sun was peeking through. I felt optimistic. I chose what I thought would be a nice starting point where after 3 days I would find a busy intersection of trail and road and accommodating old woman to drive me back to my car. Coincidentally, another hiker, a man who I guessed was in his thirties, crossed the road and continued on the trail as I pulled up. I wondered if I’d cross paths with him again.
I came prepared for this. Lots of dried nuts and chips and such. 3 liters of purified water and plenty of purifying pills. A detailed topographic map and compass. A tent, sleeping mat, sleeping bag, and pillow. A first aid kit. And in case of emergencies, my ipod. I would need barely half that.
For starters, the topo map was useless. The trail was clearly marked, and continually crossed Skyline Drive, the main road through the park, so you never really got lost. The trail went basically due south at all times, so no compass. I thought I might need them to find water or a campsite, but the springs (read: small concrete tub in woods full of muddy water) were on clearly labeled side trails. And the campsites, well, I broke rules both nights.
I discovered the marked springs, to my mild disappointment, after less than an hour of walking. The older man was walking up a side path and making his way back down the main trail as I approached. I walked behind him, and said nothing for another half an hour. After that hour, I was already ready for a rest; my ankle was still killing me and I was still an aspirin junkie. As fate had it, he was ready for a rest himself, and the two of us coincidentally stopped at the same sunny spot. This time I struck up a conversation. I learned he was a Navy SEAL, back from Iraq, with a wife and a new kid waiting for him at home. This trip was his last hurrah before settling into domestic life. I listened intently as he talked, occasionally piping in with my thoughts but fully aware I was still some dumb unmarried pacifist kid.
The man must’ve been paranoid about keeping his water bottles full, because as I realized my water was running low, we came across another marked spring, and both decided we needed to fill up. I had my purification pills ready, but he offered to let me use his drops. They only took half an hour to work, which was much better than the 4 hours mine took. So we shared drops. We returned to the trail, silent now, enjoying our nature walk. But in the silence, something had clearly happened. Without saying a word, we became traveling companions. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, he said “We’d better make camp sometime soon”, and I agreed.
As luck would have it, and luck continually showed itself on this trip, we didn’t need to make camp. Just as we were deciding where to stop, we saw a sign for one of the rentable cabins on the AT in Shenandoah. As much as I wanted to rough it, I’d already broke my promise by talking to the SEAL for hours on end. So we went to the cabin. It was locked, but the porch would still nice. It was sheltered and off the ground, which was good for him because he feared spiders and snakes. The porch even had a fireplace. We raided the woodbox on the side of the house and took some schmuck’s hard-cut timber and made us a fire, wholly unnecessary in the August evening. He busted out his portable stove and prepackaged food, while I stubbornly but wistfully ate my cold beans. He then pulled out a portable radio from his TARDIS of a backpack, and put on NPR, something that seemed out of character for a backpacker and a Navy SEAL at that. We spread out our sleeping bags, forgoing the tens and to the calming sounds of dry liberal media I passed out.
In the morning, the bastard sun woke me up. The Navy SEAL was already up boiling water for his coffee. My urine steamed as I took a piss in the surprisingly chill morning air. When I returned, he presented me with a gift: he thought it would be only proper to restock some of the wood we used, but he saved one stick for me to use as a walking stick. He thought it’d help my noticeable limp. We ate a snack, packed our stuff, and carried on.
Breakfast wasn’t satisfying, and nuts and banana chips tends not to be. I was hungry after an hour. It was about that moment that we tripped upon the campground. There were 3 drive-in campgrounds on the AT in Shenandoah; because the road and the trail are basically parallel, the trail passes through all 3 campgrounds. Naturally, we pass through one just as we were getting hungry, and the campground had a general store. The SEAL decided to stock up, and I figured maybe I’d cheat and buy some M&Ms.
Turns out the general store had a full grill. The SEAL, with no rules to break, quickly jumped on the opportunity to buy hot breakfast. I stubbornly refused, until I saw him blissfully eating his. I broke down, and bought a hot sandwich, milk, cheese, and chocolate fudge. I also decided to try package of freeze dried food, which I found out later sucked ass. The cheese, however, was the greatest 80 cents I ever spent in my entire life.
With all this tasty food in our packs, I started to wonder if a bear would gain interest in us. No, no bears ever stalked us, but Shenandoah has an average of one bear per square mile. It didn’t take long for me to find our first one. It was at a short rest in the morning, along the short stone fence where the trail and road met for the umpteenth time. We saw rustling on the other side of the road, and wondered if it was bear, deer, or hiker. I decided to investigate. I crossed the street and stealthily crept down towards the sound. I could see a large dark shape, a Black Bear. I edged ever closer, blissfully lacking self-preservation instinct. I got surprisingly close, but eventually the bear noticed me and walked off with a distinct lack of haste. It was taller and stronger than me, and was clearly not afraid. I went to take a photo, only to realize I’d left my camera in my backpack. I ran back topspeed, grabbed, it and stealthily ran back. By that point, the bear was too far away to get a good photo through the trees. Ah well, I figured, I’d get another chance.
I did, to be fair, but at no point did I ever get a good photo. Fuck bears.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Better At Night
I’m clearly not a morning person. I meant to be out of the hotel in Baltimore by 10am. Earlier, so I could drop my father off at the airport. He left my delirious half-asleep self at 9 to take the shuttle van. I believe he woke me up to say goodbye, but that may very well have just been part of my dream. And if my father truly is a leprechaun, that would explain so much.
I escaped the hotel around noon, and didn’t arrive at the Natural History Museum until almost 2. I was horrified, as I’d never have time to do a speed run.
Speed run? Ha! The museum stays open late in the summer, and I still didn’t have time to see everything before they kicked us out at 7:30. However, after over 5 hours of hiking and backtracking through the museum, weaving around skeletons and dioramas, reading novels’ worth of descriptive text, and wishing to slaughter the uncountable masses of noisy children who flocked around me at waist height like a particularly virulent case of crabs, all on a bum ankle, I was done. Speed run? I couldn’t even finish one.
However, as a GOAT, I still had my mission. I needed to see the Lincoln Memorial at night. First, dinner. Surprisingly, there was no food to be found around the National Mall. No, the National Mall does not have a food court. It is the name of the large green park that the Smithsonian and monuments surround. After walking a few blocks and zigzagging the inane streets of D.C. I found and ate some Memphis-style BBQ. But when I went to ask how to get back to the National Mall, I was greeted with “The nearest mall is over in Arlington”.
Finding my own way back, no thanks to a cashier or a security guard, I began to hoof it to the Lincoln Memorial. The map failed to mention it’s about a mile away. Should be no problem for a hiker like me, especially with no pack, but the burning in my ankle said otherwise. I fear for my trip in Shenandoah. Still, I managed to make it to the Washington Monument, the World War II, Korean War, and Vietnam War memorials, and the Lincoln Memorial all on sheer willpower.
Everyone is familiar with the Lincoln Memorial; it’s on the back of your pennies. Most people too know the Vietnam memorial is an endless wall etched with the names of the dead. But the WWII and Korean monuments are new. The WWII is a pool, ringed by fountains, with two large fountains in the middle, all lit from underwater. Basically, the Bellagio with an aura of death. The pool was surrounded by pillars, one for each state and territory (even Guam), and amphitheater walls inscribed with quotes honoring the men, and quite notably the women, who served. Flashy, but hollow. The sign indicating it was authorized by Bush explained it.
Surprisingly, it was the Korean War, the war that didn’t have to happen and changed nothing, whose monument was most haunting. Bronze soldiers headed into battle, bathed in diffuse light and mist. Maybe in the day it looks tacky, but at night they seemed alive and scared. We ambled between them, and were part of the platoon. Everyone hushed, equal parts respectful and unnerved. Subtlety is key; this monument succeeded where the WWII had failed.
But, mission accomplished. I struck 4 memorials, and they truly are better at night. The statues of Lincoln and Washington’s penis seem bigger, grander at night. The Vietnam wall escapes your vision and seems to wind on forever with the names of the lost and stolen, and the Korean platoon pulls you back and turns you bronze.
I escaped the hotel around noon, and didn’t arrive at the Natural History Museum until almost 2. I was horrified, as I’d never have time to do a speed run.
Speed run? Ha! The museum stays open late in the summer, and I still didn’t have time to see everything before they kicked us out at 7:30. However, after over 5 hours of hiking and backtracking through the museum, weaving around skeletons and dioramas, reading novels’ worth of descriptive text, and wishing to slaughter the uncountable masses of noisy children who flocked around me at waist height like a particularly virulent case of crabs, all on a bum ankle, I was done. Speed run? I couldn’t even finish one.
However, as a GOAT, I still had my mission. I needed to see the Lincoln Memorial at night. First, dinner. Surprisingly, there was no food to be found around the National Mall. No, the National Mall does not have a food court. It is the name of the large green park that the Smithsonian and monuments surround. After walking a few blocks and zigzagging the inane streets of D.C. I found and ate some Memphis-style BBQ. But when I went to ask how to get back to the National Mall, I was greeted with “The nearest mall is over in Arlington”.
Finding my own way back, no thanks to a cashier or a security guard, I began to hoof it to the Lincoln Memorial. The map failed to mention it’s about a mile away. Should be no problem for a hiker like me, especially with no pack, but the burning in my ankle said otherwise. I fear for my trip in Shenandoah. Still, I managed to make it to the Washington Monument, the World War II, Korean War, and Vietnam War memorials, and the Lincoln Memorial all on sheer willpower.
Everyone is familiar with the Lincoln Memorial; it’s on the back of your pennies. Most people too know the Vietnam memorial is an endless wall etched with the names of the dead. But the WWII and Korean monuments are new. The WWII is a pool, ringed by fountains, with two large fountains in the middle, all lit from underwater. Basically, the Bellagio with an aura of death. The pool was surrounded by pillars, one for each state and territory (even Guam), and amphitheater walls inscribed with quotes honoring the men, and quite notably the women, who served. Flashy, but hollow. The sign indicating it was authorized by Bush explained it.
Surprisingly, it was the Korean War, the war that didn’t have to happen and changed nothing, whose monument was most haunting. Bronze soldiers headed into battle, bathed in diffuse light and mist. Maybe in the day it looks tacky, but at night they seemed alive and scared. We ambled between them, and were part of the platoon. Everyone hushed, equal parts respectful and unnerved. Subtlety is key; this monument succeeded where the WWII had failed.
But, mission accomplished. I struck 4 memorials, and they truly are better at night. The statues of Lincoln and Washington’s penis seem bigger, grander at night. The Vietnam wall escapes your vision and seems to wind on forever with the names of the lost and stolen, and the Korean platoon pulls you back and turns you bronze.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Daddy Dearest
My dad opened the door of my car at Norfolk Airport, and immediately noticed the smell. I’ll admit, even I notice it. He told me I should get a carwash. Oh, and I should wash my face, since I’m starting to break out. We drove off.
It didn’t take long for him to make his first phone call. Obnoxiously loud, he consistently fails to realize the microphone is, in fact, right near his mouth. He may have trouble hearing, as even my softest music seems to disturb his calls. So I sit there, dumbfounded, as he attempts to verbally overpower his opponent in a contest the other person never entered. And I’m only hearing his half.
We hit up the Nauticus Aquarium and Naval Academy that day, the boat tour of the naval yards that night, the Richmond Battlefields and Confederacy museums the next day, and the International Spy museum on our third. In all instances, his thick New York voice resonated down the halls. He’d make an awful spy.
A few more reasons he’d make a terrible spy: Give him two drinks and he can’t keep a secret. I learned he’s dating a woman he REALLY REALLY shouldn’t be dating (and not just because she’s still married), and he probably cheated on my mother.
He has an aggravating obsession with my cleanliness. Every few minutes he’d mention my need to do laundry, or wash my clothes, or buy socks without holes in them. Mind you, I see the virtue of his points, but I could see them clearly enough without them. I wanted to just deck him after awhile. It’s like a compulsion for him. At one point he even rooted around my luggage to pick out dirty clothes to wash. I barely stopped him in time to not find the Aneros.
A quick history of the Aneros: It was a gag gift from someone who told me I needed to “learn to enjoy the other side”, and I’ve never really been comfortable with it in my possession. I thought I boxed it when I cleaned out my apartment, but when my roommate asked me to check my desk one last time for him, I discovered I had left it sitting in the middle drawer. I hastily shoved it to the bottom of my luggage to take with me cross-country, never expecting it to see the light of day.
Did I mention the Aneros is a dildo?
While we’re on the subject of un-heterosexual behavior, my father still believes I’m faking bisexuality just to rile him up. Which admittedly is something I’d totally do, but I’m not this time. I don’t know what to do. I answered any question he asked (even the ones I really wished he didn’t), I linked him to various internet articles, I promised/threatened to take him to a gay club, I shamelessly flirted with any gay waiter I could find, coming off especially strong for his sake. It seems nothing will satisfy him, but ultimately, I suppose its not my problem what he believes. Depending on who I end up with, either he’ll take smug satisfaction in thinking he’s right or he’ll eat his words.
Anyway, point is I lost track of how many times my father and I clashed. He simply couldn’t cope with my lifestyle. My dirty clothes, my smelly car, my ambiguous sexuality, these are just concrete things he can latch onto. Really, his problem is with my attitude. Case in point, I passed up a gas station or two when I thought I didn’t need it, then later cruised around town for 20 minutes when I did. I thought it was a great excuse to explore a new part of town; he thought we were lost, wasting time, and rapidly running out of gas. He was right, of course, but it’s all a matter of how you choose to perceive the world.
I tried to teach him with a simple lesson. After breakfast in Richmond, I still had some chocolate milk left. It was in a small plastic container with a loose pop-on lid. I threw the bottle high in the air, much to my father’s horror, but managed to catch it. “What would happen if I dropped it?”
I lobbed it up again, and a third and fourth time, easily catching it. I caught it the fifth time too, but the inertia of the liquid inside caused the cap to pop off and the milk to spray all over my shirt and pants. I laughed and continued walking as he silently exploded behind me. Why bother? After all, no use crying over spilled milk.
My father isn’t your average crotchety old man. Sure, he’s grumpy, but he’s also frequently immature, making loud pubic crabs jokes in a seafood place, laughing at his own farts, and telling waitresses they have nice asses. But underneath, I think the grumpiness, the immaturity, and the compulsiveness are all merely manifestations of how he deals with stress. He needs to control everything, and when he doesn’t, he wigs out. I on the other hand view uncertainty as exciting, problems as interesting, and life as adventure. Who’s enjoying it more?
It didn’t take long for him to make his first phone call. Obnoxiously loud, he consistently fails to realize the microphone is, in fact, right near his mouth. He may have trouble hearing, as even my softest music seems to disturb his calls. So I sit there, dumbfounded, as he attempts to verbally overpower his opponent in a contest the other person never entered. And I’m only hearing his half.
We hit up the Nauticus Aquarium and Naval Academy that day, the boat tour of the naval yards that night, the Richmond Battlefields and Confederacy museums the next day, and the International Spy museum on our third. In all instances, his thick New York voice resonated down the halls. He’d make an awful spy.
A few more reasons he’d make a terrible spy: Give him two drinks and he can’t keep a secret. I learned he’s dating a woman he REALLY REALLY shouldn’t be dating (and not just because she’s still married), and he probably cheated on my mother.
He has an aggravating obsession with my cleanliness. Every few minutes he’d mention my need to do laundry, or wash my clothes, or buy socks without holes in them. Mind you, I see the virtue of his points, but I could see them clearly enough without them. I wanted to just deck him after awhile. It’s like a compulsion for him. At one point he even rooted around my luggage to pick out dirty clothes to wash. I barely stopped him in time to not find the Aneros.
A quick history of the Aneros: It was a gag gift from someone who told me I needed to “learn to enjoy the other side”, and I’ve never really been comfortable with it in my possession. I thought I boxed it when I cleaned out my apartment, but when my roommate asked me to check my desk one last time for him, I discovered I had left it sitting in the middle drawer. I hastily shoved it to the bottom of my luggage to take with me cross-country, never expecting it to see the light of day.
Did I mention the Aneros is a dildo?
While we’re on the subject of un-heterosexual behavior, my father still believes I’m faking bisexuality just to rile him up. Which admittedly is something I’d totally do, but I’m not this time. I don’t know what to do. I answered any question he asked (even the ones I really wished he didn’t), I linked him to various internet articles, I promised/threatened to take him to a gay club, I shamelessly flirted with any gay waiter I could find, coming off especially strong for his sake. It seems nothing will satisfy him, but ultimately, I suppose its not my problem what he believes. Depending on who I end up with, either he’ll take smug satisfaction in thinking he’s right or he’ll eat his words.
Anyway, point is I lost track of how many times my father and I clashed. He simply couldn’t cope with my lifestyle. My dirty clothes, my smelly car, my ambiguous sexuality, these are just concrete things he can latch onto. Really, his problem is with my attitude. Case in point, I passed up a gas station or two when I thought I didn’t need it, then later cruised around town for 20 minutes when I did. I thought it was a great excuse to explore a new part of town; he thought we were lost, wasting time, and rapidly running out of gas. He was right, of course, but it’s all a matter of how you choose to perceive the world.
I tried to teach him with a simple lesson. After breakfast in Richmond, I still had some chocolate milk left. It was in a small plastic container with a loose pop-on lid. I threw the bottle high in the air, much to my father’s horror, but managed to catch it. “What would happen if I dropped it?”
I lobbed it up again, and a third and fourth time, easily catching it. I caught it the fifth time too, but the inertia of the liquid inside caused the cap to pop off and the milk to spray all over my shirt and pants. I laughed and continued walking as he silently exploded behind me. Why bother? After all, no use crying over spilled milk.
My father isn’t your average crotchety old man. Sure, he’s grumpy, but he’s also frequently immature, making loud pubic crabs jokes in a seafood place, laughing at his own farts, and telling waitresses they have nice asses. But underneath, I think the grumpiness, the immaturity, and the compulsiveness are all merely manifestations of how he deals with stress. He needs to control everything, and when he doesn’t, he wigs out. I on the other hand view uncertainty as exciting, problems as interesting, and life as adventure. Who’s enjoying it more?
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Park
St. Louis parking is beautiful. The meters are cheap, and off-hours most of the time. In the South, most of the time there weren’t even meters. But ever since I’ve crossed into Virginia, it’s been total crap. They simply don’t believe in street parking. Everywhere I’ve gone has been a parking garage. The rates are obscene. They go from a low of 2 dollars an hour to a high of 10. They give you no leeway, as 61 minutes is equal to 1 hour and 59 minutes. Between Norfolk, Richmond, and DC, I’ve spent over 30 dollars to simply keep my car sitting still. Despicable.
Well actually, my father has. Soft bed, cushy hotels, good food, and free parking. I love being a dependant, for a few days a year.
Well actually, my father has. Soft bed, cushy hotels, good food, and free parking. I love being a dependant, for a few days a year.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
War In A Day
I’m a GOAT. That stands for Goal-Oriented Avid Traveler. I like to travel all the time, anywhere, and set goals for myself. Occasionally challenges. Sometimes dares. Usually they’re nothing major. In Memphis, I had to go to eat BBQ and go to a blues bar. Closest I got was a funk band where the lead singer plays bongos and wind chimes. In Nashville, I had to take part in a country dancing lesson at the tourist fan-favorite Wildhorse Saloon. In the Smokies, I had to find a salamander. Sadly, hunt in muddy streams as I might, I failed to turn one up. Still, it’s not the success that matters to a GOAT, but the attempt. The attempt is the experience.
For Richmond, the goal was to do the Civil War in a day. I've purposefully avoided it my entire time in the South, but I can put it off no longer now that I'm in the capitol of the Confederacy. They make it easy enough here; the National Park Service has it all set up. First, we go to the Tredegar Ironworks to see the history of the war in Richmond and its munitions manufacturing. Then, to the Museum of the Confederacy, where, disappointingly, they were not continuing to fight the “Lost Cause”. I wanted to see some glorification of slave owning. Finally, we visited the Cold Harbor battlefield, notable for its total lack of harbor.
The museums were, well, dull. There are only so many old uniforms and muskets I can look at before I’m tempted to see if one still works. And there were so many descriptive placards that I can probably don one of the old uniforms and jump into a reenactment of the second battle of Manassas no sweat.
But the battlefield, the battlefield was actually chilling. See, there are no artifacts, save a cannon to mark the start of the walking trail. There is simply a path through the woods, with little informational signs on the trees. “Here is where the Confederate line held against the trench against the Union charge. 500 soldiers died within minutes,” said one.
This battlefield marked the beginning of the age of trench warfare. Union and Confederate soldiers crouched in cramped slovenly trenches they had dug out with spoons and bayonets for weeks at a time. They couldn’t even take a shit, lest they be sniped by opposing sharpshooters. I lay on my stomach in a trench, holding my imaginary gun over the lip. My comrades, tens of thousands of them, lay shoulder to shoulder for miles. Most moaned in pain or thirst or sorrow. We were at the edge of the woods, and could see through the trees the thousands of Union soldiers running across the open field, bayonets fixed and fixing for us. A bead of sweat stung my eye, but I wanted for the call. Waited, terrified, as seconds ticked by like hours. FIRE! The wall of Union soldiers never made it.
We drove down the block to the cemetery. The Union soldiers killed in the battle were simply buried in shallow graves on the field, as they were far into enemy territory. Only after the war were they dug up and moved to this military cemetery. Almost 2000 soldiers were buried here, and those were only the bodied both found and intact enough to be worth reburying. Only half of these were ever identified. I’d had my fill of war for one day.
For Richmond, the goal was to do the Civil War in a day. I've purposefully avoided it my entire time in the South, but I can put it off no longer now that I'm in the capitol of the Confederacy. They make it easy enough here; the National Park Service has it all set up. First, we go to the Tredegar Ironworks to see the history of the war in Richmond and its munitions manufacturing. Then, to the Museum of the Confederacy, where, disappointingly, they were not continuing to fight the “Lost Cause”. I wanted to see some glorification of slave owning. Finally, we visited the Cold Harbor battlefield, notable for its total lack of harbor.
The museums were, well, dull. There are only so many old uniforms and muskets I can look at before I’m tempted to see if one still works. And there were so many descriptive placards that I can probably don one of the old uniforms and jump into a reenactment of the second battle of Manassas no sweat.
But the battlefield, the battlefield was actually chilling. See, there are no artifacts, save a cannon to mark the start of the walking trail. There is simply a path through the woods, with little informational signs on the trees. “Here is where the Confederate line held against the trench against the Union charge. 500 soldiers died within minutes,” said one.
This battlefield marked the beginning of the age of trench warfare. Union and Confederate soldiers crouched in cramped slovenly trenches they had dug out with spoons and bayonets for weeks at a time. They couldn’t even take a shit, lest they be sniped by opposing sharpshooters. I lay on my stomach in a trench, holding my imaginary gun over the lip. My comrades, tens of thousands of them, lay shoulder to shoulder for miles. Most moaned in pain or thirst or sorrow. We were at the edge of the woods, and could see through the trees the thousands of Union soldiers running across the open field, bayonets fixed and fixing for us. A bead of sweat stung my eye, but I wanted for the call. Waited, terrified, as seconds ticked by like hours. FIRE! The wall of Union soldiers never made it.
We drove down the block to the cemetery. The Union soldiers killed in the battle were simply buried in shallow graves on the field, as they were far into enemy territory. Only after the war were they dug up and moved to this military cemetery. Almost 2000 soldiers were buried here, and those were only the bodied both found and intact enough to be worth reburying. Only half of these were ever identified. I’d had my fill of war for one day.
Sweet Bed
You forget how good a bed is until you go a week without it, sleeping on floors or in tents. It’s so soft, so luxurious. The pillows are cool to the touch, and when it starts to warm, you just flip it over. Magical! I sunk into the sheets and had the most restful 8 hours of my life.
The hotel my father picked is extravagant. Two TVs in the room, wireless internet, a garden in the lobby, and free drinks with the cost of the room. It almost pained me to endure the opulence after being exposed to the hippie bohemian lifestyle. I can live just fine with a sleeping bag and Waffle House. But, as long as my father is with me, I resign myself to sushi and room service. What a hard life I live.
The hotel my father picked is extravagant. Two TVs in the room, wireless internet, a garden in the lobby, and free drinks with the cost of the room. It almost pained me to endure the opulence after being exposed to the hippie bohemian lifestyle. I can live just fine with a sleeping bag and Waffle House. But, as long as my father is with me, I resign myself to sushi and room service. What a hard life I live.
Say What?
I endeavored to learn how to pronounce the name of the city. Norfolk. Nor-Folk? No, maybe it’s Nor-Fock. Nor-Fick? Nor-Fuck?
The answer is “All of the above, simultaneously”. I still can’t do it. I refuse to even attempt Louisville. Luh-vul?
The city is mostly known for its naval yard and storied history of sea battles. Yorktown and the end of the Revolution, Hampton Roads and the infamous clash of the Monitor and Merrimac, German U-Boats and the Graveyard of the Atlantic… it’s been busy. All easily condensed into one floor of a naval museum.
Afterwards, we took a boat tour of the U.S. naval base. Astounding really. No less than a dozen destroyers, a couple missile cruisers, various big tankers and amphibious assault launch pads, two nuclear subs, and three aircraft supercarriers.
All told, over 30 billion dollars rests in this naval yard. Entirely unused. That’s a whole lot of tax dollars and debt rusting away just so navy generals can prove they don’t have small penises.
The answer is “All of the above, simultaneously”. I still can’t do it. I refuse to even attempt Louisville. Luh-vul?
The city is mostly known for its naval yard and storied history of sea battles. Yorktown and the end of the Revolution, Hampton Roads and the infamous clash of the Monitor and Merrimac, German U-Boats and the Graveyard of the Atlantic… it’s been busy. All easily condensed into one floor of a naval museum.
Afterwards, we took a boat tour of the U.S. naval base. Astounding really. No less than a dozen destroyers, a couple missile cruisers, various big tankers and amphibious assault launch pads, two nuclear subs, and three aircraft supercarriers.
All told, over 30 billion dollars rests in this naval yard. Entirely unused. That’s a whole lot of tax dollars and debt rusting away just so navy generals can prove they don’t have small penises.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Fragile
I was getting really sick of the sticky, spiky, painful burrs that plague my campground. Surely I didn’t pay 20 bucks for this shit. But, as I picked the living splinters out of my feet, I figured this was as bad as it’d get. A good night’s sleep and a leisurely drive north the next morning.
A good night’s sleep only lasted 2 hours. I was awoken by a crack of thunder. No worries, I figure, I have the rainfly up. I was prepared this time. Rain started to fall, and I thought nothing of it. The rain picked up, and the wind whistled in the stunted shrubby trees. Maybe it wont be so easy to fall back asleep. So I lay back and listen to the gentle patter on my roof.
Unexpectedly, the patter became a deluge. Rain pounded the tent with palpable weight. The whistle became a shriek, and was joined by the groan of my tent’s crossbars bending. The distant booms of thunder became abrupt frightful cracks. Even with my eyelids closed, the strikes of lightning blinded me.
Waterproof and windproof only go so far. Rain leaked into the tent, and began soaking my clothes and sleeping bag. The stakes threatened to rip from the ground. Suddenly, my own tent whacked me in the face as the flexible crossbars, so convenient in calm, gave way to the force of the storm. The tent collapsed around me, and the wind scraped at the sides, like a bear had pounced my tent and now clawed to get in.
I lay awake for an hour, using my own body weight to prevent the tent from being blown away. I’m scared, bewildered, and deeply tired to my core. Even when the rain and thunder stop, the wind continues to taunt me.
In a lull, I get up, and tie some ropes to the tent and stake them down. Hopefully now the tent will be more secure. I return to the tent and try to go back to sleep, but insanity has taken hold. I converse with myself, personified in the mental image of my dive instructor, but unlike my usual chats I don’t know what he’ll say before he says it. He admonishes my naivety.
In another two hours, the next squall line hits. The extra lines do nothing, as the tent continues to collapse in, smother me, and spring back out, like a demented yo-yo. Just as I was beginning to dry, rain soaks me again. But I’m simply too tired. I try to hold up my arm to prevent the tent from closing in all the way, but eventually I give up, roll over, and hope I don’t suffocate in my sleep.
The next morning, I begin to pack up, and survey the damage. The borrowed tent’s crossbars have been bent, likely unfixable. Water and sand coat everything, and the face of my cellphone has been deeply scoured by the blown grit. Outside, the rest of the camp is stirring. People chat on their way to the bathroom about hunkering down in the storm. They talk like survivors of Katrina.
The park ranger, a kindly middle aged woman, knew better. The storm had gusts over 50 mph, but in her words, “It was nothing special. Were just a little sand island in the middle of the ocean, you know. What’s protecting us?”
Surely, my desire to watch a hurricane make landfall from the beach has been greatly reduced, but her words stuck with me. What protects me? My youthful sense of immortality leads me to do things like camp in the woods by myself with no experience, but what’s going to protect me from a bear, or a storm, or a fall, or myself. Nature is far more powerful than any of us, and kills with no conscious malice or regret. Thoughts of the stone on the bottom of the sea settled on me as I drove north.
A good night’s sleep only lasted 2 hours. I was awoken by a crack of thunder. No worries, I figure, I have the rainfly up. I was prepared this time. Rain started to fall, and I thought nothing of it. The rain picked up, and the wind whistled in the stunted shrubby trees. Maybe it wont be so easy to fall back asleep. So I lay back and listen to the gentle patter on my roof.
Unexpectedly, the patter became a deluge. Rain pounded the tent with palpable weight. The whistle became a shriek, and was joined by the groan of my tent’s crossbars bending. The distant booms of thunder became abrupt frightful cracks. Even with my eyelids closed, the strikes of lightning blinded me.
Waterproof and windproof only go so far. Rain leaked into the tent, and began soaking my clothes and sleeping bag. The stakes threatened to rip from the ground. Suddenly, my own tent whacked me in the face as the flexible crossbars, so convenient in calm, gave way to the force of the storm. The tent collapsed around me, and the wind scraped at the sides, like a bear had pounced my tent and now clawed to get in.
I lay awake for an hour, using my own body weight to prevent the tent from being blown away. I’m scared, bewildered, and deeply tired to my core. Even when the rain and thunder stop, the wind continues to taunt me.
In a lull, I get up, and tie some ropes to the tent and stake them down. Hopefully now the tent will be more secure. I return to the tent and try to go back to sleep, but insanity has taken hold. I converse with myself, personified in the mental image of my dive instructor, but unlike my usual chats I don’t know what he’ll say before he says it. He admonishes my naivety.
In another two hours, the next squall line hits. The extra lines do nothing, as the tent continues to collapse in, smother me, and spring back out, like a demented yo-yo. Just as I was beginning to dry, rain soaks me again. But I’m simply too tired. I try to hold up my arm to prevent the tent from closing in all the way, but eventually I give up, roll over, and hope I don’t suffocate in my sleep.
The next morning, I begin to pack up, and survey the damage. The borrowed tent’s crossbars have been bent, likely unfixable. Water and sand coat everything, and the face of my cellphone has been deeply scoured by the blown grit. Outside, the rest of the camp is stirring. People chat on their way to the bathroom about hunkering down in the storm. They talk like survivors of Katrina.
The park ranger, a kindly middle aged woman, knew better. The storm had gusts over 50 mph, but in her words, “It was nothing special. Were just a little sand island in the middle of the ocean, you know. What’s protecting us?”
Surely, my desire to watch a hurricane make landfall from the beach has been greatly reduced, but her words stuck with me. What protects me? My youthful sense of immortality leads me to do things like camp in the woods by myself with no experience, but what’s going to protect me from a bear, or a storm, or a fall, or myself. Nature is far more powerful than any of us, and kills with no conscious malice or regret. Thoughts of the stone on the bottom of the sea settled on me as I drove north.
The Proteus and the Dixie Arrow
Surely you don’t think I’d pay almost 500 dollars and only get one day of diving, do you?
After yesterday’s pathetic mess and subsequent recovery, I was ready for today. Yesterday was just a warm-up compared to this. See, this was our big dive; we bottom out at almost 130 feet. We would only get 10 minutes at this depth, or risk getting the bends, a painful decompression illness that causes small nitrogen bubbles in the blood to shred all your little capillaries. The wreck has been salvaged and pillaged for years and is probably highly unstable. Oh, and the water will be thick with Sand Tiger Sharks, considered one of the 10 most dangerous shark species to humans. Ready?
No, not yet. First I have to shit myself.
If you’ve ever tried taking a crap on a moving rocking boat, you know it’s not as easy as it looks. It’s all mental, really. Hard to concentrate.
Anyway, it was time to get in, and I was first. I suited up, remembering to put on my weight belt and turn on my airflow (two missteps I already had yesterday), and stepped up to the edge. On the radio was “Over My Head” by The Fray, on my ipod but normally reserved for the walk to organic chemistry exams. It was more fitting here. I waited for the chorus to peak, and jumped.
Down we went, down, down. The surfaced roiled, but appeared placid as we got too far down to see. I kept having to cock my head to dodge small jellyfish aiming for my jugular.
I didn’t have time to touch down on the bottom. Ahead of us lay a shark. No, not a little reef shark. This guy was as long as I was, atleast 6 feet, and much thicker. His dozens of teeth were not your typical triangular serrated shark teeth; this guy is a fish eater, and his teeth are curved and barbed spikes. Its mottled gray skin bore white scars and battle wounds. The top of his dorsal fin was bit off. It turned and considered me for a moment, lazily drawing in closer. Then, at about 10 feet, it abruptly turned and swam away. I thought that was pretty close. They were going to get closer.
The shark was not alone. No less than two dozen sharks swam with it that I can see, and surely dozens more swam out of sight. A school of them collected off the wreck. The smaller ones, about 3 or 4 feet long, were bolder than the larger ones. They would come right in, put their noses into their face. I could easily reach out and touch one of them. Instead, I cocked my hand into a fist. A few times I had to threaten to pound a shark in the nose before it decided it was close enough and would swim off.
Emboldened by their passivity, I decided to join them. Swimming over flounder and rays, I swam right into the middle of the shark school. Sharks swam a few feet in front of me, right alongside me, and perhaps most disconcerting, came up behind me. But I wasn’t scared. No, I was exhilarated. I wanted to stay down in this school forever. But my dive buddy urged me to leave as the big sharks were getting closer to me each time.
I realized now, my nose tends to bleed as I dive. Was I chumming the water, their bloodlust and curiosity slowly overcoming their fear? Well, there was an airseal between my mask and the surrounding water, and I hoped they couldn’t smell it through the rubber. Either way, we were out of bottom time and we had to go. I turned and left the sharks behind me.
As we left, I took a good look at the wreck. The Proteus was a passenger liner that sunk in WWI from accidentally running into an allied minefield. It was a war older than the other two wrecks, but hard to tell, as everything became an encrusted reef over time. Still, this wreck was far more distinguishable as a boat than the Kassandra yesterday, with recognizable bits scattered around. This was the diving I was looking for.
I surfaced triumphant, certain this dive could not be topped. And essentially I was right. The second dive was different. It was not as deep and did not have as many sharks. But it was quite memorable in its own right, and at the end of the day, it’ll probably be both I remember fondly.
Meanwhile, it was lunch. Chicken this time. The stupid mustard was being stubborn and refusing to come out, so I gave it a big squeeze. It splashed everywhere, all over my pants. In response, I took my wallet and cell phone out of my pants and jumped in. They’re quick dry. It helped, but I could see mustard was still there. I’d already risked chumming sharks, I really hoped I’d have the opportunity to wash these pants before I chummed bears.
Next was the Dixie Arrow. At only 90 feet, inferior visibility, and generally fewer sharks, it promised to be an inferior dive. Not so much. I was getting quite comfortable in my underwater skin and was ready to make the most of it. Down we went along the anchor, the seas deceptively calm, and arrived at the wreck the torpedoed WWII tanker.
Oh yes, there were sharks. Fewer, but I noticed something clear: These sharks were bigger. The biggest sharks on the Proteus were about my size; these guys reached 8 to 10 feet. I was now officially outclassed by a predator in my midst. These guys weren’t particularly shy themselves. A 10-footer came within 5 feet of me before cruising off. Still, if I could swim in a school of them, I could handle their big brothers and sisters.
This shipwreck was truly worthy of the title. There was a ship down here. Sure, it wasn’t one piece sitting solidly in the water. It was no Titanic. But pieces of hull and bow and ship were clearly distinguishable. We swam around and over, exploring nooks and crannies in the shattered hull. Looped between the boilers and under the bow, even through a broken archway. Maybe it used to be a hall in the ship, or part of a broken tank. And yeah, maybe it was only like 15 feet long, but I was swimming on the ocean bottom with a roof over my head. That’s wreck diving.
I began looking for artifacts. A rusted tetanus-covered fishing hook on a lure that looked just like a fish (no shark would be fooled) turned up, as did a Diet Pepsi can from when the internet was new and having a website was still a novel thing to be trumpeted. But nothing old. No battery terminals for me.
What I did turn up was a sea urchin skeleton. It resembles a 3D sand dollar. Very fragile, the captain held one up to me earlier today and told me how difficult it was to retrieve the specimen in one piece. Sounds like a challenge.
As time and air are both running low, we decide to leave our hunt for treasure (and the sharks’ hunt for us) and go up. I stretch my time as long as I can, playfully swimming among the wreckage. Suddenly, I come across a block of stone that seems like it doesn’t belong. It’s unnatural. My buddy comes, and we scrape the algae off the surface.
I wont share the name, but he lived from 1971 to 2005. “Lost at sea but found in our hearts”. Or something like that, we couldn’t get all the grime off. The captain later revealed that this 34 year old man was spearfishing with his father on a day like today. However, when he started coming up, the current really picked up intensity. Nobody knows what happened, but the father said he was on the line one moment, and gone the next. The Coast Guard later put out a sonar buoy to see where his body may have gone, and they discovered in 24 hours the buoy traveled almost 30 miles. His body has never been recovered, but his gravestone lies at the anchorpoint for the Dixie Arrow, for divers to discover anew and contemplate the fragility of a human in deep water. With those sobering thoughts, we began our ascent.
We quickly noticed the current had picked up considerably. I delicately cradled the fragile skeleton in my right hand, while I used my left hand to both release air from my suit and hold on to the line. The current pushed, and the surface waves yanked the line up and down. I couldn’t hold the line, push the button, and pull myself with one hand simultaneously, but I was possessed, compulsively, to not let my urchin go. I held onto the line with my pinky, my whole body dragged around by my single smallest finger. I pulled, let go of the rope, and immediately grabbed for a further handhold. This pattern pulled me up 80 feet, until I finally let go of the anchor rope and swam for the ladder, nearly missing it. I hauled myself up with one arm, and held out my urchin to the deckhand. I refused to come up until he took it and stored it safely. I came on to the deck exhausted, panting, a splitting headache, and another nosebleed. But I had passed my test.
I don’t still have the urchin. I gave it to the captain to give it to his kid. I’d just break it anyway. In return, he gave me a shark tooth. Stabbed me with it really, but in a joking “This hurts but you won’t die, haha” kinda way. And I didn’t.
After yesterday’s pathetic mess and subsequent recovery, I was ready for today. Yesterday was just a warm-up compared to this. See, this was our big dive; we bottom out at almost 130 feet. We would only get 10 minutes at this depth, or risk getting the bends, a painful decompression illness that causes small nitrogen bubbles in the blood to shred all your little capillaries. The wreck has been salvaged and pillaged for years and is probably highly unstable. Oh, and the water will be thick with Sand Tiger Sharks, considered one of the 10 most dangerous shark species to humans. Ready?
No, not yet. First I have to shit myself.
If you’ve ever tried taking a crap on a moving rocking boat, you know it’s not as easy as it looks. It’s all mental, really. Hard to concentrate.
Anyway, it was time to get in, and I was first. I suited up, remembering to put on my weight belt and turn on my airflow (two missteps I already had yesterday), and stepped up to the edge. On the radio was “Over My Head” by The Fray, on my ipod but normally reserved for the walk to organic chemistry exams. It was more fitting here. I waited for the chorus to peak, and jumped.
Down we went, down, down. The surfaced roiled, but appeared placid as we got too far down to see. I kept having to cock my head to dodge small jellyfish aiming for my jugular.
I didn’t have time to touch down on the bottom. Ahead of us lay a shark. No, not a little reef shark. This guy was as long as I was, atleast 6 feet, and much thicker. His dozens of teeth were not your typical triangular serrated shark teeth; this guy is a fish eater, and his teeth are curved and barbed spikes. Its mottled gray skin bore white scars and battle wounds. The top of his dorsal fin was bit off. It turned and considered me for a moment, lazily drawing in closer. Then, at about 10 feet, it abruptly turned and swam away. I thought that was pretty close. They were going to get closer.
The shark was not alone. No less than two dozen sharks swam with it that I can see, and surely dozens more swam out of sight. A school of them collected off the wreck. The smaller ones, about 3 or 4 feet long, were bolder than the larger ones. They would come right in, put their noses into their face. I could easily reach out and touch one of them. Instead, I cocked my hand into a fist. A few times I had to threaten to pound a shark in the nose before it decided it was close enough and would swim off.
Emboldened by their passivity, I decided to join them. Swimming over flounder and rays, I swam right into the middle of the shark school. Sharks swam a few feet in front of me, right alongside me, and perhaps most disconcerting, came up behind me. But I wasn’t scared. No, I was exhilarated. I wanted to stay down in this school forever. But my dive buddy urged me to leave as the big sharks were getting closer to me each time.
I realized now, my nose tends to bleed as I dive. Was I chumming the water, their bloodlust and curiosity slowly overcoming their fear? Well, there was an airseal between my mask and the surrounding water, and I hoped they couldn’t smell it through the rubber. Either way, we were out of bottom time and we had to go. I turned and left the sharks behind me.
As we left, I took a good look at the wreck. The Proteus was a passenger liner that sunk in WWI from accidentally running into an allied minefield. It was a war older than the other two wrecks, but hard to tell, as everything became an encrusted reef over time. Still, this wreck was far more distinguishable as a boat than the Kassandra yesterday, with recognizable bits scattered around. This was the diving I was looking for.
I surfaced triumphant, certain this dive could not be topped. And essentially I was right. The second dive was different. It was not as deep and did not have as many sharks. But it was quite memorable in its own right, and at the end of the day, it’ll probably be both I remember fondly.
Meanwhile, it was lunch. Chicken this time. The stupid mustard was being stubborn and refusing to come out, so I gave it a big squeeze. It splashed everywhere, all over my pants. In response, I took my wallet and cell phone out of my pants and jumped in. They’re quick dry. It helped, but I could see mustard was still there. I’d already risked chumming sharks, I really hoped I’d have the opportunity to wash these pants before I chummed bears.
Next was the Dixie Arrow. At only 90 feet, inferior visibility, and generally fewer sharks, it promised to be an inferior dive. Not so much. I was getting quite comfortable in my underwater skin and was ready to make the most of it. Down we went along the anchor, the seas deceptively calm, and arrived at the wreck the torpedoed WWII tanker.
Oh yes, there were sharks. Fewer, but I noticed something clear: These sharks were bigger. The biggest sharks on the Proteus were about my size; these guys reached 8 to 10 feet. I was now officially outclassed by a predator in my midst. These guys weren’t particularly shy themselves. A 10-footer came within 5 feet of me before cruising off. Still, if I could swim in a school of them, I could handle their big brothers and sisters.
This shipwreck was truly worthy of the title. There was a ship down here. Sure, it wasn’t one piece sitting solidly in the water. It was no Titanic. But pieces of hull and bow and ship were clearly distinguishable. We swam around and over, exploring nooks and crannies in the shattered hull. Looped between the boilers and under the bow, even through a broken archway. Maybe it used to be a hall in the ship, or part of a broken tank. And yeah, maybe it was only like 15 feet long, but I was swimming on the ocean bottom with a roof over my head. That’s wreck diving.
I began looking for artifacts. A rusted tetanus-covered fishing hook on a lure that looked just like a fish (no shark would be fooled) turned up, as did a Diet Pepsi can from when the internet was new and having a website was still a novel thing to be trumpeted. But nothing old. No battery terminals for me.
What I did turn up was a sea urchin skeleton. It resembles a 3D sand dollar. Very fragile, the captain held one up to me earlier today and told me how difficult it was to retrieve the specimen in one piece. Sounds like a challenge.
As time and air are both running low, we decide to leave our hunt for treasure (and the sharks’ hunt for us) and go up. I stretch my time as long as I can, playfully swimming among the wreckage. Suddenly, I come across a block of stone that seems like it doesn’t belong. It’s unnatural. My buddy comes, and we scrape the algae off the surface.
I wont share the name, but he lived from 1971 to 2005. “Lost at sea but found in our hearts”. Or something like that, we couldn’t get all the grime off. The captain later revealed that this 34 year old man was spearfishing with his father on a day like today. However, when he started coming up, the current really picked up intensity. Nobody knows what happened, but the father said he was on the line one moment, and gone the next. The Coast Guard later put out a sonar buoy to see where his body may have gone, and they discovered in 24 hours the buoy traveled almost 30 miles. His body has never been recovered, but his gravestone lies at the anchorpoint for the Dixie Arrow, for divers to discover anew and contemplate the fragility of a human in deep water. With those sobering thoughts, we began our ascent.
We quickly noticed the current had picked up considerably. I delicately cradled the fragile skeleton in my right hand, while I used my left hand to both release air from my suit and hold on to the line. The current pushed, and the surface waves yanked the line up and down. I couldn’t hold the line, push the button, and pull myself with one hand simultaneously, but I was possessed, compulsively, to not let my urchin go. I held onto the line with my pinky, my whole body dragged around by my single smallest finger. I pulled, let go of the rope, and immediately grabbed for a further handhold. This pattern pulled me up 80 feet, until I finally let go of the anchor rope and swam for the ladder, nearly missing it. I hauled myself up with one arm, and held out my urchin to the deckhand. I refused to come up until he took it and stored it safely. I came on to the deck exhausted, panting, a splitting headache, and another nosebleed. But I had passed my test.
I don’t still have the urchin. I gave it to the captain to give it to his kid. I’d just break it anyway. In return, he gave me a shark tooth. Stabbed me with it really, but in a joking “This hurts but you won’t die, haha” kinda way. And I didn’t.
The reason for my trip
Finally, the big day. It was time to get in the water. My first challenge: Waking up successfully at 6am. I set my travel alarm. I set my cellphone. I had my dad wake up and call me. I still barely made it.
At the store, I pick out my rental gear; everything rings with an aura of familiarity. I assemble my tank and regulator on muscle memory. The wetsuit fits snugly, even if it takes me awhile to realize the zipper is on the back. Things are looking up.
We drive our gear down to the docks, load up, and take off. I ask about my lack of diving buddy. Naturally, as the youngest one on the boat, they pair me with the oldest; he’s been diving since 5 years before I was born. However, I view this as a good thing. He should have great technical and navigational experience, right?
The ride out takes an hour. We all sit on the top deck and contentedly let the salt fill our noses. I secretly and shamefully slather myself with sunscreen belowdeck first, but I figure after years of exposure, my arms ceased getting sunburned, so I leave them bare. My hypothesis has since been rejected. Ow.
The people are generally helpful and friendly: There’s the old couple who’s been to Australia, the old spearfisherman, the guy with the ridiculously oversized camera/flash rig (he cant be compensating too hard, his kid was with him), the aging hippie cave diver, the crusty old captain… basically everyone was old except me and the dive instructor. Oh, there was this young woman (28?) who lived in my town. I enjoyed chatting about high school and staring at her ass. I also chewed the shit with the young deckhand, and stared at his ass. Ultimately, I’m predictable.
People were friendly and helpful. Too friendly and helpful. Everyone treated me like the little kid who didn’t know his ass from his tank. I resented it; maybe I didn’t have years of experience, but I was certified and had 8 dives under my belt. Still, I couldn’t help feel a twinge of nervousness they may be right. When the time came, I jumped in.
I had trouble equalizing my pressure. I couldn’t operate my borrowed dive computer. I couldn’t even tell where the wreck was. My buoyancy was completely out of whack, and my kicks felt slow, difficult, and fruitless (as I shortly discovered, I was in a current). Basically, I was out of my depth and getting panicky. My breaths came quick and scared, like I could never sap enough air from the tank. I was trying to solve every problem at once and failing.
I hit the bottom with surprising gentleness considering the circumstances. Once there, I righted myself, began tinkering with my buoyancy, and simply accepted I had no dive computer and was dependant on my dive buddy for navigation, diving depth, and bottom time. I followed him, like a lost puppy, struggling to get my balance and breathing under control.
I managed to control my body and calm my nerves after 10 minutes. But my fight cost us; we would only get about 25 minutes before I ran short on air. Still, it gave me time to large schools of shimmering baitfish make oddly geometric shapes, changing from sphere to plane smoothly and organically.
The wreck itself was entirely not like I expected. There was no ship. The large boilers of the tanker were recognizable, but everything else was scattered junk thickly encrusted with calcite and coral. It looked like the Barrier Reef, only far less colorful. My dive buddy collected some things from the bottom, but agreed later that he too was disappointed with the site. We surfaced.
People were sympathetic rather than judgemental, but I resolved to make the second dive much improved. I sought advice all over the ship, from the attractive deckhand to the unattractive photographer. I even managed to scare up a pair of ratty torn-up diving gloves to prevent ratty torn-up hands. I was ready. The boat wasn’t.
See, I discovered later that carrying divers is only supplemental income to this boat. Their real job is salvaging metal from these wrecks to sell for scrap. That may not sound like much, but copper is 3 dollars a pound, and they pulled hundreds of pounds of pipes and bars from the bottom. It was so lucrative today that the crew decided to stay at this site all day. I was quite resentful, but one of the salvagers gave me a small bronze battery terminal he picked off the bottom, a thick loop on a solid pedestal about two inches long. I was gracious, but I wanted to find my own treasure.
When the time came, I suited up and strapped on my gear, my jaws set in determination. However, I’d forgotten to put on my weight belt, and had to take it all off and do it again. Nice start.
I jumped in, and again couldn’t seem to equalize my ears. But I stayed calm, breathed slow and deep, and worked at it. After a minute, success. I kept myself negatively buoyant and settled down on the bottom, where I could fill my BCD with air until I just began to float. How could I have forgotten that it takes so much more air to float after 50 feet? The rookie mistakes I made in Australia were coming back to me, and I wouldn’t make them again.
My dive computer still wouldn’t work, so I was still dependant, but this time we worked as a team. We fought against the current, my legs now remembering how to kick right with flippers, and made our way to the far part of the wreck. We could now float back to the boat with the current at our leisure. I began to root around on the bottom for things. But not copper or brass; I wanted to find animals.
And find animals I did. In addition to the baitfish, I saw small gobies, cleaner shrimp, scary looking toadfish waiting to take a finger off, and coral polyps languorously waving in the flow. Above us were larger spadefish, anglerjacks, cod-looking things, and long barracudas. These living torpedos were as long as I was. Usually they kept their friendly distance, about 10 to 20 feet, but one or two of the smaller ones decided to investigate my face as a potential meal. Unsure what to do, and knowing I couldn’t outswim a barricuda, I held my ground and held a cocked fist ready to fight underwater. It never came to that, as they saw, smelled, swam away at 3 feet.
I found some pretty sweet clam and nautilus shells. I poked my head all around the wreck, and slowly began to mentally assemble a ship in my mind. At first I held on to any perch I could find, but slowly I learned to hover, even in the current. I had managed to surpass even my top form in Australia.
Needless to say, that’ll all wear off by tomorrow and I’ll have to learn it all again. But that’s a care for later. For the moment, I swam off into dreamland as the boat motored home.
At the store, I pick out my rental gear; everything rings with an aura of familiarity. I assemble my tank and regulator on muscle memory. The wetsuit fits snugly, even if it takes me awhile to realize the zipper is on the back. Things are looking up.
We drive our gear down to the docks, load up, and take off. I ask about my lack of diving buddy. Naturally, as the youngest one on the boat, they pair me with the oldest; he’s been diving since 5 years before I was born. However, I view this as a good thing. He should have great technical and navigational experience, right?
The ride out takes an hour. We all sit on the top deck and contentedly let the salt fill our noses. I secretly and shamefully slather myself with sunscreen belowdeck first, but I figure after years of exposure, my arms ceased getting sunburned, so I leave them bare. My hypothesis has since been rejected. Ow.
The people are generally helpful and friendly: There’s the old couple who’s been to Australia, the old spearfisherman, the guy with the ridiculously oversized camera/flash rig (he cant be compensating too hard, his kid was with him), the aging hippie cave diver, the crusty old captain… basically everyone was old except me and the dive instructor. Oh, there was this young woman (28?) who lived in my town. I enjoyed chatting about high school and staring at her ass. I also chewed the shit with the young deckhand, and stared at his ass. Ultimately, I’m predictable.
People were friendly and helpful. Too friendly and helpful. Everyone treated me like the little kid who didn’t know his ass from his tank. I resented it; maybe I didn’t have years of experience, but I was certified and had 8 dives under my belt. Still, I couldn’t help feel a twinge of nervousness they may be right. When the time came, I jumped in.
I had trouble equalizing my pressure. I couldn’t operate my borrowed dive computer. I couldn’t even tell where the wreck was. My buoyancy was completely out of whack, and my kicks felt slow, difficult, and fruitless (as I shortly discovered, I was in a current). Basically, I was out of my depth and getting panicky. My breaths came quick and scared, like I could never sap enough air from the tank. I was trying to solve every problem at once and failing.
I hit the bottom with surprising gentleness considering the circumstances. Once there, I righted myself, began tinkering with my buoyancy, and simply accepted I had no dive computer and was dependant on my dive buddy for navigation, diving depth, and bottom time. I followed him, like a lost puppy, struggling to get my balance and breathing under control.
I managed to control my body and calm my nerves after 10 minutes. But my fight cost us; we would only get about 25 minutes before I ran short on air. Still, it gave me time to large schools of shimmering baitfish make oddly geometric shapes, changing from sphere to plane smoothly and organically.
The wreck itself was entirely not like I expected. There was no ship. The large boilers of the tanker were recognizable, but everything else was scattered junk thickly encrusted with calcite and coral. It looked like the Barrier Reef, only far less colorful. My dive buddy collected some things from the bottom, but agreed later that he too was disappointed with the site. We surfaced.
People were sympathetic rather than judgemental, but I resolved to make the second dive much improved. I sought advice all over the ship, from the attractive deckhand to the unattractive photographer. I even managed to scare up a pair of ratty torn-up diving gloves to prevent ratty torn-up hands. I was ready. The boat wasn’t.
See, I discovered later that carrying divers is only supplemental income to this boat. Their real job is salvaging metal from these wrecks to sell for scrap. That may not sound like much, but copper is 3 dollars a pound, and they pulled hundreds of pounds of pipes and bars from the bottom. It was so lucrative today that the crew decided to stay at this site all day. I was quite resentful, but one of the salvagers gave me a small bronze battery terminal he picked off the bottom, a thick loop on a solid pedestal about two inches long. I was gracious, but I wanted to find my own treasure.
When the time came, I suited up and strapped on my gear, my jaws set in determination. However, I’d forgotten to put on my weight belt, and had to take it all off and do it again. Nice start.
I jumped in, and again couldn’t seem to equalize my ears. But I stayed calm, breathed slow and deep, and worked at it. After a minute, success. I kept myself negatively buoyant and settled down on the bottom, where I could fill my BCD with air until I just began to float. How could I have forgotten that it takes so much more air to float after 50 feet? The rookie mistakes I made in Australia were coming back to me, and I wouldn’t make them again.
My dive computer still wouldn’t work, so I was still dependant, but this time we worked as a team. We fought against the current, my legs now remembering how to kick right with flippers, and made our way to the far part of the wreck. We could now float back to the boat with the current at our leisure. I began to root around on the bottom for things. But not copper or brass; I wanted to find animals.
And find animals I did. In addition to the baitfish, I saw small gobies, cleaner shrimp, scary looking toadfish waiting to take a finger off, and coral polyps languorously waving in the flow. Above us were larger spadefish, anglerjacks, cod-looking things, and long barracudas. These living torpedos were as long as I was. Usually they kept their friendly distance, about 10 to 20 feet, but one or two of the smaller ones decided to investigate my face as a potential meal. Unsure what to do, and knowing I couldn’t outswim a barricuda, I held my ground and held a cocked fist ready to fight underwater. It never came to that, as they saw, smelled, swam away at 3 feet.
I found some pretty sweet clam and nautilus shells. I poked my head all around the wreck, and slowly began to mentally assemble a ship in my mind. At first I held on to any perch I could find, but slowly I learned to hover, even in the current. I had managed to surpass even my top form in Australia.
Needless to say, that’ll all wear off by tomorrow and I’ll have to learn it all again. But that’s a care for later. For the moment, I swam off into dreamland as the boat motored home.
As East as I'm getting
North Carolina drivers are fucked. I’ve lost count of my near-collisions. So when I found out I’d be leaving the interstates and the cities and headed for the rural roads, a feeling of dread filled me.
A feeling of dread not undeserved. The country bumpkins were scary people and horrible drivers. But enough about that.
Things started looking up when I saw my first swamp. I’d gone from Ozarks to plains to eastern woodlands to montane pine forests, and now to swamps. I also saw my first snake in months, shortly before I ran over it. For a little thing, it made a surprisingly loud crunch, even from inside the car.
I arrived at the ferry, having expected a bridge. I subsequently expected to be able to use my credit card, and was wrong again. 15 dollars, cash. I dug into the bottom of my wallet. Five, another five, three singles… into the change pocket… four quarters, five, six… four dimes, two nickels… success! I boarded the ferry, newly broke.
I was making great time until I got on the ferry. Two hours to go 30 miles kinda kills the average. But, it felt good to be on the water. It reminded me of being back in Australia. So I settled into my backseat with a bootleg copy of “Saved” and prepared for the long haul. Only it was shorter than I expected, as the movie lost sound halfway through. Could’ve been worse, it didn’t suddenly cut to pterodactyl porn.
I’ve seen it. I don’t need to see it again.
Surprisingly, this was one of the few calamities I’m glad happened. I walked upstairs with peanut butter and ritz in hand, and was immediately called out by a stranger. This woman asked me about my camping trip. I asked her how she knew. “Peanut butter” she said.
The woman was an English professor at a small university in Virginia. Her name is Cheryl; it is one of the few times I’ll ever use a real name in a blog, because I want to acknowledge she was wonderful. We talked all about camping and college and our travels to foreign countries. She shared her sushi with me, even though I had food. She taught me valuable writing tips that have yet to see the light of day in this blog. But if you start to see more sensory exposition, you’ll know why.
Upon arrival, I drove off the ferry, drove north about 10 minutes, and had to board another ferry. I considered ways of knocking out the guard and sneaking aboard, but this puddle jumper is free. I guess they figure when they’ve already bled you dry, no need to kick your corpse.
The ride was fantastic. The sun was setting, going from sunflower yellow (good comparison) to burning crimson, like a giant ball of fusion-fueled plasma millions of miles across (good simile). Pelicans and plovers soared above, while brutal mosquitoes soared at face level.
I also hung out with a bunch of biology students who moonlight as snowboard instructors. Basically they personified my inflated views of myself, but in reality.
I arrived in Hatteras at dusk, and everything was already closed. The entire town is shut by 9. But I managed to find one open place for dinner, and a dvd rental store to finish “Saved”. The beach was dark, save for a distant campfire. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the breaking waves on one side and the stunted windswept trees on the other. Crabs scuttled underfoot with surprising speed. Deer roamed here and there…
Wait, deer? This is an island! According to the park ranger, the island is simply shifting sand; sometimes it’s connected to the mainland, other time its fractured into multiple tiny islands. Always changing. Give it a hundred years, and the outer banks will be decorating South Carolina.
It’s interesting, really. So much expensive development, so many tall houses on stilts, and its all poised on ephemeral shifting sands, ready to be struck down by a furious hurricane or the patient march of time.
A feeling of dread not undeserved. The country bumpkins were scary people and horrible drivers. But enough about that.
Things started looking up when I saw my first swamp. I’d gone from Ozarks to plains to eastern woodlands to montane pine forests, and now to swamps. I also saw my first snake in months, shortly before I ran over it. For a little thing, it made a surprisingly loud crunch, even from inside the car.
I arrived at the ferry, having expected a bridge. I subsequently expected to be able to use my credit card, and was wrong again. 15 dollars, cash. I dug into the bottom of my wallet. Five, another five, three singles… into the change pocket… four quarters, five, six… four dimes, two nickels… success! I boarded the ferry, newly broke.
I was making great time until I got on the ferry. Two hours to go 30 miles kinda kills the average. But, it felt good to be on the water. It reminded me of being back in Australia. So I settled into my backseat with a bootleg copy of “Saved” and prepared for the long haul. Only it was shorter than I expected, as the movie lost sound halfway through. Could’ve been worse, it didn’t suddenly cut to pterodactyl porn.
I’ve seen it. I don’t need to see it again.
Surprisingly, this was one of the few calamities I’m glad happened. I walked upstairs with peanut butter and ritz in hand, and was immediately called out by a stranger. This woman asked me about my camping trip. I asked her how she knew. “Peanut butter” she said.
The woman was an English professor at a small university in Virginia. Her name is Cheryl; it is one of the few times I’ll ever use a real name in a blog, because I want to acknowledge she was wonderful. We talked all about camping and college and our travels to foreign countries. She shared her sushi with me, even though I had food. She taught me valuable writing tips that have yet to see the light of day in this blog. But if you start to see more sensory exposition, you’ll know why.
Upon arrival, I drove off the ferry, drove north about 10 minutes, and had to board another ferry. I considered ways of knocking out the guard and sneaking aboard, but this puddle jumper is free. I guess they figure when they’ve already bled you dry, no need to kick your corpse.
The ride was fantastic. The sun was setting, going from sunflower yellow (good comparison) to burning crimson, like a giant ball of fusion-fueled plasma millions of miles across (good simile). Pelicans and plovers soared above, while brutal mosquitoes soared at face level.
I also hung out with a bunch of biology students who moonlight as snowboard instructors. Basically they personified my inflated views of myself, but in reality.
I arrived in Hatteras at dusk, and everything was already closed. The entire town is shut by 9. But I managed to find one open place for dinner, and a dvd rental store to finish “Saved”. The beach was dark, save for a distant campfire. The moon shone brightly, illuminating the breaking waves on one side and the stunted windswept trees on the other. Crabs scuttled underfoot with surprising speed. Deer roamed here and there…
Wait, deer? This is an island! According to the park ranger, the island is simply shifting sand; sometimes it’s connected to the mainland, other time its fractured into multiple tiny islands. Always changing. Give it a hundred years, and the outer banks will be decorating South Carolina.
It’s interesting, really. So much expensive development, so many tall houses on stilts, and its all poised on ephemeral shifting sands, ready to be struck down by a furious hurricane or the patient march of time.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Insert [nothing] Here
Raleigh doesn’t even deserve an entry. Its distinguished in how undistinguished it is. Think of any small city, and you have Raleigh. For the most part. There is one difference: Raleigh desperately wants to be Washington D.C.; It even has the state capitol, administrative offices, museums, and statues in a big grassy area ala The Mall. And it, too, is a small nice-seeming area surrounded by poor black people and urban decay. Way to set your goals high.
But my friend Susan lives here, and when she finally got off from night school 3 hours after I arrived (I drove around the city and found a titty bar to not go), we had a good time. I realized she looks at my Facebook, so skirting around the issue was just wasting my time. We then spent the rest of the night talking about sex.
Oh, now that I think about it, you know what’s noteworthy about Raleigh? One of the statues near the statehouse is another copy of the George Washington statue in front of Olin Library. Once again, Raleigh stands out for being the same.
But my friend Susan lives here, and when she finally got off from night school 3 hours after I arrived (I drove around the city and found a titty bar to not go), we had a good time. I realized she looks at my Facebook, so skirting around the issue was just wasting my time. We then spent the rest of the night talking about sex.
Oh, now that I think about it, you know what’s noteworthy about Raleigh? One of the statues near the statehouse is another copy of the George Washington statue in front of Olin Library. Once again, Raleigh stands out for being the same.
Goodbye
The day started normal enough. I was awoken by severe tent shaking, accompanied by a gruff voice barking “Wake up in there!” I unzip to find not one, but three angry park rangers. Apparently we had another noise complaint. The front man put on a show, being bristly and full of machismo. Twig pig (slang for park ranger) on a power trip. When he told us the fine was $250, I knew he was bluffing. He wasn’t about to throw huge fines at a bunch of kids. But I reconsidered when he took our licenses to examine, then held up our spent bottle of whiskey and said, “Only half of you are over 21. I’m going to test the minors, and if they’ve had alcohol, you’re also being charged with supplying alcohol to minors.”
Which was funny, because I didn’t get it for them, but more on that later.
The skinny one hadn’t had too much to drink, and the fat one is fat, so both passed the breathalyzer. The girl held her breath the whole time, but I was fairly confident in the results. Not so confident in our not getting a ticket when the boozebreath-lacking fat one did a victory dance in front of the ranger. I really wanted to deck him.
However, the original complaint had to do with the two boys fighting each other ala Fight Club for fun, so I restrained. We packed up, reluctantly paid up (later), and shipped out. A cursory visit to the fog-shrouded and thus pointless Clingman Dome Observation Tower before we escaped the park.
This is where we had to part. They were headed south to South Carolina, and I was to continue on to Raleigh. I was to drop them off at the start of I-26, making me their longest distance host ever. But before saying goodbye, we went to lunch at Little Ceasers. Inside a K-mart.
We bought the pizza, but the girl stole a coke. And the skinny boy stole a toy in the store. In the 4 days I’ve known them, they’ve stolen food, soda, alcohol, cigarettes, firewood, clothing, and if not for the noise complaint, a night at a campsite. They claim its because they want to spite big corporations, but they seem to steal from individually owned stores if it strikes their fancy. I know they’re pretty poor, but I can’t help but wonder if the stealing is need, greed, or mere kleptomania.
If you think about it, there’s no reason I’d hang around these people. They’re dirty annoying anarchist hippies who steal my food and make my car smell. They love to fight, steal, and get all-too-frequently political. But we bonded. They and I, despite nothing in common, connected somehow. I was sad to see them go.
“We’re so glad we ran into you,” they told me. “You’ve been so helpful.” And I was. I drove them from Nashville to central North Carolina and all around the park, let them eat my food, let them sleep in my car, and paid for the campsites without asking for contributions. Maybe they only liked me because I was unreasonably, perhaps pathologically giving in the same way they take. Maybe I only kept unpleasant people around because I was lonely traveling solo. A mutually beneficial trade. But I’d like to think it was more than that. I’ll find out if they keep to their word to call me when they pass through Chicago.
I left them in the early afternoon on the road shoulder at the on-ramp of I-26. Now?
Which was funny, because I didn’t get it for them, but more on that later.
The skinny one hadn’t had too much to drink, and the fat one is fat, so both passed the breathalyzer. The girl held her breath the whole time, but I was fairly confident in the results. Not so confident in our not getting a ticket when the boozebreath-lacking fat one did a victory dance in front of the ranger. I really wanted to deck him.
However, the original complaint had to do with the two boys fighting each other ala Fight Club for fun, so I restrained. We packed up, reluctantly paid up (later), and shipped out. A cursory visit to the fog-shrouded and thus pointless Clingman Dome Observation Tower before we escaped the park.
This is where we had to part. They were headed south to South Carolina, and I was to continue on to Raleigh. I was to drop them off at the start of I-26, making me their longest distance host ever. But before saying goodbye, we went to lunch at Little Ceasers. Inside a K-mart.
We bought the pizza, but the girl stole a coke. And the skinny boy stole a toy in the store. In the 4 days I’ve known them, they’ve stolen food, soda, alcohol, cigarettes, firewood, clothing, and if not for the noise complaint, a night at a campsite. They claim its because they want to spite big corporations, but they seem to steal from individually owned stores if it strikes their fancy. I know they’re pretty poor, but I can’t help but wonder if the stealing is need, greed, or mere kleptomania.
If you think about it, there’s no reason I’d hang around these people. They’re dirty annoying anarchist hippies who steal my food and make my car smell. They love to fight, steal, and get all-too-frequently political. But we bonded. They and I, despite nothing in common, connected somehow. I was sad to see them go.
“We’re so glad we ran into you,” they told me. “You’ve been so helpful.” And I was. I drove them from Nashville to central North Carolina and all around the park, let them eat my food, let them sleep in my car, and paid for the campsites without asking for contributions. Maybe they only liked me because I was unreasonably, perhaps pathologically giving in the same way they take. Maybe I only kept unpleasant people around because I was lonely traveling solo. A mutually beneficial trade. But I’d like to think it was more than that. I’ll find out if they keep to their word to call me when they pass through Chicago.
I left them in the early afternoon on the road shoulder at the on-ramp of I-26. Now?
The Practice Run
Something is wrong with the world when I get cell phone reception on the Appalachian Trail.
Shenandoah is meant to be my big solo backpacking adventure, but I decided with my full day in the Smokies, I’d do a big day hike and see how it goes. The day before, the ranger suggested a sold 10 mile loop up and down a mountain. A good relaxing walk in the woods.
I got on the trail at noon, a good 3 hours later than planned. Not because I’m a procrastinator, but because half my hitchhikers vanished for two hours to go have sex in the woods, and then I needed to drop them off somewhere to keep them entertained and out of harm’s way. I told them I’d pick them up in 6 hours. I later found out they nearly resorted to cannibalism.
The AT in the Smokies, along with really any of the trails, follows the ridgeline of the mountains. That means that the trail is narrow and on either side (frequently both) is a long plummety fall punctuated by trees. Hundreds of miles of contiguous death hazard. Sometimes you’d get a clear view of your imminent death. Other times the trees closed in with claustrophobic intimacy. And bears are wandering around. Lets do it!
I started out surprisingly well. 3 mph uphill is not bad at all for a beginner hiker. Mind you, this was the very start. By the end I was limping at a crawl, but for now I felt great. I encountered a troop of boy scouts who confused me for a thru-hiker on my way to Maine and felt compelled to line up to give me high fives. I thought about straightening out the confusion (or pushing them over the cliff), but maybe I’ll inadvertently inspire them. So far, I’ve only managed to inspire children to cruelty and petty crime.
Really, I met a lot of interesting people along the trail. The Spanish professor who happens to be the only liberal at Bob Jones University (shockingly, she hates her job), the father and daughter duo from Chattanooga whom I passed and got passed by on and off like an uphill wagon drag race, the guy shooting artsy shots with a camera older than my father which uses negatives bigger than his glasses, ect… Point is, fun people from all over use the trail, and talking to them is one of the highlights.
The trip started going downhill when it began going more uphill. I turned off the AT and on to a side trail that goes up this mountain. Well, the trail goes up, Then down. Then up, then down. Wash, rinse, repeat. It was spiteful really; if it didn’t keep going downhill, I could’ve cut my uphill in half. And when you think you’ve finally gotten to the top, U-turn! Sadistic fucks.
I looked for animals as I went. My spider, centipede, and salamander senses were tingling the entire time. And everything sounds like a bear. But alas, all I saw was trees. Mainly dead trees, and fungus and exotic bugs are killing off the entire forest. But thick layers of diseased pine needles littering the ground do put a bounce in your step.
Finally, after 2 hours of natural bliss and 2 hours of tiredness, frustration, and joint pain, I reached the top. It felt so much longer than expected it to. I checked the map.
The ranger was wrong. I’d walked 9 miles uphill instead of 7 like I’d expected. And the hike back down was 5 miles, not 3. My hike was an extra 4 miles. Worse, having dropped to 2 mph, it was going to tack 2 hours onto my trip, and I’d left my couchsurfers stranded without food or water. With newfound determination and a snack of wheat thins, I resolved to make it to the bottom in record time.
What do you think when you think a 9 mile uphill hike becomes a 5 mile downhill hike? It was less a hike and more a game of Mario. Jump the platforms without accidentally falling to your death. I mean, it was fatal enough on its own, but my speed run didn’t help things.
I made the next 2 miles within an hour before needing to stop to drink at the mouth of a huge cave. I also took the occasion to boast about my accomplishments to anyone in earshot. A particularly redneck family, where even the toddler had mullet, seemed quite impressed. But the middle aged hippy woman traveling with them for some reason, was not moved. She warned me my haste would get me nowhere. Maybe off a cliff. I raced on.
You can only run and hop so long before you get tuckered out. I think the problem was that this downhill trail STILL MANAGED TO GO UPHILL! Benton McKay can suck my dick. The constant jarring was killing my feet, my ankles, my knees. I still sped past everyone, but with quickly diminishing returns and increasing pain. The lowland forest was primeval, but I had no time to stop and admire it. I managed to pass the crowds in the last mile, which was great because I really didn’t want anyone to see me slogging, back bent and slightly limping. Finally, I could hear the sound of cars overpower the sounds of nature. Nothing sounded so beautiful.
I reached the parking lot, and realized I’d never be able to walk the 5 miles to my car. I had to hitchhike. I sat on the curb and stuck my thumb out, but only managed to get the couchsurfer treatment. Why does everyone look at my like I’m a leper? The people coming off the trail were all headed in the other direction. Well, they were when I asked. Most actually were, but one or two lied to my face with such gusto I couldn’t be angry. C’mon baby, flash those turn signals in my face.
I ultimately got a ride to my car, after half an hour of nearly spraining my thumb in failure. The old hippy woman emerged from the forest and regarded me with a smile. Warm, not self-satisfied. She told me she expected to see me here. I told her I expected she’d be the one to save me.
I got back to my wards, amazingly only an hour and a half after I promised, and half an hour before they resorted to cannibalism.
Shenandoah is meant to be my big solo backpacking adventure, but I decided with my full day in the Smokies, I’d do a big day hike and see how it goes. The day before, the ranger suggested a sold 10 mile loop up and down a mountain. A good relaxing walk in the woods.
I got on the trail at noon, a good 3 hours later than planned. Not because I’m a procrastinator, but because half my hitchhikers vanished for two hours to go have sex in the woods, and then I needed to drop them off somewhere to keep them entertained and out of harm’s way. I told them I’d pick them up in 6 hours. I later found out they nearly resorted to cannibalism.
The AT in the Smokies, along with really any of the trails, follows the ridgeline of the mountains. That means that the trail is narrow and on either side (frequently both) is a long plummety fall punctuated by trees. Hundreds of miles of contiguous death hazard. Sometimes you’d get a clear view of your imminent death. Other times the trees closed in with claustrophobic intimacy. And bears are wandering around. Lets do it!
I started out surprisingly well. 3 mph uphill is not bad at all for a beginner hiker. Mind you, this was the very start. By the end I was limping at a crawl, but for now I felt great. I encountered a troop of boy scouts who confused me for a thru-hiker on my way to Maine and felt compelled to line up to give me high fives. I thought about straightening out the confusion (or pushing them over the cliff), but maybe I’ll inadvertently inspire them. So far, I’ve only managed to inspire children to cruelty and petty crime.
Really, I met a lot of interesting people along the trail. The Spanish professor who happens to be the only liberal at Bob Jones University (shockingly, she hates her job), the father and daughter duo from Chattanooga whom I passed and got passed by on and off like an uphill wagon drag race, the guy shooting artsy shots with a camera older than my father which uses negatives bigger than his glasses, ect… Point is, fun people from all over use the trail, and talking to them is one of the highlights.
The trip started going downhill when it began going more uphill. I turned off the AT and on to a side trail that goes up this mountain. Well, the trail goes up, Then down. Then up, then down. Wash, rinse, repeat. It was spiteful really; if it didn’t keep going downhill, I could’ve cut my uphill in half. And when you think you’ve finally gotten to the top, U-turn! Sadistic fucks.
I looked for animals as I went. My spider, centipede, and salamander senses were tingling the entire time. And everything sounds like a bear. But alas, all I saw was trees. Mainly dead trees, and fungus and exotic bugs are killing off the entire forest. But thick layers of diseased pine needles littering the ground do put a bounce in your step.
Finally, after 2 hours of natural bliss and 2 hours of tiredness, frustration, and joint pain, I reached the top. It felt so much longer than expected it to. I checked the map.
The ranger was wrong. I’d walked 9 miles uphill instead of 7 like I’d expected. And the hike back down was 5 miles, not 3. My hike was an extra 4 miles. Worse, having dropped to 2 mph, it was going to tack 2 hours onto my trip, and I’d left my couchsurfers stranded without food or water. With newfound determination and a snack of wheat thins, I resolved to make it to the bottom in record time.
What do you think when you think a 9 mile uphill hike becomes a 5 mile downhill hike? It was less a hike and more a game of Mario. Jump the platforms without accidentally falling to your death. I mean, it was fatal enough on its own, but my speed run didn’t help things.
I made the next 2 miles within an hour before needing to stop to drink at the mouth of a huge cave. I also took the occasion to boast about my accomplishments to anyone in earshot. A particularly redneck family, where even the toddler had mullet, seemed quite impressed. But the middle aged hippy woman traveling with them for some reason, was not moved. She warned me my haste would get me nowhere. Maybe off a cliff. I raced on.
You can only run and hop so long before you get tuckered out. I think the problem was that this downhill trail STILL MANAGED TO GO UPHILL! Benton McKay can suck my dick. The constant jarring was killing my feet, my ankles, my knees. I still sped past everyone, but with quickly diminishing returns and increasing pain. The lowland forest was primeval, but I had no time to stop and admire it. I managed to pass the crowds in the last mile, which was great because I really didn’t want anyone to see me slogging, back bent and slightly limping. Finally, I could hear the sound of cars overpower the sounds of nature. Nothing sounded so beautiful.
I reached the parking lot, and realized I’d never be able to walk the 5 miles to my car. I had to hitchhike. I sat on the curb and stuck my thumb out, but only managed to get the couchsurfer treatment. Why does everyone look at my like I’m a leper? The people coming off the trail were all headed in the other direction. Well, they were when I asked. Most actually were, but one or two lied to my face with such gusto I couldn’t be angry. C’mon baby, flash those turn signals in my face.
I ultimately got a ride to my car, after half an hour of nearly spraining my thumb in failure. The old hippy woman emerged from the forest and regarded me with a smile. Warm, not self-satisfied. She told me she expected to see me here. I told her I expected she’d be the one to save me.
I got back to my wards, amazingly only an hour and a half after I promised, and half an hour before they resorted to cannibalism.
Up to, and into the Park
Pigeon Forge is 14 pancake restaurants, 12 mini-golf places, 3 “Ripley’s” museums, two aquariums, 20 hotels ranging from medeval to futuristic to upside down, zorbing (the only place in America), an unknown building with a gaping shark for a door, 4 carnivals, Dollywood (the Dolly Parton theme park) and one McDonalds.
Gatlinsberg is exactly the same thing, except designed to look ‘old fashioned”. I’m still not entirely sure if its supposed to look Old English, New England, or Midwest. I’m also not entirely sure what Uber Gatlinsberg is, but it’s the star attraction of the town. And they have just as many pancake places.
Basically, these places are both horrifying and wonderful at the same time, like the white trash version of Disneyland. Oh, wait…
The gaudiness ended so abruptly it caught us off-guard. Suddenly, as if by zoning laws, strip malls were replaced by endless forests. We had arrived. We first went to the welcome center, where we could ask to find swimming holes. The nearest one was about 20 miles away, if you don’t mind a 50 dollar fine.
They didn’t mind. I did though, so I fulfilled a lifelong dream of digging through mud looking for salamanders. Never actually found one, but I’m still checking it off my life to-do list, dammit.
That night, I began to set up my borrowed tent (and borrowed sleeping mat, et. al), to save me some time later. It never got completed, as soon they busted out the whisky and beer and firewood. Sleep was not forthcoming.
See, conversation ranged from booze to women, as it always does, and that alone would’ve made a fun night. But things got weirder when the two guys started making out.
One of the two asked earlier why gay guys kept hitting on him. I theorized it was because he always has his shirt open and has no chest hair. Turns out its actually because he’s gay. Or atleast bi. Or atleast used to be. Despite, or perhaps because of how much he’d had to drink, I could never get a solid answer out of him. Or manage to make out with him. But he left me more confused on the nature of sexuality than ever.
Later, they set up a big tarp and decided to lay down together for the night. I made my way for my tent when they called me back. “Join us!” So I unroll my sleeping bag and relax. For a moment, until they grabbed me and pulled me into a cuddle.
I don’t know if you can have a platonic man-man-woman-man cuddle gropefest, but we tried. Did I mention I’d only met these people 24 hours previous?
I was awoken by a bucket on my face. The water was pouring from the sky. I grabbed all my shit and ran for the tent. Fuck everyone else, atleast I have cover. Except I didn’t. I never finished the tent. The raincover was off, and water pooled inside. I had no choice but to struggle at 4am in the deluge to finish, groping at my tent in the dark, leaving nothing at the campsite unmolested.
I lay in a puddle, soaking, until I fell asleep. I fucked up good.
Gatlinsberg is exactly the same thing, except designed to look ‘old fashioned”. I’m still not entirely sure if its supposed to look Old English, New England, or Midwest. I’m also not entirely sure what Uber Gatlinsberg is, but it’s the star attraction of the town. And they have just as many pancake places.
Basically, these places are both horrifying and wonderful at the same time, like the white trash version of Disneyland. Oh, wait…
The gaudiness ended so abruptly it caught us off-guard. Suddenly, as if by zoning laws, strip malls were replaced by endless forests. We had arrived. We first went to the welcome center, where we could ask to find swimming holes. The nearest one was about 20 miles away, if you don’t mind a 50 dollar fine.
They didn’t mind. I did though, so I fulfilled a lifelong dream of digging through mud looking for salamanders. Never actually found one, but I’m still checking it off my life to-do list, dammit.
That night, I began to set up my borrowed tent (and borrowed sleeping mat, et. al), to save me some time later. It never got completed, as soon they busted out the whisky and beer and firewood. Sleep was not forthcoming.
See, conversation ranged from booze to women, as it always does, and that alone would’ve made a fun night. But things got weirder when the two guys started making out.
One of the two asked earlier why gay guys kept hitting on him. I theorized it was because he always has his shirt open and has no chest hair. Turns out its actually because he’s gay. Or atleast bi. Or atleast used to be. Despite, or perhaps because of how much he’d had to drink, I could never get a solid answer out of him. Or manage to make out with him. But he left me more confused on the nature of sexuality than ever.
Later, they set up a big tarp and decided to lay down together for the night. I made my way for my tent when they called me back. “Join us!” So I unroll my sleeping bag and relax. For a moment, until they grabbed me and pulled me into a cuddle.
I don’t know if you can have a platonic man-man-woman-man cuddle gropefest, but we tried. Did I mention I’d only met these people 24 hours previous?
I was awoken by a bucket on my face. The water was pouring from the sky. I grabbed all my shit and ran for the tent. Fuck everyone else, atleast I have cover. Except I didn’t. I never finished the tent. The raincover was off, and water pooled inside. I had no choice but to struggle at 4am in the deluge to finish, groping at my tent in the dark, leaving nothing at the campsite unmolested.
I lay in a puddle, soaking, until I fell asleep. I fucked up good.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Foiled
Well, I meant to flee, but my tire blew out before I could skip town. Had to wait 3 hours in a Honda dealership, conversely told "It'll be half an hour" and "We'll have a spot open tomorrow morning". Split the difference? Fuck Nashville.
On the upside, I got to ride a tow truck. Whee!
On the upside, I got to ride a tow truck. Whee!
Monday, August 4, 2008
New Friends
My host has the largest anarchist library in the southeast in a solid metal trunk. Next to his loaded shotgun.
One of the couchsurfers is an emotional counselor. Naturally, I get in a debate with him about my lack of emotions. Also naturally I get in a discussion with him about hallucinogenic drugs and ways to turn a bathtub into a gravity bong.
Another has a page from a Jack Kerouac book tattooed on his back.
Yet another is a girl from Memphis who likes to pierce herself and has an obsession with spiders. We got along swimmingly.
And finally, there’s the guy who grew up with the emotional counselor and is currently fucking the piercing girl. That’s all I can really say about him.
Oh, and did I fail to mention they’ve all dumpster dived for food, have all gotten high on cough syrup, and really love cats? Right, and now they’re bumming with me to the Smokies.
One of the couchsurfers is an emotional counselor. Naturally, I get in a debate with him about my lack of emotions. Also naturally I get in a discussion with him about hallucinogenic drugs and ways to turn a bathtub into a gravity bong.
Another has a page from a Jack Kerouac book tattooed on his back.
Yet another is a girl from Memphis who likes to pierce herself and has an obsession with spiders. We got along swimmingly.
And finally, there’s the guy who grew up with the emotional counselor and is currently fucking the piercing girl. That’s all I can really say about him.
Oh, and did I fail to mention they’ve all dumpster dived for food, have all gotten high on cough syrup, and really love cats? Right, and now they’re bumming with me to the Smokies.
Over The Rainbow
Within 3 minutes of arrival, I passed a burly man with ripped sleeves, intricate tattoos up his arms and neck, and a Confederate Flag hat upon his head. Within 20 minutes, I’d driven past a celebrity wax museum, a Dukes of Hazzard-themed bar, and collectables museums devoted entirely to Willie Nelson and Charlie Daniels. All in the same strip mall. For lunch I stopped at Atlanta Bread Co., which should be somewhat disconcerting for all you fans of Panera. Or geography. At the table next to me was a British songwriter hammering out a country music contract over inferior deli products. The skyline was small but bristled with obnoxiously modern jaggedy buildings. I had entered Bizarro World. I had entered Nashville.
I attempted to start my explorations at the Car Collector’s Hall of Fame, but it had long since gone out of business for self-apparent reasons. So I decide to head to the only place in Nashville I’d ever heard of: The Grand Ole Opry.
See, the Grand Old Opry is a large concert hall. Nashville Star is filming its finale there today. I knew that already. But nobody told me it’s also a museum, convention hall, huge resort, and unreasonably colossal shopping mall, which includes an IMAX theater, indoor mini-golf, and aquarium with underwater restaurant. And the parking lot, like Disneyland (or the closer Dollywood, the Dolly Parton theme park), is bigger still. I actually had trouble finding the Opry in this massive country-industrial complex. And escaping was even harder.
I learned during the tour that the name Grand Ole Opry was not a misspelling by stupid rednecks, but in fact a conscious and willing corruption of the English language by arrogant rednecks who sneer at classical (or good) music. I give them credit; people in Nashville have huge balls.
I take a brief tangent from this entry to mention that I just realized there’s a loaded shotgun on the floor next to me.
Anyway, after hanging out with my couchsurfer and the other four couchsurfers he neglected to mention would be in the apartment with me (more on them later, maybe), I decided to take part in dance lessons at a popular bar. Mistake.
After sitting by myself in the bar for awhile looking pathetic, it was time to hit the dance floor and look pathetic. Allow me to explain country dancing: Four steps forward. One clap. Four steps forward. One clap. Slide left. Slide right. Slide forward. Slide back. Tap left heel. Tap right heel. Tap left toes. Tap right toes. Congratulations, you aren’t having a stroke. Now shake your ass and spin in a circle. Dizzy? Good. Maybe you wont be stirred by everyone staring at your shaken ass.
Long story short, I’ve never seen this many Confederate flags in my life, and that includes Civil War documentaries. I fled town as soon as I could.
I attempted to start my explorations at the Car Collector’s Hall of Fame, but it had long since gone out of business for self-apparent reasons. So I decide to head to the only place in Nashville I’d ever heard of: The Grand Ole Opry.
See, the Grand Old Opry is a large concert hall. Nashville Star is filming its finale there today. I knew that already. But nobody told me it’s also a museum, convention hall, huge resort, and unreasonably colossal shopping mall, which includes an IMAX theater, indoor mini-golf, and aquarium with underwater restaurant. And the parking lot, like Disneyland (or the closer Dollywood, the Dolly Parton theme park), is bigger still. I actually had trouble finding the Opry in this massive country-industrial complex. And escaping was even harder.
I learned during the tour that the name Grand Ole Opry was not a misspelling by stupid rednecks, but in fact a conscious and willing corruption of the English language by arrogant rednecks who sneer at classical (or good) music. I give them credit; people in Nashville have huge balls.
I take a brief tangent from this entry to mention that I just realized there’s a loaded shotgun on the floor next to me.
Anyway, after hanging out with my couchsurfer and the other four couchsurfers he neglected to mention would be in the apartment with me (more on them later, maybe), I decided to take part in dance lessons at a popular bar. Mistake.
After sitting by myself in the bar for awhile looking pathetic, it was time to hit the dance floor and look pathetic. Allow me to explain country dancing: Four steps forward. One clap. Four steps forward. One clap. Slide left. Slide right. Slide forward. Slide back. Tap left heel. Tap right heel. Tap left toes. Tap right toes. Congratulations, you aren’t having a stroke. Now shake your ass and spin in a circle. Dizzy? Good. Maybe you wont be stirred by everyone staring at your shaken ass.
Long story short, I’ve never seen this many Confederate flags in my life, and that includes Civil War documentaries. I fled town as soon as I could.
Lying
People I meet are interested me, especially waitresses. It’s not because of smarts or my beauty (in the way Esmerelda finds Quasimoto beautiful) or because my freckles, when connected by sharpie, form an image of a velociraptor. They want to know about my travels. They can tell instantly that I’m a tourist. Maybe they recognize my accent isn’t local, or that I’ve got a distinctive bulge in my pants (my digital camera), or that I stare at my plate with a combination of confusion and fascination.
I never tell them the truth? Why should I? How can I explain that I’m from New York but I go to school in Missouri and I’m going all the way to the East Coast to scuba dive like some spoiled rich New York jew? Too much explanation.
And I can’t tell them I’m from Missouri, atleast not until I reach North Carolina. People will instantly call ‘bullshit’. No, I have to tell them I’m from New York. But how did I get to where I am? Where am I going? I can’t say I’m going to North Carolina without it becoming instantly apparent that New York to Raleigh via Memphis is fetal alcohol-level retarded. No, I must go west, young man.
All of a sudden, I’m going cross-country, up and down, to Memphis, to Chicago, to San Diego! I’m going scuba diving. Or I’m moving. Or I’m becoming an actor (gay porn?). It’s become a game really. The goal: To not give any two people the same story. Next time someone asks, I’m a researcher from University of Southern Delaware traveling to Fable, Texas to study the endangered Long-Nosed Rattlesnake. They’ll eat it up.
Lying: It's more than just a way to avoid statutory rape prosecution. It's fun!
However, there's no better deception than the truth. As my backup plan/pickup line, I am, in fact, a travel writer.
I never tell them the truth? Why should I? How can I explain that I’m from New York but I go to school in Missouri and I’m going all the way to the East Coast to scuba dive like some spoiled rich New York jew? Too much explanation.
And I can’t tell them I’m from Missouri, atleast not until I reach North Carolina. People will instantly call ‘bullshit’. No, I have to tell them I’m from New York. But how did I get to where I am? Where am I going? I can’t say I’m going to North Carolina without it becoming instantly apparent that New York to Raleigh via Memphis is fetal alcohol-level retarded. No, I must go west, young man.
All of a sudden, I’m going cross-country, up and down, to Memphis, to Chicago, to San Diego! I’m going scuba diving. Or I’m moving. Or I’m becoming an actor (gay porn?). It’s become a game really. The goal: To not give any two people the same story. Next time someone asks, I’m a researcher from University of Southern Delaware traveling to Fable, Texas to study the endangered Long-Nosed Rattlesnake. They’ll eat it up.
Lying: It's more than just a way to avoid statutory rape prosecution. It's fun!
However, there's no better deception than the truth. As my backup plan/pickup line, I am, in fact, a travel writer.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Dipping my toes in the deep end
After leaving Graceland, I drove the 10 minutes it took to cross the state line. Just to say I did it. Shortly after crossing the line, I entered a small town. A sign proclaimed “You are now entering a certified Mississippi Main Street Town”, which I assume means there’s only one street of value. It’s the one where the Domino’s and Pizza Hut are right next to each other.
So what did I do during my brief stay, you might ask? Easy, I visited “Dabb’s Gun and Pawn Shop”. I figure when in Rome, do what the Romans do.
Now, where’s my lynching rope?
So what did I do during my brief stay, you might ask? Easy, I visited “Dabb’s Gun and Pawn Shop”. I figure when in Rome, do what the Romans do.
Now, where’s my lynching rope?
The king is dead... so stop spotting him!
Welcome to Graceland, the fabled home of Elvis Presley. That’ll be 25 dollars, please. Plus 8 for parking. Was it worth it? Well, sort of, for two reasons.
Graceland, rather than being the bombastic crazed place you expect, is quite modest and down to earth. It reminds you, for 24 dollars, that Elvis was really just like you and me. Only talented and far richer. Luckily, one or two rooms in the house, such as the jungle room, remind you that he was also a coke-addled fiend.
Really, its like there are two Elvises (Elvii?). One suave, sexy, mold-breaking musician with seemingly limitless talent. The other was a fat stupid slob in a caped jumpsuit who marries people like my mother (Side note: My mother, like Elvis, has a gold lamé dress). But, I have to give credit to the wonderfully exorbitant trophy room with literally hundreds of gold and platinum records and cassettes.
Yeah, I didn’t know they did gold cassettes either.
The other perk was the sociological aspect. The people who come to worship Elvis. I can’t think of a better place to people-watch, especially on the shuttle used to cross the street from the ticket pavilion to the mansion. Yes, a shuttle that crosses the street. All four lanes.
After leaving the mansion and trophy room, you may explore his car collection or go inside his two private jets. I presume the extra plane and cars was for all his impersonators. Conversely, you may shop in any of the 11 gift shops on the Graceland complex, each with a subtle variation on the “Buy me in lieu of a social life!” theme. Would you be interested in a replica of his caped jumpsuit for $2,000. No, that’s too expensive for your average white trash. How about your name on a pen for 10 bucks? I didn’t even check the price on Elvis Yahtzee.
But in all fairness, I’ll come clean: I was this close to buying this nice black t-shirt with a white floral ‘Elvis’ logo. Think Hollister, except unoriginal and hypercommercialized. Oh, wait…
Unfortunately, I was unable to buy a shirt, seeing they were all XL or above.
So, should you visit Graceland? Absolutely. It’s like a 33 buck therapy session, in that you walk out feeing great about yourself, until you realized that you too paid to get in.
Graceland, rather than being the bombastic crazed place you expect, is quite modest and down to earth. It reminds you, for 24 dollars, that Elvis was really just like you and me. Only talented and far richer. Luckily, one or two rooms in the house, such as the jungle room, remind you that he was also a coke-addled fiend.
Really, its like there are two Elvises (Elvii?). One suave, sexy, mold-breaking musician with seemingly limitless talent. The other was a fat stupid slob in a caped jumpsuit who marries people like my mother (Side note: My mother, like Elvis, has a gold lamé dress). But, I have to give credit to the wonderfully exorbitant trophy room with literally hundreds of gold and platinum records and cassettes.
Yeah, I didn’t know they did gold cassettes either.
The other perk was the sociological aspect. The people who come to worship Elvis. I can’t think of a better place to people-watch, especially on the shuttle used to cross the street from the ticket pavilion to the mansion. Yes, a shuttle that crosses the street. All four lanes.
After leaving the mansion and trophy room, you may explore his car collection or go inside his two private jets. I presume the extra plane and cars was for all his impersonators. Conversely, you may shop in any of the 11 gift shops on the Graceland complex, each with a subtle variation on the “Buy me in lieu of a social life!” theme. Would you be interested in a replica of his caped jumpsuit for $2,000. No, that’s too expensive for your average white trash. How about your name on a pen for 10 bucks? I didn’t even check the price on Elvis Yahtzee.
But in all fairness, I’ll come clean: I was this close to buying this nice black t-shirt with a white floral ‘Elvis’ logo. Think Hollister, except unoriginal and hypercommercialized. Oh, wait…
Unfortunately, I was unable to buy a shirt, seeing they were all XL or above.
So, should you visit Graceland? Absolutely. It’s like a 33 buck therapy session, in that you walk out feeing great about yourself, until you realized that you too paid to get in.
A Taste of Arkansas
My only experience in Arkansas was at a Greek restaurant. Well, I suppose it was a Greek restaurant judging from the photos on the wall and the font on the menu, but I don’t think Greek cuisine includes deep fried hushpuppies. I’m still not really sure what they are.
Speaking of deep fried, virtually everything on the menu was. It was fantastically redneck. The catfish, the steak, vegetables, the bread, I’m pretty sure the table next to me got deep fried spaghetti and meatballs. I was quite disappointed to find my ceaser salad was not deep fried. Only the croutons.
Speaking of croutons, lettuce + croutons + mayonnaise =/= ceaser salad.
And speaking of my dining neighbors, I’m pretty sure I overheard one fat woman yell at another fat woman for stealing her chicken butt. Ostensibly the most delectable part of the chicken’s digestive tract. You see, basically everyone in this restaurant was fat. Men, women, children. But not the waiters. See, the waiters are smart. They don’t eat Arkansas Greek food.
The only creatures here more voracious and slovenly than the customers were the mosquitoes. Swarming, inside the restaurant, at high noon. St Louis may be south of the Mason-Dixon line, but I realize now I have yet to truly experience the meaning of Dixie. It leaves me with dread and a lingering curiosity about the taste of deep fried mosquito.
Speaking of deep fried, virtually everything on the menu was. It was fantastically redneck. The catfish, the steak, vegetables, the bread, I’m pretty sure the table next to me got deep fried spaghetti and meatballs. I was quite disappointed to find my ceaser salad was not deep fried. Only the croutons.
Speaking of croutons, lettuce + croutons + mayonnaise =/= ceaser salad.
And speaking of my dining neighbors, I’m pretty sure I overheard one fat woman yell at another fat woman for stealing her chicken butt. Ostensibly the most delectable part of the chicken’s digestive tract. You see, basically everyone in this restaurant was fat. Men, women, children. But not the waiters. See, the waiters are smart. They don’t eat Arkansas Greek food.
The only creatures here more voracious and slovenly than the customers were the mosquitoes. Swarming, inside the restaurant, at high noon. St Louis may be south of the Mason-Dixon line, but I realize now I have yet to truly experience the meaning of Dixie. It leaves me with dread and a lingering curiosity about the taste of deep fried mosquito.
The Plan
I have an intractable problem. You see, I'm both cheap and spoiled. So when I decided I simply must go scuba diving on shipwrecks, I needed to make everything else as cheap as possible.
My original plan was this: Go home for a visit in August, and return to St. Louis via a connecting flight through North Carolina, "accidentally" having a layover of an entire weekend. I wouldn't even have to pay for it because I blackmail my parents; if they dont pay for my flight home, I'm not coming. So, I went ahead and pre-booked my spot on a charter boat in North Carolina, flush with confidence in my imminent success.
The closest airport to Hatteras, North Carolina, is in Raleigh. A 5 hour drive, on a good day. So now I needed to rent a car, drive an assload, and leave the car fallow (but acquiring charges) as I putz around the high seas. Pricey.
Suddenly, an epiphany: halfway between St. Louis and the coast is Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I've wanted to go for years. They have the biggest mountains on the east coast, the highest population of black bears of any park, but most importantly, the highest salamander diversity anywhere in the world. Exciting, no?
So, the plan was changed. Now I'm driving. But that's 17 hours. Fuck that. I need to draw this out. Well, I can still crash in Raleigh with my old friend from Vermont. And I've never been to Nashville. For good reason sure, but its way shorter than a direct drive to GSM.
And you know what? To hell with it, lets backpack while I'm out here. Nevermind the fact that I have neither the gear nor experience. Or hiking partner to rescue me when I fall into a crevice and get impaled on jaggedy shit. You only live once. Why not shorten it?
Now I have just one more problem: Paying for sleep. Even taking into account my borrowed tent (and borrowed backpack, and borrowed sleeping bag, compass, water bottle...), I cant tent out in cities. I need an alternate cheap jew (which I am) plan. This is where Couchsurfing comes in. See, Couchsurfing is a website where people offer their couches to travelers, in the expectation that they'll have a place to crash when its their turn. Sure, works great in theory, but it has problems. And surprisingly, it's not rape.
The problem is that humans, as I so clearly demonstrate, are dicks. I have an exceptional track record of being ignored on couchsurfing.com (yes,there's a website). The only people who seemed to let me into their homes, let alone open messages I send, are ambassadors who are paid to be friendly. They make me feel like a leper. But atleast I have a place to sleep for free. Maybe for a round of beers. I'm pretty sure couchsurfing.com has a strict "no head for bed" rule.
With the basic plan in place, the trip began to grow like an amoeba with cancer. It rapidly went from a 6 day trip to a 15 day trip. Cities I wasnt even considering like Richmond and D.C. were added as I slowly crept north. I needed alittle more support. I needed to do the unthinkable: I needed to invite my father. I suppose then the trade is being able to sleep in a real bed in exchange for wanting to dislocate my jaws so I may chew my own ears off during our long drives. Worth it?
Anyway, so here's the trip:
- A day in Memphis
- A day in Nashville, doing my best to avoid country music
- Two days hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains, trying to see a bear from that "golden distance" where I can see clearly without being eaten
- A day driving to Raleigh, with the knowledge that my friend is waiting for me hopefully preventing me from plowing my car into a concrete divider around hour 6.
- A drive to Hatteras, and a relaxing evening on a beach island. Assuming it hasnt been eradicated by a hurricane. Again.
- Two days of diving and/or binge drinking on the beach. I may even be able to answer the age old rhetorical question "Have you ever tried scuba diving... on weed?"
- A day in Chesapeake with my father. Your guess is as good as mine.
- A day in Richmond with above seed donator. Civilwartastic!
- A day in D.C. and Baltimore. Abandon the motherfucker... well he is!
- Speed run the Smithsonian!
- Three days of hiking alone in the woods of Shenandoah. Will I succumb to starvation, predation, or the realization that I'm just not a very interesting person to be alone with.
- A day in Louisville, actively avoiding that guy who tries to molest me everytime I see him
- Home sweet home!... where I will be sleeping on the futon, as my roommate's girlfriend has taken my spot. I'll be wrapping up my trip by being a couchsurfer in my own apartment. Because God has a sense of humor.
In short, God help me. And stop laughing!
My original plan was this: Go home for a visit in August, and return to St. Louis via a connecting flight through North Carolina, "accidentally" having a layover of an entire weekend. I wouldn't even have to pay for it because I blackmail my parents; if they dont pay for my flight home, I'm not coming. So, I went ahead and pre-booked my spot on a charter boat in North Carolina, flush with confidence in my imminent success.
The closest airport to Hatteras, North Carolina, is in Raleigh. A 5 hour drive, on a good day. So now I needed to rent a car, drive an assload, and leave the car fallow (but acquiring charges) as I putz around the high seas. Pricey.
Suddenly, an epiphany: halfway between St. Louis and the coast is Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I've wanted to go for years. They have the biggest mountains on the east coast, the highest population of black bears of any park, but most importantly, the highest salamander diversity anywhere in the world. Exciting, no?
So, the plan was changed. Now I'm driving. But that's 17 hours. Fuck that. I need to draw this out. Well, I can still crash in Raleigh with my old friend from Vermont. And I've never been to Nashville. For good reason sure, but its way shorter than a direct drive to GSM.
And you know what? To hell with it, lets backpack while I'm out here. Nevermind the fact that I have neither the gear nor experience. Or hiking partner to rescue me when I fall into a crevice and get impaled on jaggedy shit. You only live once. Why not shorten it?
Now I have just one more problem: Paying for sleep. Even taking into account my borrowed tent (and borrowed backpack, and borrowed sleeping bag, compass, water bottle...), I cant tent out in cities. I need an alternate cheap jew (which I am) plan. This is where Couchsurfing comes in. See, Couchsurfing is a website where people offer their couches to travelers, in the expectation that they'll have a place to crash when its their turn. Sure, works great in theory, but it has problems. And surprisingly, it's not rape.
The problem is that humans, as I so clearly demonstrate, are dicks. I have an exceptional track record of being ignored on couchsurfing.com (yes,there's a website). The only people who seemed to let me into their homes, let alone open messages I send, are ambassadors who are paid to be friendly. They make me feel like a leper. But atleast I have a place to sleep for free. Maybe for a round of beers. I'm pretty sure couchsurfing.com has a strict "no head for bed" rule.
With the basic plan in place, the trip began to grow like an amoeba with cancer. It rapidly went from a 6 day trip to a 15 day trip. Cities I wasnt even considering like Richmond and D.C. were added as I slowly crept north. I needed alittle more support. I needed to do the unthinkable: I needed to invite my father. I suppose then the trade is being able to sleep in a real bed in exchange for wanting to dislocate my jaws so I may chew my own ears off during our long drives. Worth it?
Anyway, so here's the trip:
- A day in Memphis
- A day in Nashville, doing my best to avoid country music
- Two days hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains, trying to see a bear from that "golden distance" where I can see clearly without being eaten
- A day driving to Raleigh, with the knowledge that my friend is waiting for me hopefully preventing me from plowing my car into a concrete divider around hour 6.
- A drive to Hatteras, and a relaxing evening on a beach island. Assuming it hasnt been eradicated by a hurricane. Again.
- Two days of diving and/or binge drinking on the beach. I may even be able to answer the age old rhetorical question "Have you ever tried scuba diving... on weed?"
- A day in Chesapeake with my father. Your guess is as good as mine.
- A day in Richmond with above seed donator. Civilwartastic!
- A day in D.C. and Baltimore. Abandon the motherfucker... well he is!
- Speed run the Smithsonian!
- Three days of hiking alone in the woods of Shenandoah. Will I succumb to starvation, predation, or the realization that I'm just not a very interesting person to be alone with.
- A day in Louisville, actively avoiding that guy who tries to molest me everytime I see him
- Home sweet home!... where I will be sleeping on the futon, as my roommate's girlfriend has taken my spot. I'll be wrapping up my trip by being a couchsurfer in my own apartment. Because God has a sense of humor.
In short, God help me. And stop laughing!
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