Dirt roads and beer bottles

I grew up in a rural area. Dirt roads, horses and Goliath oak trees mingle in my memory with the scraped knees and laughter of childhood. I spent afternoons picking alfalfa to give to the horses that bordered us on two sides. To this day Alfalfa is one of my favorite smells. Instant good childhood memories. Some days I wish I had a bouquet of it.

Of the horses that came and went in the fields around us there was a mare that my dad bonded with more then the rest. I loved to go visit her with him. As a kid I was always standing a ways back, intimidated by her size and beauty. They were old friends, my dad and that horse. He would stroke her neck, clean the bugs out of her ears, even lean far over the fence and rub her belly. I remember thinking once that it looked like a dance. The way the two moved around each other, even with the fence in between. She had a foul that year, and even that hadn't changed much.

Like a million times before I ran after my dad to go visit her that day. The first realization that anything was wrong was the ten metal stitches just below the mare's ear. My dad explained that she had been attached a few days before. Some drunk kids had staggered past and tried to mess with her foul. When the mare stepped in the way they had hit her with one of their glass beer bottles. I remember how horrible the stitches looked. But I remember her behavior more. She was a different horse.

I learned the definition of gun shy that day. For the half an hour we were there, my dad and that mare danced. But this was a new dance. The first time she tried to bite him I took a big step back and asked why she had changed. My dad explained that she was simply scared. But he was more stubborn then her fear. Every time she startled backwards, he would wait patiently for her to inch back to the fence. Every time she tried to bite him he would push her head away and go back to gently stroking her. By the time we walked home I wasn't sure who I was more amazed at, him or the mare. My dad went back more days then not, reteaching a friend what safe people looked like.

Some days, I feel like that mare.

I remember watching my dad raise his hand to stroke the mare's face that day. Watching the panic fill her eyes. Watching her scramble back a few steps to get out of reach from what she was sure was danger. I have found myself in that position more then once recently. Suddenly standing ten feet from a friend, trying to find the weapon I am sure I caught a glint from out of the corner of my eye. Realizing instead it was an innocent statement, or a simple miss step. The hard season is over. Almost all of the visible scars have healed. Life is again good. But I keep thinking of that mare. Reminding myself that trust in anything takes longer to heal then the wounds that break it.

Ghosts in the floorboards

Last year I uncovered some nasty ghosts from my past. They were foul mouthed, belligerent, resilient, and defiant. After years of banging furniture, scaring off neighbors, and making my life miserable, I finally found their hiding place in the baseboards. Once in the light of day I started a full on ghostbusters war to deal with them. It was the beginning of the end. But then over a year ago those twenty year old spirits took a back seat to more pressing issues. With little effort (to my utter surprise) I shoved then into a closet in the basement to be dealt with at a later date.

And there they waited.

A crazy cold house, a three month road trip, friend reorganizations, a summer spent trying to find home again. And still they waited. A few times in that year they became like roudy teens. Attention deprived and provoked beyond any reasonable spooks patience they would rattle the pipes, scream (in the erie way only creepy ghosts can), and raise a general ruckus. Only to be faced down and reminded that life had more pressing issues.

And so they waited.

A few weeks ago the closet started getting noisy again. So last week I went to face them down again. Remind the bastards that this was not the time. A year on the back burner hadn't deluded their potency or dulled there enthusiasm. And after a black eye and a sore fist I thought that would be the end of it for a while. It wasn't. The hair on the back of my neck is still standing on end, and the creaking noises have become almost constant.

Walking town today I was trying to figure out why now these phantoms are getting so roudy. My life is levening off. I have a home I love. I just got stable work for the next three months. And school is about to start back up. Life is mellowing out. The statement hit me mid stride. Life is mellowing out. There are no more pressing issues, no more chaos to deal with while they wait in the closet. Their patience is done.

I am stronger then I was a year ago, more savvy of their scare tactics, more comfortable with my proton pack, and have a better back up team . So if this must begin again. bring it on. God willing, this will be the end of the end.

A tribute

I'm home. Life is again finding a routine and the weekly map has shrunk back to the 100-ish mile radius I seem to bounce around in. So before daily life starts fading the sound of the open road completely, there is tradition to hold to. So a tribute. Almost three months, twelve states, ten national parks, ten attractions, and over 9,500 miles on the road.

Weirdest moment:
Getting offered a box of cheerios by a french lady at Arches NP visitors center. True story.

Scariest moment:
Tie. 1. First night sleeping in the car. 2. The elk right outside my rent at two am at Grand Canyon. I thought it was a person till the munching noises started.

Favorite item:
Prescription sunglasses. These things are amazing!

Favorite smell (Logan asked):
Alfalfa. Instant good childhood memories.

Best moment:
First successful night camping. One set up tent and roman for dinner and I was king of the world.

Favorite spot:
Powell Point, Grand Canyon, at Sunrise, alone. Indescribable

Funniest moment:
Getting spooked by a huge crow as it flew out of the back of a truck right next to me with a mouthful of hamburger buns at Yellowstone. Hard to explain. But I laughed out-loud for five minutes standing in the parking lot.

Favorite food:
Tie: 1. Cherry Chip cookies from King Soopers (Colo Grocery store) They are sooooooo goooooodd! 2. Corn Shell things at YWAM flagstaff ( I still have some... though very crumbled 3. Choc Pasta. The best road trip desert on the planet. (if you like pasta raw)

Favorite Animal:
Kangaroo mouse in Joshua Tree. He hung out around my campfire for half an hour.
2nd place: Buffalo, Grizzly bear, Road runner, Jackrabbit... being chased by the Coyote, Prairie dog town (I forgot that they bark!)

Merit Badges:
Setting up the tent in a down pour (all thanks to Dad's '65 army poncho)
Sleeping in the car
Hiking with out air (living at sea lvl has finally caught up with me)

Biggest surprise:
Getting a new camera as a gift. Its soooooooo nice :-)

Best accomplishment.
All of it. Hiking to the top of the Great Sand Dunes, sleeping in the car, going alone, hiking the Flatirons, and way to many others to name.

Favorite Town:
Ouray, CO. Now more then ever
Followed maybe by Aladdin WY, Pop. 15

Best Locals tip:
Elevators in the Luxor in Vegas. Its like a cog railway :-)

Favorite People:
Nathan and Jill. They earned it.

Fun-est...thing:
Building sand castles at White Sands NM. It had just rained and it was perfect.

I found another mans shoes down this road, and miles later I found grace for both of us. I found that sometimes the ugliest, hardest parts can hold as just as much beauty, even if you can't put it on a postcard. And somewhere, between sunrise at the canyon, and the midnight in the city, I found my first love. I didn't expect this trip to have been as big as New Zealand. Looking back I have no idea why. In the end it has held more change in my life then the last time I exited for three months. Two years ago the end of that trip was the start of a chapter in my life. Now, the end of this trip, seems to be signaling the same. The close of a season, and the start of something new. This time, it feels like the air after a hard rain. And I am excited.

"There is supposed to come a point. When someone walks up to you and says. It is different now. That the paper doll didn't disintegrate, she bloomed. That invisibility is a trick of the heart as well as the eyes. That he was wrong, and you are beautiful." Someone did.

Soli Deo Gloria

People

It’s the people that make the road. I came for the beauty. The national parks and open road that held something my life has lacked for some time. Don’t get me wrong, I found it. Enough of it to take my breath away and hold it, finally longer then the pain that stole it over a million minutes ago. But even more surprising then the amount of beauty I found, was the where. There was the side roads and in between places, and then there was the people. From decade old friends, to the campground neighbors. Watching these people, I am again believing that desire, motivation and passion are some of the most powerful things on earth. “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." Margaret Mead once said. I found extraordinary beauty in the tears of a foster mom, and in the heart and integrity of a man the world sets aside. And I had forgotten. That friends who earn the right to call you to the carpet, are worth ten of those who spout pretty words. That being offered a couch at two in the morning by someone who went to bed at nine, means more then a million hallmark cards. I rediscovered the wonder that is humanity. It was another thing I have lost along the way. I crossed the 8,000 mile yesterday. And have close to 2000 left to go. But for the first time since I started the journey, I am eager to get there. Eager to see the friends that still hold sway.

Remember

I remember the girl who used to live here. I remember her fear. I remember her laugh. But when I walk these halls there is no sign of her. Twenty years later, in the bathroom half way down the hall, still hangs the child size toothbrush holders. The clay animal figures now hang behind a gathering of electric razors and aftershave. But there are only three. The fourth, broken years ago.

I remember the teenager who used to live here. I remember her faith. I remember her pain.
But when I walk down these stairs, there is no sign of her. The basement that held daylight at bay, now only clings to the past. A mixture of dust and florescent light rests on the blue shag carpet. The silence hangs just above the collection of video games.

I remember the young woman who used to live here. I remember her dreams. I remember her nightmares. But when I walk these streets, there is no sign of her. The small town has pushed at its boundaries, adding the Super Wal-mart to the north and the new strip mall to the south. But the limitations still linger in the side streets and mind sets.

I remember that girl. I remember her search for truth, I remember her strength. And I remember the day you lost control of her.

Breath Linger Rest

When I started this three month road trip I bought a new journal. The same little black kind I took to New Zealand, and covered in memories from the trip. The same kind I have used for the two years since. The same kind I will use, and cover with memories from this trip. I have written in it everyday. Always with more stories then I have energy to write. But I haven't said anything. Recounting events with little of my soul transfering to the page.
I came on this trip to breath. Hoping that if I could just expose my soul to enough beauty it would reboot it somehow. That some how, breathing and lingering and resting would mend the scars of the last two years. I am finding beauty every where. From the expected destinations to a million unexpected corners. I have gasped or dropped my jaw more times then I can count in the week I have been on the road. But my soul hasn't moved, hasn't breathed or even taken notice.
Yesterday was the anniversary of the start of it all. The day two years ago when God made a statement, and I called him a liar. It was the first in a long line of dominos of things I once called certain. So in front of a campfire in the middle of the desert I pulled out my little black journal that holds the last two years. And remembered. Hinesight is like truth. It can set you free, but might hurt like hell in the process. I found me in the last two years, buried under a sea of fear and lies. But at a cost I was never prepaired to pay. I wouldn't change it, but I don't know how to mend it either. I found out this week mourning is going to play a part.
So today I will keep driving and keep talking to a God I know so little of. The world feels real out here. Seattle High is distant and shrinking in the rear view mirror. Choices feel as endless as the miles of pavement. And hope seems to be hanging somewhere on the horrizon.

A moment of silence

This is my car. Well, was my car. I got her when I was seventeen. She made it through six moves, eleven year, two states, got hit four times, I put over 120,000 miles on her (she has 215,000 total), and was two years older then me. She was my comfort blanket. A point of consistency though a decade of major change in my life. And yesterday she had to be retired. I cried. I knew I would. So here is to the old girl. Though I still wish Overhaulin had kidnapped her and fixed her up :-), she had a good long run, and was an amazing little car.