“I got this feeling, inside my bones, it goes electric baby when I turn it on.”

Timberlake blares through my speakers and I belt alongside him. Man I miss him as a wonder teen in the Mickey Mouse Club, before he was bringin’ sexy back. Cruisin’ down the coast on the last leg of my journey south. I feel so full. Brimming with excitement and hope and the wondrous possibilities of this new life.

“Awhooooo!” I can’t help myself as I howl out the window, else the song inside swallow me whole.

A few short hours and hundreds of thousands of white lines later and I’m pulling into downtown San Diego. I don’t really know what I expected, but being on the road this long has conditioned me to stop seeing a place for what I’ve envisioned it to be, and simply immerse myself in what it is at that very moment in time.

Park Delilah and as always, start walking and get my bearings. The city streets are grid-like, the bars parallel to a couple theaters and perpendicular to other little shops and passerby go every which way. I grab a couple pints here and there and type a few notes from scribblings in my journal. I’m more than halfway through the stark white pages, spilling black and blue and purple ink between soft azure lines. Pen to paper then paws to pavement and I float listlessly up and down the streets. An outsider beginning to look the part, blending in with the city and the sun and SoCal. Amen.

Enough now, for the ocean is calling me home. Jump in the van and my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s my best friend Taylor. I hear tears on the other end of the line. I panic, then backtrack as I realize these are happy tears and I join in the waterworks. She’s pregnant. Thank goodness I’ve not put mascara on in a month – mine isn’t waterproof. Dry my eyes and turn the van again towards the highway, filled with joy for my friend and a familiar radiance I’m becoming used to.

A friend of my Hollywood located pal Nate managed to leave his trunks in Hollywood upon his departure, so I have a sidebar mission from Nathaniel to return them. Save the guy some postage. The friend, Dave, is on business in Pacific Beach which is right on my way down the coast. Pull into PB, trunks in hand and man, parking is a bitch. There are bros in flat brims and wife beaters and two dollar bomb specials everywhere. What parallel freshman year universe did I just drive into?

Feeling twenty-one again I suppose, sunglasses and day drinks on patio rooftops. Trunks returned. Our motley little crew heads down the beach for some damn decent Mexican. Place doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside is taco temptation like you wouldn’t believe. Too many choices and smells and background hustle and bustle to take it all in at once.

Arrive just before the lunch rush literally forms a line leading out the door. I can’t remember the names of all those dishes, but something involving a plastic cup layered with shrimp and pico de gailo and who knows what else, then crunchy shells to scoop up the Mexican and seafood succulence. Seriously though, delish. I order three different things that send my taste buds into heaven and my waistline towards an uncomfortable position against my short’s button.

Devour our taco feast in its entirety and part ways. PB is a lot like a college bar town without the college. Fun, but that will be quite enough of that. Head a little further down the coast to Ocean Beach.

As soon as I edge my van up to the curb in the residential stretch east of the ocean, I know I’ve found my Eden. It just feels, familiar and right. The beach-walk and bar stretch is just west of a little community of houses in rows that run down the hill towards the ocean. The cutest elementary school I’ve ever see has an octopi and other multitudes of sea creatures painted on the bricks of its side wall.

There are people everywhere, but without the blanketing urgency that was palpable in Venice Beach. An organized chaos maybe, but not quite the carny-freak show of wild wonders that runs shop just a few hours north of here. There’s a tranquil happiness that pervades here. Like the people have all the answers to the universe and are content to smile and keep it to themselves.

I join in on the good vibes and pull my guitar out near the main beach entrance. Begin to play. I’m really feeling it tonight and I belt out some moody Alanis Morrisette and some sassy Sara Bareilles, and a little gritty Joplin. People are digging it too, tips and earnest smiles, earning some grateful dollars. Feelin’ a bit guilty though because I posted up kiddie corner from a guy begging for spare change. When I started playing I knew the funds would drift my way versus his. Sad but true, the paradigms of human perception.

The man had been cussing people out or muttering to himself for the better part of an hour, but every once in a while I would see him tapping his foot to my melodies. He had a particularly impressive way of stringing together profanities that would put George Carlin’s “seven words” to shame.

I finish my set, walk the five or six steps across the sidewalk and hand him a couple dollars.

“Thanks for sharing your space,” I say.

He pushes my hand away gently.

“That’s okay sweetheart, you keep your money.” He says with just a little smile.

This may be the most profound experience I have had amidst a journey of truly wondrous things. I am so genuinely touched by his refusal, making me very thoughtful and ponderous, on this warm October California night.

Music is love and breeds compassion in the simplest of forms. I take this feeling of lightness and my lessons and walk down the main stretch to the hostel I’ve reserved. The folks in the little suburbs east of the beach seemed wary of me and my rape-y van. There are multiple camping style adventure vans parked in the area and the locals seem at odds with the makeshift vagabond homes on wheels. I opt for a bed this time.

Check into my room and this place is even cooler than the Adelaide in San Fran. The walls are shades of purples and turquoise. The occupants seem chill and cheerful and people come and go and prepare for the evening as the sun goes to rest to let the moon become a beacon in the darkness, at play with billions and billions of stars. Hit the pavement again and skirt around a country-ish style music fest that is beginning by a large pavilion near to the water.

Bar hop and Pokémon on my iPhone til’ my heart’s content. What a beautiful life. This might be home. Even better than the whirlwind lives lived in L.A and Venice Beach. This place seems sturdier, more visceral than my other brief glimpses of California coast life.

It’s getting late and I’ll head back soon, but I stumble upon a bottle flipping bartender that has snagged my attention through the open aired restaurant window frames. He boasts a big game and claims to be number one at his trade in the area. I didn’t know bottle tossing was a profession, but this is California. Anything can be turned into a show, I realize quickly as the bar keep whips Grey Goose and Jameson bottles behind his back. They bounce off of his elbows and flip lightly against his palms.

I tire of the show and head back towards the hostel. It is barely past midnight, but I’m exhausted and full to the brim with hopes and ideas and raw energy towards obtaining this life. For now, sleep on it, dream the wildest dreams and write on the morrow.

Rise early with the sun, turn in my keys and sheets and head towards the beach, sand just beginning to warm under the morning sun. All the clutter of the last few days has settled to thoughts in my mind and I can concentrate in full, without the distraction of constant actions and reactions and the endless tangents I take blindly into the unknown.

There’s a short jetty of slick, smoothed rocks that stretch out west across the ocean nearing the surfers paddling over small whitecaps. Waves break and the Pacific roars. Pen and notebook in hand I clamber across the mossy surfaces until I’m a ways away from the shore. Sit cross legged, water lapping below me, tiny ghost crabs scuttling between the cracks. Warm wind and salt spray against my tanned skin. Breathe, write, take it all in and give it all back in positive thoughts, progressive understanding and line after line after line of ink.

Finish up in purple scribbles, close my notes and walk back across the rocks, sand and pavement, back to Delilah. I am the happiest I have ever been and my journey is not yet finished. Climb in the cab; turn the keys in the ignition and she rumbles to life. Leave my shoes off and ease the pedal down, out of town and back east. Blessed, humbled and ready for more.

My dad’s younger brother Derek lives in Arizona and it has been a coon’s age since I’ve seen him. I love my dad, but Derek and I get along like a couple of teenagers and things are bound to get ridiculous. Next stop, Scottsdale. Goodbye California, it’s been the time of my life.

I’ve said it so many times before. Wake, rise, shine – it’s a beautiful day. Each better and brighter than the last. This is the mantra I’ve come to know. However, Hollywood can’t be forever and it’s time to be moving on.

Head out with quiet goodbyes in the early hours of the dawn. Filled with so much gratitude and love. Thank you Hollywood, now, for the beaches. Santa Monica pier seems like a good place to start, then work my way south. I’m on the highway early, so not much traffic, foot, wheels or otherwise to be heard of. Again managing to skirt around the infamous L.A highway standstills.

I drive until I see the ocean again and turn into downtown Santa Monica. Find a parking garage and hit the pavement. I’ve seen this pier in so many films and shows I hardly recognize it in real time and the light of day. I walk down concrete stairs towards the long boardwalk with the sun beaming against my face while a smile from my soul reaches the curve of my lips.

Tourists, weirdos and wayward travelers walk alongside me as shops and stands just begin to open. Indulge in a few small keepsakes, bracelets and such, and pass by the roller skating guitar guy.  Rad. Walk to the very end of the pier and breathe in the salt and sea smells next to fishermen and passerby. Another check on my mental list of tourist to do’s.Gratification in simplicity.

Tool around downtown and find an Irish whiskey bar to plug into the inter-web. If I have to tap back into the grid and read all about our country’s latest catastrophes I’ll need whiskey. Type a few pages, reach into the day to day for just a moment and shut her down. There’s so much more to do today.

Santa Monica is a fun pit-stop but I’ve been dreaming of Venice Beach since the day I picked up a guitar, grew stars in my eyes and heard the call of the west –
the vast, formidable Pacific beckoning me nearer. It’s so difficult to make it as an entertainer or even a writer with the better part of Southern California all after the same things . But here I am, testing the waters.

Twenty miles and some self-speculation later and I arrive in paradise. Holy mind-blown Batman, I’m here.

I’ve traveled the better part of the Midwest, East Coast, south of Pennsylvania all the way to the Florida Keys, Hawaii and the Virgin Islands, and now a decent stretch of the west. Venice Beach is something else entirely. This is where the dreamers, whacks, wannabes, up and comings and everyone in between go to make a move. Now it’s my turn.

Time to have a little fun. Not that the last four weeks’ vacation hasn’t been a ball.  I park round about a half mile away from the beach. Throw my shoes over my shoulder and head off. Bar hop and beach walk with senses overwhelmed. I don’t even know where to begin, so I start with an IPA.

It is early afternoon and I see the Venice skate park, skinny boys and skater chicks kick-flipping in and out of the concrete bowl.  Make my way north and just drink it all in. I was born on the east coast, raised in the Midwest and am reinvented in the Pacific sun. Everything I’ve ever wanted. Freedom tastes like salt and hops, dusted in sunshine and deliverance.

Scrape the surface of this place and meanwhile get a text from an old acquaintance. Drinks in downtown L.A? I’m in. My kingdom for a beer bar but as always – end up at the club, completely under-dressed. They let me in anyways and friends are waiting at the door. Up to the rooftop we go and drinks with the city laid out before us. Conquerors of the night.

Catch up, chill out,rooftop drinks to toast the night. Thanks for the insight Autumn, adieu and good evening.  Or… rather, last call shot of Jamo at a beach bar back in Venice. And going with the latter, then of course make fast friends with a local – Jimmy, and party at his beach bungalow until the sun rises. So much for sleep.

Slip out quietly in the moments of the rising sun and hit the hot sandy pavement, bare feet to sand and sidewalk. I’ve woken with the birds and I may as well greet the day.

Venice beach and all of its strange, abstract beauty begins to fill up with its equally beautiful occupants. Surfers in wet-suits paddle towards the horizon, skaters hit the bowl on four wheels, kick flip, ollie, skid to a stop. Tourists smile and point and spend and spend and spend inside little shops, no shirt, no shoes, no problem.

Converse tied together over my shoulder, I walk the main strip about a mile in either direction. I don’t know why or when I caught ocean fever and felt the pull of the tides like a siren’s song resonating within my core, but this feels like home. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and dreamed of and I’m standing in paradise right now, with no fear, nor worry, nor single dark cloud amongst my thoughts to damper this feeling. This is euphoria and I need to bottle it up.

“Get down to the heart of it, no it’s my heart you’re shit out of your luck, don’t make me tell you again, my love love love, love. Only thing I ever did need, only one good thing worth trying to be and it’s love.” – Sara Bareilles

Strip down to my new black swim suit and lie on my towel over the hot sand. Listen to the waves crash behind me and the gulls cry overhead. I shut my eyes and think of everything. Literally. Everything. My brain bounces from love to life and hopes and dreams to plans and gears set into motion mere minutes ago or in another life. Sending verifiable, measurable energy out in positive waves into the universe to manifest where God’s plans needs take root to nourish and grow into existence. I don’t ever want to leave this place, but I’m probably getting sun-burnt.

Stand and dust the sand off of my arms and stomach. My feet feel like wandering. I’m debating a direction when a guy flies by me on an old fashioned Razor scooter and skids to a stop.

“Hi, I’m Josh.” And he offers me his hand. Just like that I’ve got a partner in crime to conquer the night. We take turns scootering down the sidewalks, ocean on our left, hustle and bustle and laughter to our rights. He had been hitchhiking and walking all the way from Colorado. It showed in his dark, sun-baked skin, shoulder length hair bleached blonde by the warm golden rays, waving in the ocean breeze.

Eat a little, drink a little. We talk and scooter until we’ve exhausted ourselves. Two strangers are we no longer. Now two friends sit on the beach after dark while I strum my guitar softly and sing songs lost on the wind.

Eyes heavy and finally and end to a perfect day. Josh walks off to find soft grass to rest on and I retreat to the van. Open door, fall onto mattress, and I’m out.

The sun is well overhead when I wake up. I’ve slept in and certainly needed it. Day three no shower…Oh well, clean underwear and shirt at least, jump out of the van and see Josh walking up in the distance. Perfect timing.

Coffee and sustenance mission. I’ve been hitting it pretty hard and feel wholly alive and drained at the same time. Banana, bagel and lox and a dirty iced chai tea. Revived, surf the inter-web and part ways with Josh again. I walk towards the beach and realize this might be the last time I ever see him, he doesn’t even have a phone. What an interesting world we live in and thank goodness for Facebook.

I’ve traveled so far and gotten exactly where I’ve always wanted to be. For once I just sit down and give in to the soft grass near the skate bowl. No singing, skating, hiking, drinking or adventuring. Just an easy rest amidst a swirling world of color and chaos and noise. Let a few last rays sink into my sun kissed face and shoulders and say goodbye to Venice Beach and all its fabulous freaks. If I didn’t have sunburn before I sure as hell do now.

My mom’s childhood best friend Jeff Decker and his partner John live in northern L.A in Glendale. My parents have been split up for thirteen years and they avoid each other like the plague. But, my old man went so far as to post under one of my mom’s comments on Facebook about going to see Jeff.

“Go see him. You will laugh until you pee.” My father typed.

It that’s not a cosmic sign from the universe I don’t know what is. Jeff texted to tell me I’d better get on the road to beat the traffic, but I’d been lucky so far, Until now. As always, my aimless wandering has gotten me losing track of the days and I realize just now that it is Friday nearing rush hour. Idiot. I’ll spare you guys two and a half hours’ worth of infuriating near standstill traffic details to go a measly 23.7 miles, curb my frustrations and get back to the good stuff.

Finally, I pull up to their apartment, throw the van in park, and ring the bell. Hello, hi there, nice to meet you plus a couple of cocktails later and we are all in stitches, telling war stories and listening to tales from “back in the day.” Well, Jeff’s and my mom’s day anyways.

Mom did what when she was a teenager? Blew cigarette smoke in Whacky Jackie’s face? (That is what we affectionately call my grandmother.) This stuff is priceless and I can’t wait to remind my mother or quite possibly blackmail her when I get back to Wisconsin. If I ever go back.

Meanwhile their fluffy sheepdog looking mutt Murphy (I can’t quite remember the breed) licks my feet and lopes and jumps around me in that way that only gangly, awkward large breed puppies can do. It’s adorable, besides the licking my feet part.

We’re getting pretty hungry and should probably eat something before we fall off our kitchen chairs. I insist on a quick shower, I’m looking quite the vagabond. And then we’re out the door.

Drive to a really great Mexican place and chow down on fajitas and sip on sweet margaritas and Mexican beer. Eat and drink fit to burst, then head back to the apartment for an acoustic session and a nightcap on the outside upper patio.

I play Jeff and John a few good tunes and talk awhile more in the surprisingly warm night air. Then again why be surprised, this is California. These guys feel like family and I wish I’d known them all my life. My dad was right, Jeff is a trip. When we cannot drink , nor laugh, nor or sing any longer, they show me to the guest room and say goodnight.

I can’t believe I’m leaving L.A in the morning. I have come all this way and I still don’t know what I’m looking for or whether or not I have found it. I do know that I want this feeling to last and if the ocean calls me back from over 2,000 miles away, with its mere echo in a conch shell then I will come. I’d bet my first edition, holographic Charizard Pokémon card from the second grade on it.

So surreal, yet these have also been the most tangible, real experiences I’ve ever had.

“Who are you? The questions just echo, echo. Trapped by these sandcastles, needing to let go. Can anyone hear me now? Can anyone hear me now?”- Wookiefoot.

Lights out and see you on the morrow, San Diego…

Open my eyes to the sun streaming in through the giant, east facing window. I’d neglected to shut the curtains – I live to be woken up this way. Stretch upwards and outwards, joints creaking but so refreshed after a night in a real bed. Not a bunk in a hostel, not the unrelenting yet tranquil earth beneath my sleeping form or the mattress pad in the van, but a real bed.

Jeff has got to head out early for work. Thank you so much, truly glad to have met you. Before he goes, leads me into the kitchen to witness Murphy standing guard over my dirty Chuck Taylors. He knows there is still a visitor in his masters’ house and is keeping a vigilant watch to make sure my shoes have not yet vacated the premises. So. Adorable. Then Jeff is gone, but John is taking me out for breakfast.

Cruise through Northern L.A’s Glendale with the top down in John’s convertible. The former mayor of the town, an operator in the film industry for many years and also a teacher of political science, John has a wealth of knowledge and insight  to divulge as we roll through the hills beneath the San Gabriel Mountains.

He tells the story of the fire that swept through the mountains near the Crescenta Valley in the fall of 1933. Then came the rains that would wash down through the recently cleared of vegetation mountainside on the brink of the New Year, December 1933 and January 1994 to flood the city below. I’ve been gifted a first rate tour guide.

Breakfast at a local little gem called Jeremy’s. John and I chat about everything from politics to family to our silliest whims. We get interrupted often, as every city worker, citizen and waitress seems to know him. Not that I mind, it simply adds to the mystique that is John Drayman.

This has been the bees knees, all that jazz and more. I am blessed with good company and good tidings and today is a beautiful day. My journey however, is not yet over and feels far from it. Close our tab and head back to the homestead. Pack up and almost forget my guitar of all things. Hugs goodbye, thanks for everything, until next time.

Infinite smiles and then I’m driving into the afternoon sun, away from the place I thought I’d find everything I’ve ever wanted. Except three minutes later I realize I went the wrong way and hit a concrete barrier and dead end. I laugh out loud and get myself turned around. My life feels so far away from a dead end the air of irony is palpable.

I need this, this hope, this love, this dream on the western edge of the world, or edge of  my world anyways. Before the coast burns up or the earth’s tectonic plates shift and dear California falls into the ocean, I will return and try my luck.

“This ain’t no disco, ain’t no country club either. This is L.A. All I want to do is have a little fun before I die. Says the man next to me out of nowhere.”- Sheryl Crow

Bye for now Los Angeles, may we meet again.

“On the road again, oh I just can’t wait to get on the road again.”

I’d eat these words in about five hours but for now I’m all smiles and sunshine as I head down Highway 1 towards Los Angeles. The regular highway would’ve taken around four hours, but I yearn to be near the coastline, so scenic route it is.

I make it about an hour in before the waves crashing against the shoreline to my right and thirty yards below me is too much to bear. Edge off the highway into a small lot filled with cars toting surfboards and suntanned locals. Park and set my sand dusted feet onto hot pavement.

A little sand and gravel path weaves around the inside of the sloping highway retaining wall and down towards the beach. There must’ve been another way in but the path I choose involves a tide pool around twenty yards wide and knee deep. I wade in and salt water laps up over my hiked up capris. I could care less.

I was eleven the first time I saw the Atlantic Ocean or any ocean. My pseudo-grandmother Lin took my brother, sister and I camping in Myrtle Beach and we were supposed to set up camp first.

“Please, oh please Linny, we’ve never seen the ocean before. Can we just put our feet in?” We pleaded. Ten minutes and we’re all but washed in the tide, shorts and t-shirts soaked and we’re all laughter and innocence. This moment feels like that one, but whether thirteen years ago or thirteen seconds I couldn’t tell you the difference.

Smell of the air brings me back to the present and I walk to the ocean’s edge. Dig my dirty feet into the sand. Warmth, light, happiness and clarity all bubble over within me and emerge as a smile. Manifest Destiny comes to mind. I’ve touched toes to both sides of the country, from east coast to west coast. Those early pioneers must’ve felt this same sweeping sensation, of conquering an entire land.

I am Alexander the Great. I am Cleopatra. I am Columbus and I am a wanderer and a vagabond and a dreamer and a lost soul bound on a train I can no more control than the weather or the tides. I am no one, only beginning to know my real name.

“What is the purpose? What is the purpose? And would you believe it, if you knew what you were for? How we became so informed, bodies of info, performing such miracles. I am a miracle, made up of particles, and in this existence, I’ll be persistent, and I’ll make a difference, because I will have lived it. Aloha ke akua.” – Nahko and Medicine for the People

Before I give myself to the ocean entirely I snap out of my reverie and pull my conscious tendrils back to the present. Wade back through the tide pool, barefoot to the pedal and carry on.

If you’re ever thinking of taking a giant, white rape-y van down the coast, don’t. It’s like the Black Hills all over again except instead of potentially plummeting down the mountainside I’d be plummeting into the ocean. I’d probably rather be crunched than drown but let’s go with option three of continuing life without a gruesome end. The 25 mph switchbacks mean 15-20 mph for a van like mine. It’s hard to take it all in with one-hundred percent concentration on the road in front of me. There are multiple scenic vistas to this purpose, but now that I’ve gotten this far I’m on a mission south. I soon realize taking the coast nearly doubles the mileage to L.A and I’m hell bent on covering some ground.

As if to mock me I saw I sign some ways back. Los Angeles 340 miles.

Hill after rolling hill and white lines start to blur. Periodic glances to my right as the sun begins its descent and shines brilliantly on the Pacific. Here where Helios’ chariot makes its rounds each day to bring home the sun.

I pass a couple state forests but the camping is all booked up. Typical. So I set my sights on Santa Barbara. Hours and hours later the hills begin to slowly flatten out and the towns start to resemble real towns – rather than a gas station and a diner tucked amongst sparse housing in the residence of nowhere. Buildings here are made in sandstone colors and clay reds, to battle the SoCal sun. I’m getting close. Subtle beauties are mostly lost on me though at this hour. I’m exhausted and ready for sleep.

Sleeping in the van has yet to be an issue…until now. Even the crummy Motel 6 in quiche and cozy little Santa Barbara has “absolutely no overnight parking,” signs posted everywhere. I pull in the lot anyways and receive a stare down from the attendant inside. Circle the building and turn right back around.

I try two Wal-Marts. Forty miles apart and was promptly booted out of each. Normally Wal-Mart is a safe haven for wayward travelers, but pretentious NorCal wasn’t having it. Some folks with a camper are being kicked out of the second Wal-Mart with me, so I ask their advice.

“In a little van like that?” The woman driving the R.V points at my van. “I’d just go find a hospital parking lot, they won’t notice you.”

Bingo.

There is a hospital literally across the street. I roll through the intersection and pick a spot near the very end of the parking lot. It’s huge and I couldn’t even pinpoint this place on a map again if I had to try – since I had to drive so much further from Santa Barbara. I jump into the back of the van, put up my make-shift towel curtains over the windows and drift into sleep’s sweet oblivion. Night night.

A Sleep Number mattress ain’t got nuthin’ on Delilah. I wake rested and ready to fight the good fight. Crank that good soul musik, vibin’ on California sunshine state of mind and ooh so thankful. Hop in the cab and give her some gas.

I’m not feeling the radio this morning, though I hardly ever am, so throw on my Bluetooth speaker and hit shuffle. I’ll be damned if the first song that comes on isn’t Beth Hart’s L.A Song.

Coincidence? I think not. Destiny? Oh yeah. I log the last couple of hours and merge into six lanes of infamous L.A traffic.

As usual I don’t really have a plan. But I’ve got an old friend in Hollywood, so when I see the exit for Hollywood Blvd. I cut across four lanes and hang a right.

Here’s what I know.

1. I’m 6,000 miles past due on an oil change.
2. I haven’t been online in over a week and the whole three people who read this blog must be worried sick.
3. Hollywood smells like piss. And I don’t think that I care.

Then wham. I’m driving down Hollywood Blvd. My second observation after my nostrils clear is that everything seems pink instead of the California desert sandstone colors I was growing used to. There are flashing lights everywhere, probably like Las Vegas if I’d ever actually gone to Vegas to confirm all the lights people talk about.

There’s a certain dazzling affect hidden in Hollywood nightlife, but by the light of day it’s a dump. I can see why people take unkindly to this place. Streets lined with garbage and empty cigarette cartons. Camel Blues. Ramshackle tents and encampments erected in every public park. The homeless guard their carts and odd assortment of meager possessions with suspicious expressions darting from face to face.

I don’t care, I love it. Really as long as there’s no snow I’m an easy sell. A writer is a sum of their experiences. Not every experience smells like roses and tastes like glory. Get gritty. Be edgy. Dig deeper. Work harder.

I drive past a Valvoline and hook a U-turn. Oil change and new wiper blades. Mine were starting to deteriorate and smudge beetle juice across the windshield after seven states of high speed highways and insects of all shapes, sizes, colors and individual hues to their insides as they burst open on the glass. Gross.

Delilah all freshened up and I get a ring from my old friend. “Come visit me in Hollywood,” he says. I’ll be right there.

I hadn’t seen Nate in six or seven years. Not since we’d camped together as kids in South Carolina. Now he’s a scientist living in Hollywood. Weird spot for I scientist, I know, but lucky for me his Boston company transferred there so I get a real bed (well a futon) and a hot shower. It’s all in the little things.

Pull up to the apartment complex, buzz in and hugs all around. Good to see ya buddy. Tour around their cozy one bedroom and head for the roof. Hot tub time machine minus the time machine. But there was a pool and a grill so we dip our feet in the steaming water. Nate and his wife Holly cook. Feast like kings, compliments to the chefs and all three of us get to know each other again.

Beers and bourbons later, bellies full, stories told, eyes grow heavy and off to bed. They invite me to stay another night so grab some shuteye and prepare for the day tomorrow.

“Goodnight Hollywood Blvd., oh goodnight.” – Ryan Adams

Nate’s wife Holly is at work before the sun comes up. I could never be a barista I don’t function until at least 7 a.m. Kudos chica. I drop Nate off at work and save him a bus ride. I’m ready to explore.

Nate told me about Runyon Canyon. I haven’t hiked since the Redwoods and could feel the itch in the soles of my feet and my muscles tightening in anticipation. I lace up my high ankle hiking boots over tall Neff Abominable Snowman socks. Gym shorts and a t-shirt. I’m not sure what the hike will be like but thus far on my journey I’ve needed my sturdy boots.

I can immediately feel my epic fashion failure burning beneath red cheeks, mostly flushed from heat not embarrassment. But still, I am the anti-trend setter yet again. I look around at a sea of fit people in leggings and Nike’s barreling up the hill. Leggings and Nike’s next time. Got it.

Most of the winding trail is paved until the very top. And oh yeah, there’s canines freakin’ everywhere. Nate didn’t tell me it was a dog trail too but I’m not disappointed. My inner wolf wants to play.

There’s sniffing, scratching, barking, pissing and following of the leader on the whole way up the trail. I make it to the top and check out the view next to scruffy terriers and a Great Dane. Walk up to the ledge and there it is, the Hollywood sign. Cross another cheesy tourist thing to do off my list. It seems so small from this vantage point, hundreds of yards away, below and off to my left.

To the right I get my first real glimpse of L.A, buildings towering above a sprawling urban landscape. Skyscrapers are blanketed beneath a light fog, while the skies hold blue and clear all around me and outside of downtown. So it’s smog more likely. Any real angels above that city would likely choke in the air space. Can’t wait, see you soon L.A.

Work my way back down the hillside with a sudden burst of energy and off to find more places to conquer. I’m not ready to give myself to the beaches yet, for I fear once I find the sand and ride the waves I’ll never look back. Indulge rather in American capitalism and tourism at its finest. I’m going to Universal Studios.

Honestly I’m really only going for the Wizarding World of Harry Potter experience.  I want a butterbeer in Hogsmead and yeah I want to wave my wand around yelling “Wingardium Leviosa!” Stop judging me. And Nate let me borrow his interactive wand for the real Potter nerds.

Get to the gates, pay the outrageous parking fee and quietly bite the bullet on the one hundred and twenty dollar ticket. Better be a damned good butterbeer.

Grab a map and get my bearings. Damn there’s a lot of stuff to do. I just miss the water show so I head towards zombie zone instead. I’ve never watched The Walking Dead but what the hell; let’s get my zombie apocalypse on.

I enter the “old hospital” beneath crackling electrical lines and low flashing red lights. It feels like a haunted house and I almost knock out the first zombie that comes at me. I’m sure I would only hurt my hand rather than inflict any damage but the swing first, process real life later instinct is hard to override. The offending zombie with a rotting fleshy face and tattered clothes stops about two feet away and I unclench and lower my fists. Calm down Pruni.

Ten or fifteen dead things later and I’m longing for little bouncy yellow creatures in blue overalls. Ditch the dead and make a break towards the Minions!

Do you think you have what it takes to be a Minion? The 3-D ride line shuffles everyone into a lab where Gru briefs us on our impending transformations into Minions to see if we are made of the right stuff. This is going to be sweet.

Sit in a boxcar with three other trainees. Don goggles. Minion transformation complete and away we go! The car can’t be moving more than four feet up, down, left or to the right on its thick metal runners. But with the goggles on and the big screen in front of me I feel like I’m being hurled through an exploding lab and bouncing off machines in a sea of yellow. A bomb goes off on my left, veer and stomach drops as we whoosh through a whirlwind of insanity.

Way too soon my cart shudders to a halt and returns us to the ground. That was so, totally, wicked! But now what we’ve all been waiting for. (Insert imaginary Harry Potter theme music accompaniment here.) To Hogwarts!

I was never one of those kids who wore black robes to the movie premiers or anything but I did read the seventh book in one single day. And cried quietly alone in my room when Dumbledore bites the bullet and Doby sacrifices his little elf self to save Harry Potter. So when I reach Diagon Alley it’s instantly magical.

I walk past Ollivander’s wand shop and the owl post and I’m giddy. I head straight for one of two wagons with the butterbeer. It’s just icy cold butterscotch soda with a ton of foam, but it’s simply everything I imagined a butterbeer should be. Sipping froth and waving my wand about. “Stupefy!” I’m twelve years old right now.

I head towards the main ride and weave through a hopelessly long line that eventually brings me into a partially replicated Hogwarts. Animated paintings wave from the walls and we walk around Dumbledore’s office guarded by his phoenix Fawkes.

Finally reach a moving platform where attendants load up three person carts. Overhead bars down, feet dangling and gears creaking as they catch and spin into motion. We are handed our 3-D goggles last minute as the cart turns the corner and into the darkness. Harry, Ron, Hermione and I hover over Hogwarts on our brooms.

“Ready?” Harry asks, and then we plunge over the side of the castle and I ‘m flying. I imagine I’m on a Firebolt as we race towards the Forbidden Forest. Aragog’s dozens of eyes ogle me and pincers chomp near as we’re whipped the other way. The basilisk’s hot breath hits my face in puffs of steam and we just miss colliding with an angry Whomping Willow. Animatronics combined with 3-D.

Through the Quidditch pitch at what feels like alarming speeds, back across the Hogwarts grounds, spin around the corner and settle back onto the lit platform. What a rush!

Fantasies satisfied, expectations fulfilled and inner child placated. I think I’ve earned a big girl beer, not the butterscotch kind. Walk towards the entrance lined with shops filled top to bottom in Potter and zombie swag. Grab a beer in a little micro-brewery. Accidently miss the water show again so I call it a day. Head back towards the theme coded parking garages. I’m parked in the blue level of E.T extraterrestrial bike flying alien. Thanks Universal, back to Hollywood.

I meet back up at Nate and Holly’s for another beautiful night of chat and chill on the roof. I can see everything from up here. The city and many divergent paths of my life lay out before me in the dying light. I could be happy here.

Sipping on bourbon, cheers and laughter and finally down the stairs to give into weary eyes and sleepy mind. The sun has gone to bed and so must I. Thanks for the hospitality friends. So grateful. Until the morrow, goodnight Hollywood Boulevard, goodnight.

I’m getting used to driving the winding mountain passes that connect my westbound destinations from city to cliff bluff and then to ancient forests and back again to small towns. The nomad runs deep within me, tickling the soles of my bare feet, pressing me ever onward. But I could go west no further else I drive my van into the Pacific. South then, to San Francisco. I would save the coastal highway drive for the Los Angeles leg of the trip. Take the quicker inland route for I so desperately want to reach the city. NorCal, at last.

Miles on more miles, burning tire tread across the nation. Just scratching the surface of discovery and awakening. This is the here and the now and I want it all, every last drop.

And then suddenly I’m on the Golden Gate Bridge headed into the city during rush hour. I couldn’t say why, but I am weeping softly as I enter the city. I don’t believe the 5 o’clock traffic is causing the waterworks; it’s just…so beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky or fog to block the city-scape and my eyes drink in the colors like eager tree roots in a storm after the drought. My two man tent had gotten me this far, but this is Frisco. High time to find a hostel.

I have never stayed in a hostel before, so frankly I don’t know what to expect. But I’d seen Hostel,the movies number one and two… and being taken and sold into European human trafficking is not on my to do list. No sir-eee.

Drive around a bit, enough to scope out the city, then beast-mode and white knuckle the van up some of those gnarly hills that only trolleys should reasonably be allowed on. Arrive at the Adelaide. My hostel is tucked into the heart of downtown in an unmarked alleyway. Google Maps is my only hope and I still walk by it twice. Finally turn the corner and see a beautiful mural on the bricks, beckoning wary travelers. I take steps up the four concrete stairs and ring the bell.

All of my apprehensions melt away as I enter the bustling lobby and see a ragged reflection of my life these past few weeks. Road wizened children of travel with rucksacks and sleeping bags, dreads and wind-blown hair, kicking the dust of the earth off their shoes.

Hostels are like hotels for cool young people with no money. I book my room, secure the door code and room key and went to find overnight parking for Delilah. I’m going to go through this next part briefly else I throw my pen and keyboard out the window in remembrance of the red rage I experience parking the van.

It was supposed to be five dollars off with the hostel voucher I had. Nope. Oversized vehicles cost fifty dollars and they refused to even give me the five bucks off. I argued with the attendants who refuted me in broken Spanglish for about twenty minutes, before I begrudgingly hand over my credit card. Their signs are wrong and they are falsely advertising. Screw you State Garage in San Francisco, I’ll be writing a strongly worded letter to your supervisors. End rant.

Grab guitar, backpack and a few clothes. Get utterly lost walking back to the Adelaide even while tracking myself as a digital blue dot, phone in hand. Hot dang I need a drink. Finally stumble across the elusive alleyway, climb two flights of stairs, and dump my stuff on my bunk. I share a room with six other girls, most of whom seem from different countries all together. Six bunk style beds set into the walls with dark blue pull across curtains, a lamp light in each and clean sheets are a sight for sore eyes after weeks camping and crashing in the van. A sink and mirror adorn the plain set and otherwise empty room, aside from a coat rack with maybe six or seven of the many hangers filled. The bathroom and – hallelujah the shower were right outside the door. Running water we meet again. Hoorah!

So the downtown bar scene sucks. A grid of cocktail lounges mostly lacking theme and creativity and all running shuttles to the airport lined the unkempt streets. Not a craft beer bar in sight and man is my Midwest really showing. I might’ve landed in the wrong city after all. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell me about the psychedelic mixing pot that is Haight-Ashbury, the quintessential hippie and art community, so I wandered around the more business and club oriented downtown. Maybe next time.

Finally I see signs marking Lefty O’Doul’s. Now that sounds like a place where a gal could get a pint. Cross the street, go in and grab a barstool. It’s packed. They’ve got the San Francisco baseball game on. In fact, every television has a ball game on. Shit this is a baseball bar. How was I supposed to know Lefty O’Doul was a ball player, I abhor baseball. Oh well, at least they have a good draft selection.

Couple of brews and a generous sum of Irish whiskey later and the piano guy has nearly got me in stitches. The old coot was givin’ her hell at his eighty-eight keys to an audience of cougars surrounding the slightly raised platform. The lot of out of towners sounded anywhere between the United Kingdom all the way to Scotland or maybe Ireland I can never tell those two apart. And boy were they eating this guy up. He had to be pushing seventy, yet his raunchy renditions of “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Sweet Caroline” are lined with bedroom banter directed at his willing audience. Well the cougars anyway. Many a time he would just add “under the sheets” to the end of any give verse, to a raucous chorus of giggling.

My eyes begin to grow heavy and the music feels further away, as if from a dream. Time to call her a night. Sweet dreams San Francisco, until the morrow. Wander back home, clamber into the top bunk, draw the curtain and fade into oblivion.

Sunshine can’t break the crease of my bed curtain, yet I hear rustling and bird song drifting lightly through the window. Lace up my Converse and hit the pavement. Destination: the Fisherman’s Wharf. I walk the mile or so to the bay with the wind whipping my hair around my face. It is only early October, but people are layered in thick coats and scarves to guard against the biting breeze. Amateurs. This is Northwood’s t-shirt weather.

The entrance of the wharf precedes a line of restaurants and piers and also houses the Maritime National Historical Park. The large ships rest permanently docked in the bay for people to gaze upon their sails, pulleys and wooden planking, smoothed and worn down from heavy boots and the willful tide of the sea. Old vessels which will never again set sail into the horizon.

I walk around a bit, and then plunk down on the sidewalk to play some morning musik for the foot traffic walking around the bay. “Save me San Francisco,” baby.

“Take me to my city by the bay…I’ve been up. I’ve been down. I’ve been so damn lost since you’re not around. I’ve been rock n’ roll and disco. Won’t you save me San Francisco?”

Post up, sing loud, sway in the bay breeze and breathe in the love. Diggin’ this scene so I pick up and continue down the wharf. Finally, find a place with a wall of draft beers. Bingo. Grab a brew and chat up the company to my left and to my right. Meet two gals traveling up the coast, the opposite route from mine. A redhead from Scotland and a blonde girl from Germany.

Trade war stories, shoot the breeze a bit. Another guy, a bit older, said this bar has looked the exact same for the last twenty years. Beer tapper handles adorning the ceiling by the dozens, and dark wood floors and walls lending to the tavern appeal.

Carry on, but my inner girly girl is finally, after weeks on the road in the wilderness, coming out to play and I do a little shopping. Tourist-ing it up, beer gardens on the bay and meet and greet with other travelers, living the dream. Most of the unfamiliar faces are just visitors like me. The locals all seem a bit…pretentious, I hate to say… or at least a bit unwilling to acknowledge the flurry of interactions unwinding around them. The city itself and industries catered to the many travelers but you could tell the newcomers from the true community, for the latter walk and talk with an air of urgency. As if  perpetually needing to be wherever it is they are going like, ten minutes ago.

I’m having a blast. I’ll leave my footprint and a bit of my essence in my melodies carried round the bay in the wind. Then I too will blow away south on the breeze.

That sushi life though. My God. I hit up the same sushi place twice in one day and feast like a queen. Nom nom nom. Yellowtail and green onion and salmon nigiri. Drown it all in soy sauce and wasabi that bites my taste buds back and deliver on delicate chopsticks. Delish.

Well now I’m high on Frisco, full and a bit buzzed. Staring out at the shimmering bay with an IPA, heart light and mind easy. Time to venture back, take a power nap and hit up that night life. There must be more to downtown than first glance.

Not going to lie, the uphill walk back to the Adelaide had me a bit winded. Even after all the hiking I’d been doing I’m still hopelessly out of shape. I blame the craft beer industry. I sit down on the sidewalk three quarters of the way up the steepest road I’ve ever been on. Warmth and contentment spread through me as I look down over the saltwater reflecting on the sun’s red rays and preceding the inevitable dusk.

“Wrap me up return to sender. Let’s forget this five year bender. Take me to my city by the bay. I’ve been up, I’ve been down, I’ve been so damn lost since you’re not around. I’ve been reggae and calypso. Won’t you save me San Francisco?”

But the view from down here on the pavement is clearer than eyesight and sooner than hindsight; learning to live right and lending to insight. A lump stirs beneath a worn, dirty blue sleeping bag on the other side of the sidewalk. One life living low, shutting out the wind and the world. They can see from down here too, and I see them from up and down and for a time, here and now, through their own drained and guarded eyes. I can only wonder what life they would’ve picked if given the chance. I crave their stories and hopes and disdain and perspective. Ever seeking perspective.

Me with my guitar, sitting cross legged, hair bedraggled and nearly four weeks in on the road. Feeling the weight of years lift from my shoulders, mistrusts and misdeeds, follies and grudges washed clean even as the dirt catches in my nail beds and permanently coats the soles of my feet. Yet heavy stares fall upon me and break me from my musings.

Cuz boy do I look homeless. Perception is a tricky mistress. Though I claim my humility and promote equality, my gaze has been cast as heavily and spliced with judgement time and time again. I must strive to rise above the human flaw. Or flaws rather. May I seek not to be understood as to understand and may I heed wise words, where I would rather see them refuted.

I’m deep in thought and the sun has begun to set in earnest now. Power-walk home with steady stride revived and my head held high. Turn into the alley and punch the five digit code into the front lock. Beep in and climb two flights of carpeted stairs. Nap time.

Recharge, reset and rest. Stir lightly under warm, dark blue sheets and clamber down the metal rungs of the ladder set into the wall. The five other girls hush suddenly and apologize for waking me up. Somehow I’ve gotten the Judy Blume lot. They are bed-bound and brushing their teeth, slipping into jammies. It’s 9:45. I say “no worries, I’m just headed out.” I silently apologize in my head for probably waking them up five hours from now when I come in at bar close. Oops. The rest of the hostel have the right idea though and are readying for a night out on the town.

So I head back down to Lefty O’Doul’s. Gotta start somewhere. I end up chatting with a couple of guys celebrating one of their thirtieth birthdays. Game on boys. I’m invited to tag along and we bar hop and Pokémon our way through downtown. Okay, fine…I was the only one shamelessly Pokémoning on every street corner.  But Pokemoning is better than prostituting. That should be a bumper sticker, or a proverb.  😉

I hadn’t been out like this on a Saturday night since Denver, and I was determined to remember more of the ride this time round.

We pass a pizza joint and our questioning looks towards each other silently come to a consensus and we veer in through the doorway. We cram into the little brick building, hot with the warmth of the overs. Start chomping down some classic pepperoni and then one by one, slowly turn to the big screen behind us.

“And I, will always love youuuuuuuu!” Comes out of through the speakers, Whitney Houston’s hair dominating the screen.

And that is all the birthday boy needs, starting in on the key change in an impressive falsetto. Before long it is the three of us, belting out notes, staring into the depths of each other’s eyes and giving our souls to the song. The pizza guy didn’t seem disturbed in the slightest, he only smiled. Twas’ only midnight and I’m sure we won’t be the strangest sight he sees yet tonight. We finish our ballad, split one more slice and away we go.

Club lights pulse in the night around us and dance musik drifts out the doorway, bass lightly vibrating tall glass windows set in black against an elegant doorframe. I walk right on by it, only to be yanked back towards the door by the elbow.

Me: “I’m not going into that club.”

Guy: “It’s my birthday.

Rats. Heavy sigh, glimpse down at my black and red checkered flannel, gray cargo cutoffs and Chuck Taylors. I step up to the bouncer and pray there’s a dress code and he can just put me out of my misery before I even get through the door. No such luck, as he waves me through. They order me a cocktail, vodka cranberry, which is a recipe for disaster in itself. Bottoms up.

Buzz begins to settle in my brain, pulses through my veins, in time with the musik. Boom, boom, boom. Ease up a bit and sway with the party jams. It’s not like I’ve never been in a club before, it’s just not my preference. As if on cue, A California nine and a half, brunette and dressed to the nines in a tight black cocktail dress and tall black heels, makes a beeline for where I’m leaning against the bar next to the guys.

“Oh, my, God. Is that yours??” She exclaims as she reaches out, takes my hair, mind you that hasn’t been washed in three days, and runs it through her fingers.

“Umm…my..?” I stutter and stare dumbfounded.

“Your hair! Is that really your hair?” She beams and stares me down.

“Uh yeah, it’s definitely mine.” I answer.

“Well it’s simply gorgeous! Just wanted to tell you that.” She says and turns on heel as quickly as she had come, back to her clique and grey goose martini.

I’m totally weirded out and just turning back to my drink when one of the guys chimes in.

“Dude, you just got ‘Mean Girled’.”

“Excuse me?” I ask.

“Mean Girled. You look prettier in flannel than that girl did in a two hundred dollar dress. So she had to compliment you to play out some kind of Regina George moment. Like, ‘omg that is so fetch!’”

I cough my drink up a little as understanding dawns and I laugh out loud. So that just happened. Weird.

Dance our way out the door and into the night, though I could feel it drawing to an end. Walk the guys back to their hotel (how reversely chivalrous of me) and head for home before the darkness gives way to the dawn.

I make my way back with the city lights still shining all around me, even while the service industry closes up shop and the real night walkers come out to play. No place for a simple vagabond like myself. Back to the cozy Adelaide and crawl quietly into bed, with maybe just one or two dull thumps and missteps against the smooth wall and metal rungs in the darkness. Fall into my bunk and am out the moment my head hits the pillow. Goodnight San Francisco.

Wake, rise, shine – rub the sleepies from my eyes and clamber down metal rungs set into the white wall. Hit the road again after I grab Delilah from the stupid parking garage. Freaking highway robbery, yet I digress.

Blow the bay a kiss and tires burnin’ tear it up southbound down Highway 1. The coastal drive and winding trek to the City of Angels, Sunset Boulevard, Universal studios and streets hot with the smell of piss and missed opportunity – but I won’t miss mine. See you soon L.A.

I start northwest towards the redwoods and Humboldt State Park, heart already aching in anticipation of wonder… Until I get this land is your land, this land is my land…to the redwood forest and Gulf Stream waters- stuck in my head on repeat. After that I want to skip the whole damn forest before the song drives my insane. It was the same thing with home, home on the range, all the way through South Dakota.

Thank goodness for my Bluetooth speaker. I can get a healthy daily dose of Nahko and Medicine for the People or a little Rhianna. Otherwise it’s only garbled Spanish or the soulful choirs of the Lord’s flock warbling through my speakers across the choppy mountain reception. Now don’t get me wrong, I love gospel and inspirational music as much as the next gal, but when it’s the only thing that can breach the radio waves in these remote parts my heart longs for a little ACDC.

Except for Utah, even the Lord’s good word can’t breach Mormon rhetoric across every station. It’s all fire and brimstone and eternal damnation unless you are in on the whole “The world is only four hundred years old,” bit. Just turn the radio off if you go there.

Driving alone is so very peaceful. As I make my way towards NorCal, I weave through mountain and flatland terrain. Beneath forests and past small towns, like little rough gems hidden in this sunshine state. As I drive through one such town, my van edges round the wide, gentle curve of the prettiest lake I’ve ever seen, and this coming from a girl spoiled by all the beautiful bodies of water scattered throughout the Midwest and Northern Wisconsin.

I can’t recall its name, but that’s just as well as I may want to keep this memory for myself. A treasure to remember all my own. The sun beams down and breaks into a million shards of diamonds that ripple across the surface of the aqua blue water. It looks almost tropical. I could stop here and go no further, for its beauty and tranquility alone, but keep moving on I must.

Hours and hours drift by and the trees start to thicken around me, closing in the shade and shadows. I’m surprised my GPS still works, as I enter the thick of Humboldt State Park. I turn off the electronics because the destination is…all around me. And apparently smartphones can’t find campgrounds. Looks like I’m navigating old school. I drive through the towering community of ancient trees, back and back again on narrow roads that often nearly meet the massive base of a thirteen of fourteen foot behemoth tree trunk.

As breathtaking as it is, I’m lost and sick of driving. I want to put rough feet to soft pine beds and run my hands against cool, cracked bark. I finally give up on the elusive backcountry camping and settle for the main sites, heavy with foot traffic, rather than continue these aimless circles.

Grab a cellophane wrapped bundle of wood, meet and greet young camp host and pay up. I can see glimpses of the sun burning bright through slits in the trees above, but with dusk setting the thick foliage shuts out most light and the cools the air. The silence reminds me of the Badlands, except there is life behind it. The birds and bees seem as if they’d not interrupt the tranquility, as if they too wanted to listen to the slow creak of the ancient ones swaying in the dying light.  Whereas the utter lack of noise in the Badlands is other worldly, aside from the wind that howls across the rough land.

Some of these trees were 2,000 years old. That’s sixty human generations. As in biblical times. A little piece of God’s creation that for once, has been left much untouched and has withstood man, beast and natural disaster alike.

Toss up camp and get a fire roaring with a little trial and error. I am not the fire whisperer Michael had been, nor the cook, but I had an egg and hot dog scrambler going after a little while. Hot food, rumbly belly, cold beer and warmth from the crackling coals within the fire. This is the life. Mind full and mindful, too heavy and heady to process much anything else today. Damper down the dying fire, zip up and in, lights out and snoozing soundly in minutes.

Up and at em’ early morning, tear down camp and off to hike under the towering homes of birds and beasts. Lace up my boots and tall mismatched socks. Ever the trend setter. Grab my hiking stick, which had made it here all the way from the Black Hills, and move out. Traipse over soft bed of bouncy pine needles and navigate the trail to the river.

Break out of the forest to the sound of light trickling water and the sun’s brilliance once again. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust after the dimness of the woods. Walk to the water’s edge. Sit down, cross legged like the old ones. Breathe, meditate…or try to at least, meditating is hard. Trying to ease the ebb and flow of one’s consciousness. Not that I was overly succeeding, but all efforts are lost when a large chocolate lab breaks out of the tree line and splashes into the water near my feet. Smile, give him a good pet, brush the dust off my denim shorts and carry on.

“May the Past be the sound of your feet upon the ground, carry on, carry on, carry on.”

Hike out of the forest and jump in Delilah at the visitor’s center. Hallelujah I get the inter-web out here. Sit in the cab and catch up on the news, the real world and then line a few pages with ink musings and I’m off again. Okay fine I checked my Facebook too…nothing is sacred anymore.

I’m finally in California and headed down the coast. I’ve wanted this since I was ten. Talk about delayed gratification, but it’s all worth it in these moments. I am grateful and humbled. Time to work my way down the coast towards San Fran and beyond. Until we meet again.

“This land was made for you and me.”

I’ve had California sized stars in my eyes for a very long time. Many do, but I wanted that SoCal life like, real bad. That’s what being trapped in northern Wisconsin for twelve years will do to a girl. The agony. Stop looking at me like I’m being melodramatic…

South Lake Tahoe is the perfect midpoint between Nevada and the Redwoods, so I drive into town and enter the Cali-forn-i-a golden state of mind. I post-up right by the lake at a park near the west end of town. I slather Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ on a honey ham sandwich and break out the roasted red pepper pasta salad and an orange soda. I take my small feast down to the lake and sit on a large, wide stone stair leading down to the water’s edge.

It’s just so beautiful. The sun is directly overhead in the early hours of the afternoon, projecting rays as if a galaxy of shimmering glass shards were constantly shifting and then exploding over the rippling surface of the lake. Define tranquility and you’d find a picture of me sitting just so, time never moving, nor seasons changing; frozen in this very moment for eternity. Yet time shall not be conquered by mortal whims.

Heavy sigh, finish up snacking and back to the van to grab my deck. Haven’t long boarded since Milwaukee, a lifetime ago that world seems from here. Time to do the townie thing, so I skate the length of the main drag and check it out.

It feels like an upscale model of the Northwoods in Wisconsin. Except everyone is wearing like, a bazillion dollars’ worth of Patagonia and North Face and looks ready to hike Mount Everest at any instant. Ah how the other half lives.

Sarcasm aside this part of town really is quite lovely. Past the higher rising buildings in downtown South Lake Tahoe, this tree lined stretch of road housed trendy little shops and diners of every make and sort. I skate up one side and down the other, smiling at locals and breathing the crisp fall air in deep lungfuls. The touristy vibes were very akin to Eagle River, Wisconsin. Yet the town folk were friendly and even the McDonald’s was wrapped in log-like trim to keep within the Tahoe-chic dress code matching the rest of the buildings.

Have my bit of fun in town, now off to find free camping in the hills.

Several wrong turns, no GPS signal and a one lane switchback that carried on until I thought for sure I would drive off the mountain and voila – tumble into Luther Pass and I feel as if I’ve found a living, growing gemstone in the mountain – as opposed to the beautiful, yet dead, cold and hardened diamonds and emeralds of land and beauty I’d come across thus far on my journey. Every day of my life is more blessed and beautiful than the last though, I can hardly believe it to be so each time. Mind blown time and time again.

There are seven or so large campsites, several set against the little flowing creek near the bottom of the sloping expanse of ground and earth. A bed of long orange pine needles coated the otherwise dusty ground, making the soles of my feet bounce softly off the earth with each step. That is until I step on this pointy, light brown thorn-like thing that sticks deep in the pad of my foot and leaves a hole where blood slowly wells up as I pull it out. Shoes back on.

Get set up in twenty minutes. Damn I’m getting good at this. Head up the hill to lock up Delilah. I hear the low rumble and vroom vroom of a black motorcycle before I see its rider breech the hilltop pavement. Jet black helmet and black lace-up travel boots completed the Batman style ensemble. But like the cool, original Batman suit in the 1989 flick before they added nipples to his plate armor. There is literally, no point, to putting nipples on plate armor. End rant.

Under the helmet is not in fact the Batman, but the Benjamin. He’d been on the road for four years. From east coast to west coast and round’ again on two willing wheels. We chat, explore, learn a little history – a brief glimpse into each others’ lives. What makes us wayward wanderers tick and tock and move and expand ever outward with feet, feelers and fleeting desires.

No fires here on out. California dry spell and Smokey the Bear on high alert and only you can prevent forest fires. Cold sandwiches and snack, and then risk a little night hike over the stream into the woods as the light begins to fail. Feels like something in the air tonight.

Find a wide, flat surface of rock, greyscales indiscernible as nightfall settles in. We lie out and watch the stars hold their golden court in an infinite sky. Just a handful of the billions upon billions, blazing bright and burning out before their brilliance ever even reaches our eyes.

I should be afraid or at least wary of the bumps in the night, but for once just be still and breathe it all in. Memories per moment embedding in my subconscious – long term storage cells made and molded in the fibers of my being.

And then we’re stepping, crunching over a thick bed of pine and dead brush, making more noise than any curious predator in these parts. Pushing the boundaries set by nature and treading a bit heavier than we should. Just this once, to bathe in the luminescence of asteroids burning light-years away.

And then I am to sleep once more and soon wake to set fresh eyes upon a new day – yet another chance to seek greatness and discover the many facets of myself.

Venture into town today to catch up on mortal things. Coffee and blog and I hate to say it, but check out the debate highlights from Trump and Hillary’s latest tango on the tele last night. I mustn’t forget that in this great journey I am learning the tools to survive and exist in both worlds – nature’s arms and society’s expectations (not that I adhere to them, but to know them lends wisdom) a seesaw and me with my pen balancing the weighted sides for the masses to better discern what our world needs of us…and then checking my Facebook.

Back to camp for some more good company and a bit of musik. Our neighbors Jess, and his son of seven or eight, Ethan, wander down towards the thrumming sounds drifting up from my guitar and they come bearing gifts. Two cold Budweisers and a bowl of pine nuts earnestly foraged from the earth’s floor by little hands. Ethan picked them one by one from their confines in the whirly helicopter things (that’s definitely their real scientific name) and into a smooth wooden bowl.

Our little band of unlikely misfits talk and trade stories in good fun, until Ethan takes an “accidental” dunk in the creek. Heavy sighs from dad, but a laugh and “better getcha dried off before the sun goes down.” He says.

Everywhere I go I have come across such earnest, “real” people (as opposed to robots? Lol.) I love the diversity of the world, every single individual story that makes us us, and I feel so much joy when strangers are willing to share their part within it with me.

Another secret treasure found to put on the books if I ever roll through these parts again: Luther Pass. Camp one last night here, fond goodbyes in the a.m. and I follow Benjamin out of camp behind the rumble of his bike. He has a few more days planned here, but I must be headed on. Kindreds we are, ever chasing the pavement. Just before my tires turn onto the highway, Rocket Man drifts over the radio waves amidst a light crackle.

“I think it’s gonna be a long, long time.

Til’ touchdown brings me round’ again to find.

I’m not the man they think I am at home, oh no.

I’m a rocket man, burnin’ out his fuse up here alone.”

Elton John traveled this same solo road as I, and knew it to be sometimes a lonely one. I think I’d rather walk the curves of the earth and know the brilliance of the moon alone, than walk hand in hand nowhere or anywhere.

I’m a Rocket Girl. Burnin’ out my fuse up here alone.

So we lost Michael. Damnit, this was supposed to be our next big step – doing the busking thing and non-perishables for our little project.

Bad news bears. Michael has to fly home- #biggestbummerever. As they say shit happens, but we are going to kick it with Miss Strauss in Ogden north of Salt Lake for the weekend. Ignore the looming departure and live the next 48 hours as if nothing had changed.

It is what it is, and we vowed to try and make the best of the hours before us.

When it rains it pours and I’m being literal. After we get to Ogden it rained us out all but one beautiful hiking day, but I suppose that’s all we needed. The waterfall hike, ending in a waterfall. How creative. Just kidding, I’d done the same hike in March, during the brides matey’s pirate weekend and it was a calm sort of surreal, to be back here again.

For how the tides have turned.

I remember the last time. The start of this very story in fact, and I wasn’t the same child in the slightest. I remember charging up the mountain with a raw whirlwind of energy, expectations, and longing. My breath and blood rushing and every fiber of my being soaring upwards.

This time I know my purpose. My legs and limbs are driven by mission and sense of belonging, rather than raw ambition. Two completely different beasts to maneuver. I am now and always, awakened.

Snap back to present and reach the top. Water cascading down the sheer cliff and spraying a light midst against our cheeks and boots.

Take it in, drink in the light and altitude and snack on salty sunflower seeds. Cool water on parched lips. Michael free climbs and scares the bugeezes out of me. I don’t say a word. I’m not his mother.

Until… he gets himself into a right pickle – stuck on a ledge some twenty feet above the level ground.

I only stand, arms crossed and skeptical as he finally finds a pass and a foothold down, twenty minutes later. Ridiculous.

Clamber back down the mountain, hearts singing and eyes wide open in so many ways.

That first night we slept outside under the overhang connected to the garage. It was like a big kids’ fort with couches, except add a couple of weary travelers and a handle of Canadian Club. The whiskey we’d in fact procured from our Black Hills mentors Frank and Lilah. Twas’ a bottle from Frank’s deceased father…and was gifted to us in good health and consciousness. Cheers and prayers for those who walked this road before us.

Muddle around in Ogden a few more days before Michael takes to the clouds on a streamline to the Midwest. But in the meantime, we’d fallen into a bunny-utopia. Buns to the left and buns to the right! Birth control was a latent concept in this household. Thus, a yard filled with no less than eighteen bunny rabbits. Eighteen.

Every bun had a name, individual personality, and distinct look about them. The offspring of a Flemish giant and… oh, gosh I can’t remember the cross right now some other sort of dignified bunny breed.

I’d sit in the yard and strum my guitar, looking up at the mountain range and pressing light grass stains into the fabric against my knees. One bun at a time, would hop over…touch me ever so gently on the hand or knee, listen to the music for a spell then return to their hutch or recesses of a yard bush.

It was the most peculiar thing I’d seen in a coons age, but music doth calm the savage beast.

Rainy days deluge over a normally dry Ogden match our moods as days come to a close and Michael leaves on a jet plane.

Parting art such sweet sorrow my ass, this sucks. Get home safe buddy, you will be missed. And damnit now I have to start cooking…

Goodbye Michael, goodbye Utah – and I venture to Cali-for-nia solo. Gotta cross Nevada in the meantime, but I never saw this coming…

Kabloom! Seventy-five miles an hour across a hot desert highway pavement and a large metal clunk and boom rocks Delilah. Shit.

Edge her off the highway onto the shoulder and jump out into the hot, dusty desert air to assess the situation. Check tires first. Not a problem.  (Remember this for later folks). Open hood up, not that I have a damn clue what exists under it, but open and close it for good measure nonetheless. Forty miles from Reno… Seventeen miles from Fernley, Nevada.

Rumble, rumble, boom – Fernley will have to do.

She still runs but I can’t get her over fifty-five miles per hour without her shaking and trembling like the end of the world is near. Hazards flashing and creeping fifty-five mph on a seventy-five mph slow lane and praying I make it to town. Why does this always happen to me? No really. I always. Get. Stranded.

Putter into Fernley. It’s Saturday night. Nothing open until Monday. Now what? You’d think hotel rooms in a small town would be easy to come by but leave it for a dire situation and of course there’s some sort of hillbilly derby round these parts this weekend and every single room in all four hotels are booked. I’ve not had to do the Walmart-camp in my van overnight thing yet, but there’s a first time for everything.

Young girl at last reception desk said it’s not like they check the parking lot… twenty minutes later and I’m cozied up behind the Best Western, a night train periodically whistling behind me. I love city noises, (however a far cry away this was from a city) but trains, sirens, car horns and alarms were my lullaby. You’d think I grew up in the Bronx or something, but alas, the noises from a Pittsburgh suburb drift from my childhood through my present conscious and lull me into sleep’s warm embrace – lights out.

Sunday morning. Car shops not open til’ tomorrow. #howdoIkilladaystrandedinthedesert? It’s nowhere near five o’clock, or any other reasonable day drinking time, so I head to a pretty little park on the outskirts of town.

I pull into the dusty parking lot (babying the hell out of poor Delilah) and do my damdest not to stare dumbfounded at the scene unfolding before me.

Okay, granted – I was in Nevada, but my favorite version of Wild Wild West features Will Smith and a bowl of popcorn. Not the cowboys on horses with cap guns that were making guided turns and sporadic neighing in the gated arena before me.

I don’t know what they were really shooting, but they seemed like cap guns and if I were the horse I’d choose the glue factory over that sound in my ears over and over again. There were a few spectators occasionally clapping from the stands, so there must’ve been an actual obstacle to all of the hubbub, but hell if I knew what that was. Couldn’t help but think it’d be a lot more fun if they were on horses with paintball guns, but that’s just me.

Checking my judgement and moving on… spent a couple hours reading and writing in the cool grass with blades of sun hitting me on the cheeks and backs of my calves.

I am stuck, yet I feel no panic nor worry for the outcome. I’ll not waste the energy. Today is a beautiful day and I continue to feel blessed. Especially since the Steeler game kicks off in twenty minutes. Time for a cold one.

Turns out…there are no bars in Fernley. Okay fine that’s an overstatement, but the “bars” are hidden away in the casinos, for which there is one for every ten people in the whole damn town.

Throw a stone and pick one. Meander in and I see black and yellow in the distance. A Pittsburgh fan besides myself all the way out here, hallelujah. Although I shouldn’t be surprised, there are loyal Steeler bars all over the country.

Make quick friends with him and his group of construction guys who were in town doing a job for another month or so. If I make it look like I’m playing the blinking slots game fixed to the bar in front of me, then I drink for practically free. I’ll redact names here so as not to get our fabulous bartender gal in a world of trouble, but I learned to say “Yes, I’m still playing” without her prompts when I ordered a drink.

“Now you’re learning,” she winks.

Steelers lose and my near impenetrable cheerfulness is dampened yet not completely out. Head to a new hotel parking lot and have parking lot beers with the guys. In Fernley, Nevada….how did I end up here? I reason there are certainly worse places to be.

Back to the van bed and smile a small smile to myself as I have successfully wandered the day away. It’s been a hoot but time to hurry up with the Monday sunrise and get me outta this ghost town.

Rise and shine at seven a.m. waiting for the doors to open at The Hometown Auto Body. They’ve got a slew of people scheduled before me and no relevant time estimate on when they might get around to it. Looks like I’m hoofin’ it today.

Sit in the park, day two. Finish my Alice in Wonderland teen fiction fantasy spinoff, (stop your judgement right there) close the very last page and the phone rings right then.

“You’re all set!” the mechanic says.

It’s only been an hour so I’m shocked and relieved…it couldn’t cost that much for something that can be fixed in an hour. I get there and the man walks me around to the back of the van. I get a little confused as he begins to open the backdoor. Light falls on the hellhole disaster area in the van bed, but then I see the shredded scrap of what used to be my tire.

Now remember earlier when I told you guys I checked the tires…??? The tear in the rubber was on the bottom when I pulled over so I couldn’t see that that was the problem. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So I’d just spent two days stuck in Fernley and a 66$ “evaluation” bill for them to put my freakin’ spare tire on. Lovely. Moving on.

Hit the highway. Full speed. Finally blazin’ trails for South Lake Tahoe. Watch out California, here I come.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Michael and I were gettin’ weird in the Rockies. Driving onto Glenwood Springs, switchbacks through the mountains with no radio/CD player/cassette. Just a Bluetooth speaker from our phones when it cared to work. Found ourselves greeting the landscapes and its residents.

“Hello mountain goat…. Oh hello again spiteful blue van still driving 20 under the speed limit? Hello dog, where’s your human gone off to?”

Must’ve been the thin air and high elevation addling our marbles… or perhaps we’d simply gone mad amongst the winding mountain passes lost in a five hour daze…or some other kind of daze.

Barrel through Eisenhower tunnel, my God the innovation of man. Ever stop and think about how to blast your way through the second largest mountain range in the world?? Eisenhower did.

We’ve seen so much but here we are taking in yet another wonder of nature and creation.

Just in time for autumn foliage to be creeping across waning summer greens. Bright yellows and burning oranges at first. Giving way to fiery reds that paint a Rastafarian shaded color-scape within the gorges between the rock faces and along the ridges of towering peaks.

Giant’s country indeed – they’d have found an Eden here in these expanses, and what tiny little ants we humans be in their shadow.

We seek Glenwood Springs for a glimpse of a true mountain town and short pit stop. Arrive in a secluded community hidden in these heights. There is a certain stillness here, like emerging from a trance of a dream. Becalmed.

Fix up a hearty lunch – sandwiches, potato salad and cold orange sodas in a sunny park by the river, hundreds of miles away from home.

Begin to think how my life might change, if I were to inhabit somewhere near these wonderlands. Each infinitely different and more interesting than the last. Then reason, my life had already transformed.

I know not who I am in this moment, only that I am not who I’d been at any other moment preceding this very second. Whether I find myself improved or merely changed is yet to be determined.

We’ve got the lengthy span to Salt Lake next, so we charge on through the mountains. The king of free camping in the passenger seat finds us a spot a little outside of Salt Lake City. Deep Creek, six simple campsites set into the hills on publicly managed land.

We chance upon site # two – what lucky fools we are – as we step into the most breathtaking campsite we’ve seen yet. Simply because tis’ fall and the colors are singing. And a thousand other little things and smells, carried in upon the wind.

Gotta love going off the grid. No “tweeting, texting, twatting,” (copyright Hank Moody)  #Ijustateacheeseburgerthoughteveryoneshouldknow. Just humans, nature, fire and music – spirituality seeking journeys to self-discovery and self-reliance.

The fire pit was tucked in next to the rushing creek, the quick water more melodious than Carnegie Hall’s finest symphony. We set up our two person tent, snug between a looming pine and the creek. Both giddy at the thought of falling asleep beside the currents.

I play my guitar right against the flow of the creek. It’s surreal, actually gauging my sound to the turn and flow and little noises of the flowing water against slick logs and stones smoothed over an eternity. Some melodies of mine seem to drift along happily with the water, while others meet a certain note of discord amongst the powerful winds and force of sheer nature around us. As if to challenge our joining so closely with the mountainside and synchronizing with the powers that be.

Running a little low on wood so I go on a gathering expedition. Like a youngster I get side-tracked by a gigantic, whitewashed tree that had fallen across the creek.

Naturally, I balance beam-esque-teeter myself across it. Success. No wet clothes and the light, chalky bark is my treasure – peeled off the middle and far end. The perfect kindling, torn into pieces and catching like brush in a summer dry spell.

Read a little, write a little. Michael does God-like things with diced boiled potatoes, bacon and a little Colby-jack. Getting very used to this whole “camp cooking” thing, especially since normally I don’t have to participate. 😉

Michael enjoys the methodic process of preparing our food and tending the flames to cook yet not scorch our dinners. Meanwhile I set up camp and play music. What non-traditionalists we are becoming.

Full bellies and heady minds. My soul content in this sanctuary, though acknowledgment of contentment usually makes me run the opposite direction, I find no need to vacate this place so soon…

Nearing dusk, light fading, the roaring-est of fires I’ve seen Michael create blazes red hot and adds its crackle to the background rush of the creek. I’d found a dried tree trunk and root system, round-abouts a foot in diameter, now caught in the flames entirely. Fire eats its way up the length of the trunk, blues and yellows dancing a tango reflected in Michael’s eyes. What a pyro.

And then, as if a trance broken-

“Hey, do you think we should move our tent off the river a little? In case this is like an animal’s path to the creek?” Michael frets.

“Don’t be silly, people recently camped here. We’re fine.” I shrugged.

Twenty minutes later.

So not fine. We are much deeper into uncharted Rockies than we’d yet been and I started to feel what Michael had been feeling first (him ever the more practical of the two of us…) As the light died on the horizon and true dark settled upon us like a shroud. I shiver a little.

I’ve known fear before but this was different. This was more, raw…wild.

Michael asks again, firmer, and this time I don’t hesitate. We remove stakes calmly, but the previously melodious creek turns menacing, as it is the only thing we can hear besides my own heavy heartbeat against my ears.

“There’s no earthly way of knowing. Which direction they are going. There’s no knowing where they’re rowing…..And they’re certainly not showing, any sign that they are slowing!”

“Don’t just stand there, do something!”

“Help. Police, murder.”

Okay fine, Gene Wilder wasn’t really overdubbing our panicked musical campsites.

If cougar or bear were to attack our humble camp, we’d not have the luxury to see or hear them coming, as if that would much help our plight if they were good and hungry and hankering for some human flesh.

Tent moved off the river though, hop in immediately. Why the thin layer of canvas and mesh feels protective against tooth and claw I know not, yet relief floods through me and eases the anxious air. Lions and Bigfoot and bears oh my indeed, but no joke this time.

Welcome to the jungle baby, you gonna die…Alright, Michael probably isn’t half as scared as me but he is definitely spooked. Sleep at last, Michael with an ax near his side and me with my machete. How rustic…My kingdom for a damn shotgun.

Sleep at last. Wake, rise and shine. With zero trace of the shadow driven panic from the night before. Another beautiful day in paradise, literally.  But for real… no more back country camping, yeesh.

What an experience. We’re even further west bound but just stop. Process, appreciate, we are here. Ask and you shall receive and we’ve been gifted in spades. Self- discovery, joy, hope, faith, adventure, love. We must want for nothing more yet crave everything.

What a plight, the flaw and fortunes of humanity. Dare we venture on?

An hour off from our destination, Strawberry Reservoir, another free camp. The western sky decides to close the day, a slow set over an ever approaching horizon.

An atom bomb of molten gold. I don’t even know how to describe it. Never have I ever seen the yellow sun set with such grace and power, as if boasting its worth and grandeur. A brilliant glow over the climax of a day, settling heavy on the horizon to fill full my blood with warmth and my head with wonder. Take not for granted this beauty.

As the actual globe of the sun sinks below the tree line, a pinnacle of colors proceeds it. Like a bruise – a purple smudge exists in the sun’s place. Light grays and yellows follow, transcending the dusk. The bruise deepening, healing itself then giving into the actual darks of the evening – thick blues and charcoal blacks.

Children of the west must be spoiled of these daily rituals, yet I am beholden by them all. Majestic simplicity. Mayhap I belong here.

Dark falls finally and we reach Strawberry Reservoir. We’d counted the magpies, black and white and looming above plains set within hidden flats of the mountain. Distinct in their call and easy to spot. The absence and essence of color against sandstone browns and flinty grays.

We’ve grown so used to the pervasion of wildlife on this venture. Mountain goats, bison, prairie dogs, odd birds, mountain deer, elk and fortunately only the background fear and whispers of mountain lions, Bigfoot and bears, oh my! We are truly in the animal kingdom’s playground, but on top of the food chain no longer.

Reach the gravel road entrance, a couple of late night campers send us down the way, speaking of meadows and free camping. Our favorite kind. Find a spot. Ready for our second night in the van, no set up just jammies and lock the doors.

Pull the last door closed, shut ourselves in and lock tight against spooks and creepers when-

“Uh Michael, there’s a light coming towards us.”

I don’t know why we jump out of the van, half frightened, when we could see it was clearly just a man with a flashlight checking the woods around him. His camper lights just visible in the background.

Not even the star soaked inky sky against the Milky Way could alleviate our fears. For no good reason at all, except the irrational haunt of a pitch dark night – jump out of van bed, feet touch cool gravel, hit the road a couple miles further up.

Ten bucks says flashlight guy was freaked as we were. What with us tromping around nearby in the forest just out of sight in the middle of the night. We weren’t really tromping, but still, branches cracking underfoot in the darkness echo like gunfire.

Rationality kicked back in shortly after realizing we appeared to be in hunting country and how unpleasant it would be to be picking buckshot out of our arses or even pushing late September daisies.

Find a turnoff where anyone can clearly see our van. Nerves eased. Finally to rest. Chilly night, bundle in every blanket beneath our metal box we call home alongside the wilderness. We also call her Delilah, the van I mean… If you missed her christening at the beginning of this tale. The Delilah Express.

Wake up, and nothing to pack! Beauty of sleeping in the van. Smiles for the little things.

It’s been a little while but sorry folks, it is tangent time. Just because, looking down at the page while I’m writing this (in green ink today I can’t find my lucky purple G2) and noticing brown and coal color smudges between the lines.

A testament to this new journey- being so close to the earth each day in and day out. But the dirt never seems to come clean from my bitten nails and leaves traces on every surface – soft, coarse, white, wood, skin and soul. Sometimes you’ve just gotta get down in it. Simple everything I mean. See what I’m sayin’ jellybean?

I love it. Yet sometimes…yearn for hot showers in my subconscious dreams and just can’t seem to shake the stank of the road. Ah well, the compromises of adventuring. Hygiene tangent over, moving on. Makin’ tracks towards Salt Lake and hanging out with a pirate friend of the unicorn variety. See ya soon Jamie.

But really quick, another on the way venture. We will never make it to Cali at this rate, but what fun. Michael says we’ve got to check out Hanging Lake. When have I ever said no?

More winding roads through the mountains. The colors really starting to bleed oranges and reds across the stony, yet thriving terrain.

Several frustrating attempts at catching the correct exit for the dang place, all these exits only go one stinking direction on the highway. Mountain navigating, GPS track and backtrack.

Then gotcha. Welcome to Hanging Lake.

Denver had been a nice little break from our almost daily hikes, but we are back at it again and this one was a doozy. Not the highest incline we have tackled, but the steepest and most treacherous to be sure, loose rocks abundant.

We’d not seen the beautiful, shimmering quartz and red-rosy polished stones as we had in South Dakota. The Rockies are burnt charcoal and shades of gray, with dust like you wouldn’t believe. As if sterner than the Black Hills – no nonsense and more imposing. The Black Hills who are known for the color of the trees at a distance, not the actual surface rock.

Make it to the top. Wow. It really does look like the lake just fell into the earth, a hundred yards down or so at the edge of a cliff. Tectonic plates or something. Nature is rad.

Aqua blue of the water looks almost tropical. La-di-daaing about and enjoying the scenery when – oh shit! Just occurred to me that I couldn’t see the water that clearly because my glasses weren’t on my face as per usual…they were in fact halfway down the trail on a log bench inside a log hut where I took them off and set them down to take a picture. Seven Hells!

“Meet ya at the bottom Michael!” I yelled and took off down the mountainside. Aching knees and loose stones be damned. If my grandma finds out I lost the glasses she paid for she’ll have my head. This is why I don’t have nice things…..

Sweat dripping off my nose some fifteen minutes later…Whew! They were still there. Put them securely on my nose and wait for Michael. Lovely pit-stop but time to go before my typical luck continues in some other form.

On to Salt Lake City ladies and gents, til’ next time. 😉

Denver was a blurrrrr.

Our first major city since we left MKE and one of Michael’s old ski bum stomping grounds…We were bound for a little fun.

Parked and walked down 16^th Street mall area. Hustlin’ and bustlin’ in a convergence of bodies in this vastly sprawling city. We’ve been here ten minutes. I think I love it here. It smells of concrete, beer and Mexican food. Hallelujah.

Denver’s weird grid tricks Michael’s Google Maps app and we walked the super scenic route to grab a cold one by Coors Field. Normally wouldn’t mind – but my Northwood’s disposition is showing and  they say Denver is always sunny but they mean it’s freakin’ hot and I’m roasting. Remembering the cool north, unpredictable winds and temperatures. I’ll regret this moment come December frosts.

Sweat trickled down my neck, making my braid stick to slick skin. Wandered awhile, takin’ in the mile high city. I am in need of a new zip-code, after all.

Early Saturday evening and we’re ready to start our little busking project. I jam out and people watch while window shopping on 16^th Street again. Kiddie corner is the Denver Hard Rock Café, where Michael awaits me. Sipping old fashions and flirting with the cute bartender girl. He’s missed the ‘snow bunnies’ I guess…

Meetup with a dear friend. Same as always- he’s all smiles and bouncing around like a golden retriever. Go to a few downtown watering holes and then bunker down at his casa in Cheesman Park. Seems to be where the twenty-somethings congregate.

Catch up, tune in, turn up and play it out. Our first four-walled house stay in days. Crack a Coors Banquet, keeping it classy. Then YouTube into the a.m. Must’ve been a little technology starved – we were so far down music video watching wormholes it was all like MTV circa 98′, pre-Apple musik up in here. Yo.

Wilderness to wireless. Feels strange after growing to love the contours of roots and rocks against a tent floor.

Denver day two and we decide to overstay our welcome and another night. Before I could say “Sunday Funday” I’m been whisked away to a Bengals bar of all places- The Irish Snug- one of Michael’s old haunts, where I happen to be the only Steelers fan in a sea of orange and white….A Bungal I am not.

I maintain a moderately silent jubilation at the Steelers’ steady lead until near the fourth quarter. Impending victory and bottomless mimosas had loosened my tongue and earn me a few choice, contemptuous scowls.

I’ve got work to do, yet I’ve just lost the better part of the afternoon. Seven Hells.

Ah well…to be young.

Michael meets back up with us at “The Snug” throws back a pint and we’re off again.

Carry on throughout the day. Sing, skate, separate- collide and reemerge on the other side of town. We could hardly recognize the day as the same one we started, such was the blur of our escapades.

Busk once more then return to four walls for the first honest to goodness television we’d watched since before Shangri La. Consensus = Shrek = classic.

“Ogres are like onions, end of story bye bye, see ya later!”

We could be twelve year olds if not for the magnificent array of Coors Banquets adorning the coffee table. Not to mention the wine stains and last dregs of a cheap red in the bottoms of 87 cent Wally-World Disney cups. Keepin’ it classy.

Denver done us in, early zzzz’s and headed out in the morning.

Looks like our van puked in homie’s living room. Gather belongings, fond goodbyes and sayonara Denver. Might be back one day.  😉

Hello again. How has everyone been? Goood? Spectacular? Excellent us too. By the time we had finally found the elusive Poet’s Table, and traversed below Wyoming’s skies of infinity blues and powderpuff clouds, we then arrived in Fort Collins, without any particular plans at all…Not a one.

We have had a solid tent camping streak going since Shangri La, but the college town seemed a good place to try our hand at crashing in the good ol’ Chevy.

Park on the main drag, lock up. Walk down bustling pre-dusk sidewalks of Fort Collins on a Thursday evening.

Skies burn and darken to a deeper blue, a backdrop for one of the grandest full moons this young wolf has ever looked upon.

Her fair lady moon illuminates the lower mountain town. So close, as to pluck it from the inky sky between my thumb and forefinger…mirrors my soul – burning in a lantern for eternity.

As to turn tides to tsunamis and glow almost celestial and luminescent as we wind our way through the base of the Rocky Mountains towards Heaven and the skies.

Wander more. Drink it in. Fret a little about where to park the Chevy to snag some Z’s before making tracks to Boulder.

City ordinance – no sleeping in your vehicle…

Bummer mannn….’

Ask locals about the overnight scene and then stumble upon the oldest bar in town. The Town Pump. Standing strong and slinging moonshine for nigh on 107 years.

Legend has it there were underground bootlegging’ tunnels neath’ the joint for hustlin’ moonshine in the prime years of the prohibition. Wicked.

Obviously we indulge – throwback house spirits, a special with our beers.

I sampled the “Apple Pie” while Michael procured the “White Lightning” – original swilling moonshine.

Couple of locals likewise tossin’ a few back pointed us towards an overlook in the foothills of the Rockies – outside city limits where the berries and cherries wouldn’t bother us. Much obliged, cheers and thanks and drive out to the rendezvous spot. We weren’t really rendezvousing with anyone besides the rock giants, the deer and the stars, but what a word….. Rendezvous.  

Mild key misplacement fiasco and sleeping arrangements in the van prove a bit tedious in the black of night. Overcome. Finally settled, snoring in minutes. Long, arduous, adventurous  day.

Wake and rise on a bluff of the Rocky Mountains. Sunshine and blue skies, parked beneath true behemoth stone walls- near 14,000 feet. Put the Black Hills in their place, at 6,900 feet above sea level. We have become one with the Rockies and the mountain goats.

First night crashing in reliable ol’ Delilah, a beautiful success.

Onwards to Estes Park, further up and further in.

Never been in a mountain town before. Breathing thin air should press on my lungs and rhythms more but we’ve been hiking so often since we left from the festival I hardly feel it. In fact it feels as if I’ve breathed this air all my life.

Burning bright and inhaling deeply of pure freedom. On nobody’s time but the mighty earth’s peaks. Noting simply the sun and moon’s unwavering guidance from dawn to dusk and dawn again.

Respect. For this mountain. Respect for the tides and the gravities of our purpose that have drawn us here. Respect for all nature, else we perish on a barren, unloved wasteland.

Find one of the last available campsites at Estes Park East Portal. Setup camp- a reflex, as breathing now, so efficient are we at setup and tear down. Stakes, clips, zips, fire, dinner, float.

Let it soak.

Late afternoon hike. Take our time and process another landscape, heart-pace, racing, knowing, feeling.

Getting Weird in the Rockies,

Climb trail towards some lake, memory drifts can’t quite place. So many feats in so few days. Yet, rewarded again by sheer beauty, quiet and forgiving, not a ripple on a glass surface reflecting nimbus clouds off of icy mountain water.

Losing light. Quick hike back down. Michael makes potato and cheddar dog mash over the fire. Heavenly. He makes camp cooking look like a Anthony Bourbain special. He tends the fire and stares into orange blazing coals while I hit the hay early. It’s almost too much take in, like overstimmm…..

Should be an early night, much needed rest, but the elk have finally come out to play…. By that I mean bang, it’s rutting season and the park rangers warned us thoroughly.

I’ve never heard such an eerie sound. The coyotes yippy bay and barks I know well by now, being a child of the north, but the elk’s sweet, somber song, echoed through a waning full moon twilight. Twas’ like a whistle, from a distance at first, then permeating and haunting the crisp, thin night air near our mountain camp.

Little do I sleep, but drift amidst wild dreams and ambiance.

Wake, pack-up. Ever efficient.

Trek on, Boulder day trip. Happened upon Fall Fest, locals milling, slow stroll, white tents and handcrafted wares.

Street performers abundant. Makes my heart sing. Classic rock guy on standup bass. Washboard and fiddle clad girls, light happy harmonies under a hot Denver sun. Little darlin’ of no more than eight, playing a small pink ukulele. Infinite smiles.

Bookshop and a beer, get a feel for the place, but we’ve bigger fish to fry. Denver awaits. Time to start our little project in full. Busking and campaigning a bit in the major cities to push back against hunger and share our wonderment around.

Til’ now it’s been the Ani and Michael hiking expedition, but it feels good to reemerge for a time into civilization and the rush. Remember our purpose. Take a stab at fighting the good fight.