June 24, 2009

"I left my lungs in San Francisco"

I needed air for my tires so I rode up and down a few streets looking for a bike shop while Shelby stayed put and wrote in her journal. I finally found a bike rental place that let me use a pump. Waiting out side a woman asked me to take her picture with her bike. She asked where I was from.
“Chicago.”
I asked where she was from.
“Chapel Hill, NC.”
“What?! I’m originally from Raleigh.”

She and her husband worked at Duke. She was a sweet and obviously southern lady, her husband was obviously a transplant (like most of Duke’s student body) from New Jersey, or some such horrible place. Don’t get me wrong he was also very nice but all business and with no time to chat about geographic coincidence. They were going to bike over the Golden Gate and take the ferry back to Fisherman’s Wharf, a common route for cycling tourists.
Shelby and I had plans of our own. When I caught up with her she was reading on a bench underneath the TransAmerica Building (the pointy pyramid one).



We headed down Market St through the financial district and ran full tilt into a farmer’s market. We got off our bikes and walked them through to take a gander. After a few minutes we proceeded with the rest of the plan. The plan for today was this: Bike from North Beach to the Haight and wind our way through Golden Gate Park. On the other side of the park we would head up to the Cliff House and see that, then back through Golden Gate park to the Castro, and finally the Mission. Ambitious to say the least.

Biking up the worst hills proved impossible, but most of the hills were just very challenging. Determined to pedal up hills that my bike isn't gear low enough for, I nearly died twice. In GG park we saw the botanical gardens, the dutch windmill, and a WPA mural in the Park Chalet. Outside the Cliff House was a giant Camera Obscura. I was bummed that it was closed. Next to the Cliff House are the concrete ruins of the Sutro Baths, an old swimming resort from way back when that part of the city was secluded and cut off from the main part. We ate chili at a little diner called Louis’, which is also up on a cliff, just a few hundred feet from the more famous “Cliff House”

Back down the hill and through the park we made our way to the Castro. We locked up the bikes and explored. We found the GLBT Historical Society and looked around. They told us where to find Harvey Milk’s old photo shop and soon we were standing over the plaque and looking up at the mural on the second floor. I don't know enough about Harvey Milk to know how he would react to a giant plush penis walking down Castro, but I'm sure it would have made an impression.


We continued on to the Mission district for a drink and to find one of the taquerias that Claire had recommended. We stumbled onto a cool little bar called Amnesia (As we found out when we got to LA our friend Thom knows the owners) A Django Reinhart style jazz band was schedule to play so we stuck around until about an hour into their set. We walked on to get dinner at la Corneta and headed biking back home exhausted after a full day of exploration.

June 23, 2009

"San Francisco"

We had a great breakfast at Blue Lake’s only restaurant and Claire gave us a bunch of great things to see and do in San Francisco. Armed with our list, we said good bye and took the 101 South. We drove through some amazing redwood forests. You hear about the size of the trees, but nothing can prepare you for it.
As we approached we kept an eye out for any land marks then we came around a hill and saw the Golden Gate Bridge headed straight for us. As we drove over it it was relatively clear and we met tons of cyclists coming from the city. We drove straight into the city and up Lombard St. (steep) and then down Lombard St. (the real windy section) Our first tourist destination taken care of in the first 5 min.

We were headed straight to the piers to try and get a tour of Alcatraz right away. We wanted to get that out of the way soon. Turns out the earliest time they had tickets for was Thursday morning, the day we were planning on leaving. So, instead of the first thing we did it would be the last thing we did.

We Checked into our hostel, The Green Tortoise. It was extravagant as far as hostels go. Very nice and full of travelers. That night we decided to walk around North Beach find a bar and relax. We walked through Chinatown, went to City Lights bookstore (an old haunt of the Beats) and found the Claire recommended “Specs”, a bar that reminded us a lot of Chicago’s Old Town Ale House. In some ways North Beach and Old Town seemed very similar in general. For dinner we walked a little farther and found a stretch of Italian restaurants, we had no recommendation so we were deliberating, when a tall, dark haired gent popped out of Michaelangelo’s doorway.
“Hey, folks come on in. I’ll give you a glass of wine on me.”
We must have looked unconvinced even though I was pretty much sold, because he kept chatting with us.
“Where you from?”
“Really? My Grand father’s from Chicago.”
“My dad’s name is Joe. He was actually mad that my mom didn’t name me Joe. So I’m Michaelangelo Joseph.”


We went in and had calamari and ravioli. We got some giggly folks nearby to take our picture. They were especially tickled, because we were sitting under neath a naked man. As we were getting ready to leave two women walked in and one was wearing an NC State shirt. Very rare. (UNC apparel is everywhere because everyone buys it regardless of whether they went there, but someone wearing a Wolfpack shirt must be an alum) On our way out we asked them if they had gone there. They were actually current students who were spending the summer in SF. One was from Greensboro and the other was from Shelby.
“What!? I’M from Shelby.”
Then Shelby explained that she was born in Charlotte and that it is just coincidence that she happened to be named Shelby and later move to Shelby, NC.
Anyway, small world.

We went back to the hostel and prepared for a full day of biking, starting in the morning.

June 22, 2009

"Population 7,099 +2"

Me: After Humbug was Blue Lake, CA. Population 7,099.
You: I’ve never heard of Blue Lake.
Me: Me neither, before this.
You: Why Blue Lake? What’s in Blue Lake?
Me: Interesting story…My old friend Claire from high school.

When Shelby and I were planning out this trip we tried to get in touch with everyone we knew whose town we were going to be going to. We told friends in LA, my cousin in OR, and My friends Claire and Colin in Austin, TX.

You: But I thought you said Blue La..
Me: Enough out of you! I’m getting there.


As it turns out Claire would not be in Austin when we would be there. (We will get to see her husband Colin.) Claire would be in Northern California at a month long theater intensive for Comedia Dell’Arte. (An old Italian style of theater)
“But Claire,” I says, “Claire…WE will be in Northern California.”
Five minutes of hysterical laughter ensued.


So here we were in Blue Lake. Actually, we arrived on the same day Claire did and after meeting up with her found out we were able to stay in an extra room in her dorm.
Then we drove her over to Arcata, one town over and with more variety of stuff to do. Arcata has a college town feel, in part due to the college there. We ate dinner and walked around and Claire lamented the fact that she didn’t have a car and would be stuck for the most part in Blue Lake for the weekends. There is apparently only one restaurant in Blue Lake. However there was this exciting box outside the building where she was staying. After exploring Arcata, we went back to Blue Lake. Claire’s roommates were playing trivial pursuit without the board so we joined for a while. When I answered correctly that Hitler became Chancellor of Germany in 1933, Claire shot me a suspicious look and Shelby started a rumor that I was a Nazi. Not true.

June 21, 2009

“Father’s Day? Bah, Humbug”

We left Portand relatively early so we could have lunch with my cousin John and his family in Corvalis, OR. I apologized for high-jacking their Father’s Day, but they didn’t seem to mind. When we got to their house John, Margit and their two kids Henry and Liza all greeted us as we walked in. Henry and Liza gave us a whirlwind tour of the house, highlights of which included Henry’s Pokemon cards and Liza’s acrobatics. Shelby piqued Margit interest when she mentioned that here students all play pokemon.
“Do they ever grow out of it?”
“Yeah, not a lot of my 5th graders play Pokemon. Maybe some of the less mature 5th graders but not many.”
That seemed to give Margit hope.

We headed out the door to lunch and posed for a picture in front of the house. Liza made a game of grabbing my hat.

We got lunch to go from a local bakery and took it to some nearby picnic tables. We hopped around to different table trying to find one that was somewhat sheltered from the rain that snuck up on us, but eventually made it back to the bakery and ate inside. Henry said,
“It’s not a picnic in Oregon if you’re not moving.”

When we left them we went across town to get an oil change. We’re driving a rental, but it had been 3000 miles and I’d like to think that Hertz would do the same for me. (I’m told that they will reimburse us.)


John had given us directions for the Oregon coast so we headed west for our first peek of the pacific. We stopped, hiked up a huge sand dune and there it was. In the late afternoon sun it looked warm and inviting. The afternoon sun is a lying sack of hammers. I put my feet in and nearly froze those beanbags off. Cold. Cold but worth it.

We drove south down some amazing coastline. The towns, the temperature, and the terrain reminded us of Maine. Ironic that they both have a Portland. I just realized that the alliteration and the rhyme of that last one should be a poem. Here goes. It’s called:
“Ironic that they both have a Portland”

The towns
The temperature and
The terrain
Reminded us of Maine

The signs
That shown on
The shore, again,
Assured us it was Oregon.


Not bad. We camped at a state park called Humbug Mt., watched a beautiful sunset and camped for the first time without any rain whatsoever. (Previous camping nights have involved at least some small amount of rain.) We made Cincinnati style chili that any true Cincinnatian would probably scoff at but we nevertheless devoured.

June 20, 2009

"Saturday Market"

We rode bikes from Bob and Stacy's house down to the what we thought was the center of town. We ate dim sum at the "House of Louie" for lunch and it was surprisingly cheap. We rode a little further and found the Saturday Market. Lots of little arts and craft kiosks (and a hand full of arts and craps) food vendors, and musicians. It was also crawling with young able-bodied but perhaps drug-addicted homeless. Most of which were my age or younger. Portland is a haven (as is apparently much of the northwest) for young runaways and homeless youth, due not in small part to its mild climate. It was depressing enough to Shelby to not make her want to live there. I found myself resenting them.
This made me feel old and conservative and compassionless. But these were not psychiatric patients left untreated by an inaccessible health care system. They seemed to me to be kids who didn't want to work. Not all of them were as industrious as the musicians pictured. Some of them probably would have a hard time getting jobs if they chose to, but for whatever reason I got the impression that finding work and a place to live wasn't their greatest priority. I could be totally off-base, but if that's the case then Portland's weather is enabling these jerks.


We bought fun hats and a painting that Shelby really liked and rode back to Bob and Stacey's place.



We played another fun show with a slightly different cast which included another good friend, Craig McCarty. Our friends Lisa and Michiel, that we met at the hostel in Bozeman, came to the show. We hung out after and talked about the juju experience. They had to leave aroung 10:30 so we went back to the theater.

We had drinks at various bars with the cast and got to bed around 1am.

June 19, 2009 Part 2

“Portland”

When we knew we were coming through Portland we contacted our friends Bob and Stacey, who moved from Chicago a while back and started a theater. They offered to let us stay with them and since we were going to be there during the weekend we were invited to perform as well.

We got there Friday evening despite an un-Portland-like downpour that tried its best to blow us off the interstate. We told them the story of the grave and headed to the theater. Bob excitedly prefaced our entrance with a brief description and by stating that he was interested to see our faces when we saw it. The theater was amazing. Built from an old factory, it had high ceilings and on one side a cantilevered balcony over the bar and kitchen. The stage was in the opposite corner and a large section of the 3000 or so square feet were dedicated to cabaret seating. The front and side were made of glass and covered, on the inside, with giant dark curtains.

We played a fun two act show with Stacey and Bob and a handful of other performer who we met that night. The show that happened after ward takes a bit of explaining. So there’s Air Guitar where people pretend to be playing guitar to a song. There’s national championships and people get really into it. It has really caught on. So much so that it has spawned Air Sex competitions, where people pretend to have sex to songs. How this is different from striptease with clothes on is unclear or unimportant. Anyhow this Air Sex tournament was visiting Portland. So in honor of that, the Curious Comedy Theater presented the Air Walking-In-On-Someone-Cheating-On-You contest. Real fun.

Late night at a cool little diner called Stepping Stone with the cast and then bed time on the futon. We planned on biking downtown the next day.

June 19, 2009

“Oregon Trail”


We left Walla Walla and headed toward Portland. Soon after we crossed the Oregon border we hit the south bank of the Columbia River, wide and green and edged by sloping brown cliffs. The wind was chopping up white caps all the way across it. As we drove parallel to the river, Shelby suddenly and matter-of-factly said,
“I want to put my feet in there.”
We found a spot we thought was suitable to pull over, but the rocks leading down to the water were too loose to feel safe climbing down. We gave up the idea and moved on. About a half mile up the road there was another car pulled over and more of a beach-type area, which renewed our interest. A little further and we found a pull off proper that lay beside a steep dune of black sand. We followed a path down to the beach where there were the remnants of a bonfire. We were alone, but it was obvious that quite a few people had been there within a few nights of us. In the aftermath of the bonfire were the ashes of folding chairs, a burnt out gas grill, various plastic bottles and cups, Coors light cans, and, grotesquely, the feathered wing of a bird attached to part of its skeleton. This along with the washed up tractor tire convinced us not to put any parts of our bodies, feet included, into this part of the river.

Instead we thought it would be funny to make a mockumentary short film about Lewis and Clark (This is part of their historic route.) and what they would think if they had found the river in this state when they first explored it. We filmed all of the trash and mused that the burnt out grill beneath the gnarled mulberry tree would have looked to them like some kind of altar and that there would likely have been sacrifices made there. I am as big a fan of morbid irony as anyone, but really only in fiction or when it happens to someone else. But to be fair the morbid irony was not the first thing I thought of when Shelby pointed out the makeshift grave.


But there it was. Beneath the Mulberry tree. A cross of sticks lashed together with vines, adorned with a clear plastic rosary, and a thornless “wicker” crown. Not twenty feet from the water, the sand the grave seemed recently disturbed. A fresh grave? I’m not qualified to say, but my imagination filled in where my credentials were lacking. A homeless person whose buddies buried him and paid tribute with fire and a six pack. Hopefully just a beloved pet, a devoutly catholic pet. But perhaps an illegal immigrant whose compatriots did not want to arouse the attention of the authorities. Shelby’s imagination jumped right to infant. Or more specifically back-alley aborted dead baby.

It didn’t take us long to leave. I was slightly afraid that were not alone and the friends of the buried were near by. But mostly I was just creeped out. We high tailed it out of there, got back in the car and debated whether to report it. We knew we probably should, but aside from the obvious legalities involved we were torn. I am generally opposed to disturbing people’s graves, and think that if it were that persons last wishes to be buried in that manner, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. A little too close to a potential source of drinking water, probably, but then again, that water was already polluted.

I couldn’t help think of my Uncle Ed. His last wishes were to be buried in a burlap sack underneath a nut-bearing tree near a body of water at a depth suitable so as not to be exhumed by wild animals. A party was to follow. Ed, never conventional, was himself the best kind of nut. We all agreed the request was reasonable and appropriate for the generous life he led, insuring that his body would give back what it had used. The state of Georgia disagreed and instead he was cremated. In the end everything about his last wishes, except perhaps the burlap sack, were carried out. His wife and sons spread his ashes beneath a newly planted nut-bearing tree and we had a great party celebrating his life.

If this were that type of grave, but under the radar, I would hate for the authorities to disturb it. What finally did it for us was the thought that it might be a person whose family is looking for them. A teenage drifter or an illegal seasonal farm worker whose whereabouts were unknown to a worrying mother or wife. A mile or so down the road was a state park. We found, not a ranger, but a store attendant who provided us with the number for Ranger Justin. We called him up and let him and the Army Corp of Engineers take over. The area we found the grave, was according to Ranger Justin, in their jurisdiction. He said he’d have to let them know and would work with them to get it checked out.

June 18, 2009

“Maybe there was something to that…”

As we left Glacier, we took a wrong turn and nearly ran out of gas trying to get to the next town. When we found a gas station it was out of gas, but the guy there directed us to another one. A bit of good fortune, because in going to that gas station we stumbled upon a really great coffee house with wi-fi. They used only fair trade coffee and local ingredients on their menu. Shelby checked her email and I went to the bathroom. We I walked back over to our table I stopped in shock.
“Shelby, look behind you.”

On the wall above Shelby’s head was a pen drawing of a wolf. Just to the right of that, on my side of the table was the same featuring a lynx. (See previous chapter “Juju” for spooky coincidence.)
“Weeeeeeeiiiird!”
Our power animals, the ones we had randomly drawn from Tressa’s deck of cards, were right there hovering above us in this coffee shop three days later and hundreds of miles away. (Here I am posing beneath the wolf.)

We did washed clothes at a local laundromat, took showers at a truck stop and drove to Walla Walla, Washington.

“So nice they named it twice”

I wanted to go to Walla Walla, Washington, because of the way they used to say it in Looney Tunes. It was always the place that Daffy Duck’s vacuum cleaner salesman was from. It was everything I expected it to be. Which was not spectacular, but a small college/farm town. They had a quaint business district like most small towns and we found the only bar serving food after 10 and ate dinner there. We got a motel room and fell asleep watching cable.

June 16-17, 2009

“Glacier”

Still digesting the previous night’s experience we got packed up and in the meantime met Alexander the bilingual 2 yr old. We made tentative plans to see Lisa and Michiel again when we passed through Oregon. Wayne the Australian owner of the Hostel had given us directions to Glacier that were more scenic than the interstate. (I love two lane highways. Much more to see.) His directions included a stop at a diner in Avon, MT for a huckleberry milkshake. Huckleberries are kind of a thing in Montana. We said so long and headed for the milkshake.

The drive was beautiful. The milkshake was great. But the thing that stands out was how nice the people who made the milkshake were. The kind of people that are so genuinely nice that it rubs off on you and changes your day. I think part of it is that I am out of the city, away from everything and just able to enjoy great things that happen. It sounds corny, but I have no other explanation. Shelby and I are sickeningly happy.

Glacier was beautiful and huge. We camped on the west side of the park and because the road was closed due to snow 16 miles in we wouldn’t get to see the east side unless we went all the way around the park. That would have been 3 hours of driving. We decided we had plenty to see on the west side.


We camped for two nights next to Lake McDonald. It was nice not to have to take down our tent and pack up, if only for one morning.

We went on a two hour trail ride on horseback and got to see a lot of cool stuff in the park. The wranglers (tour guides) were nice, but talked a lot. I was the last in line, with only the tail end wrangler behind me.

I ended up asking him a lot of personal questions so he wasn’t necessarily giving the historical or natural talking points I’m sure he was trained to give. He did spend a lot of time talking about his former rodeo days and his college and running from a mountain lion.

That morning I had decided to make bean soup for dinner, so I was started soaking the beans before we left for the horse ride. When we got back Shelby read the instructions and discovered it took 4 hours to cook. I had not read that far. I didn’t think we had 4 hours worth of propane, but I was determined to make the soup. So I built a fire and started boiling the beans. We made quesadillas as an appetizer, (which was actually pretty filling) and kept cooking the beans. We made s’mores. And kept cooking the beans. Shelby went to bed. And I kept cooking the beans. I added the last piece of wood to the fire and I decided to add the other ingredients for the final hour of cooking. I waited about half an hour and ate one serving. It was pretty good, but not worth 4 hours of labor. I would say that it was nothing to write home about here I am writing home about it. For some unknown reason, I saved the rest in a plastic container. (A few days later I would dump it out on the side of the road. The trunk of a car is no place to keep leftovers.)

June 15, 2009 Part 2

June 15 Part 2

"JuJu"

After we finished the loop we headed to Glacier, MT. Already running a little late, we ran into a severe weather system and had to pull over to the side of the road for two rounds of hail. (pea to dime sized) With the time we had, we realized that we couldn't make it all the way to Glacier. After a looking through her guidebook, Shelby made a few calls and found a hostel with 24 hr check-in in Bozeman. Best decision EVER!

We walked into a congregation of seven boarders in the living room. A teenage kid with curly dark hair playing the guitar, a couch-sleeping, dark-socked gentleman and a South Korean hiker dishing out a seaweed soup were among those that I noticed immediately. The manager was not around, but the other guests told us how to secure a room. After bringing our bags in, I found Shelby in the kitchen making friends. She has my mom's ability to talk to anyone. When I try it is forced, awkward, and shallow conversation. Shelby makes friends easily and with her lead I can follow suit.

Our new friends in the kitchen were: Tressa a blond braided child of the earth, whose husband, Ben, we were told, was the dark-socked couch-sleeper. Lisa and Michiel (mee-heel), a couple in the middle of the move from Charlottesville, VA to Silverton, OR with their 2yr old son, Alexander, who at the time was asleep upstairs. When we found out that Michiel was from the Netherlands [hence the (mee-heel)] I immediately told him in Dutch that I speak Dutch very well. (It is basically the only phrase that I know. Which I means that by nature I can really only count and lie in this language.) I began ordering various numbers of beers to assert my fluency. I threw in words like paardensnoopjes (pardon snow pias) which means horse candies and Kromsnavel (chrome snaffle) or curved beak. I then explained that my most recent Dutch lesson had come from a newspaper circular for a pet supply store. They thought this odd, but didn't hold it against me.

Tressa, meanwhile, was preparing a polenta crust pizza and casserole for the oven. when we said we were going to the car to get food to cook, she immediately offered to share her meal saying there would be more than enough. We accepted and as a similar gesture went on a beer and wine run. Thirty minutes later, over delicious polenta pizza, PBR and Cabernet Savignon , we sat in the living room and talked.

I talked with Michiel about The Netherlands (Not Holland. North and South Holland are regions of the Netherlands) He was from Groningen, a town that I am familiar with because I've taught improv there. Being from Groningen, not in either North or South Holland, had made him especially sensitive to the Holland Netherlands distinction. As it turns out, he had also lived in Hattem, the town where Shelby and I got engaged. Lisa, originally from Oregon, but also fluent in Dutch, seemed excited by the coincidence of meeting us.

Also, sharing food and spirits, were Tressa and Ben; Myong, a backpacking mountaineer; and a pair of 18yr old college kids, Matt and Woody. Woody, named for Woody Guthrie, was appropriately the one playing his guitar when we came in. The two were on a "vacation" from their first tumultuous year at Humboldt State University in northern California. Their plan was to take the next semester off and see where their journey took them...to that I say, "Yikes!" When I heard that I cringed and thought How glad I was that I was neither 18 myself nor either of their parents.

Matt and Woody...If you are reading this: Go for it. Don't trust anybody over 30 (I'm 32)

Everyone else: Yikes!

At some point Myong went to bed. The conversation continued and made its way from The Netherlands to college to our honeymoon plans to the environmental and energy crises. I think we all pretty much agreed on the nature of the problem, but our takes on the causes and solutions ranged from the Michiel's measured, practical and realistic, to my incredulous and idealistic, to Tressa's impassioned and Ben's Conspiratorial. For instance, Michiel mention the gas only vehicles in Europe that out perform American hybrids for mileage. Ben told us all about an inventor committed to an insane asylum because the energy companies wanted to suppress his zero emission, fuel-atomizing plasma engine.

Then things got interesting. The conversation must have lulled for a second, because Tressa got a look in her eye like she had brought us all there for a reason, kind of a reverse intervention. She looked at Ben almost for his blessing for he knew she was about to say.
"I'm going to get my basket."
She said to him. Then to us.
"I'm going to get my basket. I have some really great Juju that I want to share with you."
There was a collective, silent, "Ummm..."
"Is that O.K.?"
Shelby was the first to vocalize a response.
"Uh, yeah I, I guess I don't know what juju is."
"It's medicine." Ben assured us, as Tressa went to her room for her mysterious basket.
As Shelby and I discussed later, we both first thought that juju might be her term for an illegal substance that no one associated with this blog advocates, but that perhaps responsible adults can make their own decisions about.
I recognized the term juju, but did not consider the possibility that Tressa could be a voodoo priestess.
Tressa returned cradling a large wicker basket. She sat on the floor with her basket in front of her and began. (I paraphrase)
"This is a basket full of instruments and sacred objects that I would like to use to bless you with."
She began by burning sage or some type of fragrance brought it around the circle. She gave Shelby and I a kind of tangled locke of her own hair to use as nesting material. We asked all manner of questions in what seemed to me half way between polite indulgence and nervous tension breaking.
"What's this drum made of?"
"Where is this clay from?"
"What type of fur is that you are rubbing on my face?"
A sacred elk that has blessed us with his being. A River in Oregon. Beaver.

The latter answer she revealed only after the entire group had experience the facial fur rubbing. With a jaunty laugh she announced, "I just rubbed beaver on your face."
Lightheartedly aware of the double meaning, she explained a triple meaning and significance. That was that her last name was in fact Beaver.

Over the course of the ritual Tressa: passed drums around, sprinkled fairy dust over us from one of the fairy wands that she makes, worried that some one she might sell a wand to would use it for evil, wondered if the power of her goodness would even allow her creation to be used for evil, had us lick a salt rock from the Himalayas.

Apparently Ben can't get enough of the mineral, so he sucked for 30min on his own personal salt rock, swearing by it as a cure all.

At a certain point Ben said that he couldn't believe that some of his friends didn't believe in aliens. Tressa then stated without explanation that she had most assuredly been abducted by aliens.

The bulk of the ritual included Tressa painting our faces one at a time with clay while reciting a prayer and letting us draw cards depicting our power animal.

Secretly hoping for the Wolf, I drew the Lynx, which is, according to Tressa's book, the knower of secrets. Shelby was next. She did draw the Wolf. (Yikes.) The Wolf is a teacher. What!?!? (For those who don't know...Shelby IS a teacher. Yikes again.)

To finish the ceremony, we were invited to paint Tressa's face. Most of us obliged.

She thanked us all for allowing her to share her juju with us. The way she said it hinted that she knew we probably thought it was weird. I must admit I do not consider myself superstitious nor am I now a convert to any of the philosophies on which the ceremony drew. I would not characterize the experience as spiritual for me. A new experience. Yes. An interesting experience. Definitely. I would even call it fun. However, I later considered the experience that Tressa had. Her sincerity throughout the entire process was unquestionable and completely endearing. I have no doubt that it was a spiritual experience for Tressa. Who am I to deny her that?

June 15, 2009 Part 1

June 15 Part 1

"In the Loop"

We took a short hike in the morning along the bank of the river and climbed a big rock outcropping over the lake. After packing up the car we took much needed showers at the camp facilities and headed out to finish the rest of the wildlife loop that we never got to finish.
Instead of the two or three buffalo on the side of the road leading up to the campsite, we saw an entire herd. Granted a herd is not quite what it used to be, nevertheless we were impressed. Here are some of the things we saw.

June 14, 2009

June 14

“Why Drug”

I-95’s South of the Border, you’ve got competition. You may not be the tackiest, glorified truck stop, tourist trap in the country. Wall Drug may have you beat. Absolutely, ridiculous. Though not as racist as the Speedy Gonzalez-style Mexican theme of South of the Border, Wall Drug’s ubiquitous and obnoxious billboards pepper the state. Here’s what I liked: Homemade doughnuts (tasty), camping supplies (useful), Banjo and guitar playing nickelodeon (neat). Here’s what’s not to like: Everything else. Though I secretly enjoyed it, I feel like I wasted enough time stopping there and shouldn’t waste anymore writing about it.

“Run to the Hills”

Onto The Black Hills and Custer State Park. We decided it might be nice to ride around the “wildlife loop” here before heading to Deadwood. Shelby really wanted to see as she put it “where all the old outlaws used to hang out.” The time of day and the beauty of the park convinced us to spend the night there and the memory of Wall Drug and the Corn Palace led us to think that Deadwood might be a similar tourist trap. So we would end up skipping that portion of our itinerary, but for the time being we enjoyed our stay in Custer State Park. Because of the impromptu nature of our decision to stay there we did not have reservations for a campsite. No problem, though because the sign said to find an empty spot and pay when the attendant came around.
After seeing a number of deer, buffaloe and goats, about halfway through the 20 mile wildlife loop we found one such spot in the Blue Bell campsite. We set up the tarp and tent just beating a slight drizzle. An attendant came around about 30min after we got there and without a word put an orange piece of paper on our site’s post. After he left, Shelby read it. It was the reservation slip for YOUNG C of Illinois. Whoopsie.

We decided to wait it out. These mystery campers weren’t here yet. There was plenty of room for two tents. There had not been a reserved sign when we arrived. We made every excuse not to take down the tent and move on. (I was spearheading this effort. I didn’t think and still don’t think it was a big deal, but as we will see, park employees feel differently.) We made it through dinner and about to wash the dishes when an SUV with Illinois plates drove up. The fella driving got out and we discussed the situation. Adam and Cindy Young of Oak Park, IL practically our neighbors. He assured us that they were not weirdos and would have no problem sharing with us for the first of their three nights. In the mean time though he would go look for another open spot and take that one first. I went to wash the dishes and ran into a campsite host, who had earlier called me “big guy” when we passed in the bathroom. He sympathetically informed me that we had to pull up stakes, literally, and move on. He let me know that, according to the voice on the other end of his walkie, the Center Lake Campsite had ten vacancies. He called me “big guy” again and drove away in his golf cart.

Shelby finished the dishes, so I could start quickly packing the car. I was worried that we would get to Center Lake too late to find a vacancy. It was starting to get dark. Adam and Cindy were very nice and since we had a fire going already for them, offered to pay for the firewood we had used. At our refusal they said they would buy us a beer back in Chicago. Fine by us. They set up as we broke down camp. I had the hair-brained idea that Shelby would drive ahead and pick out a spot while I broke down the tent and biked it over when I was done. Luckily, she got everything else packed in the car around the same time that I got the tent put away so we drove together. As we went over the 12 miles of steep hilly terrain I imagined myself biking with an awkward grip on the handle of our tent’s carrying case. I might have died. If not I probably would have gotten there with the tent around 3am. Did I mention that I was out of shape?

When we drove up to our second campground of the evening there were several vacancies, so all that haste was for nothing. I got the tent started on the banks of a small lake while Shelby went to the general store for supplies. As I was setting up two deer came within 100ft of me to graze. I heard them splash through the creek onto a little marshy patch between our camp and the lake. Since we had already eaten, we built a fire and made s’mores. Again Shelby went to bed to write by flashlight in her journal. As I watched the fire die, I heard something rustle and splash near by. I got the flash light from Shelby and shined it on to two glowing orange eyes. Then I decided the fire could see itself out.

June 13, 2009

June 13

“What’s it about?”

We broke camp and drove across southern MN, and into SD. With our sense of irony and big city snobbery intact, as a joke, we stopped in Mitchell at the Corn Palace. A building dedicated to and decorated with corn. First, built in 1892, when people were impressed by gigantic feats of time wasting. Truly a marvel of “What?” Here is the part of the fable where I tell you not to be such a snob and not to judge a building by it’s corn cover, and that it was actually a very enlightening and thoughtful experience of reflection on the agrarian history of our nation and the middle west and the importance of corn in that history. But of course this isn’t a fable and it was none of those things. Not that it couldn’t be. We really didn’t give it a chance. If there is one criticism of this honeymoon so far it is that we didn’t take the Corn Palace seriously. So, trust me Corn Palace fans and Mitchell residents, it was our loss. We enjoyed it and I’m not sorry for stopping. We found it profoundly entertaining and did not in the least take it seriously.
At one point I heard a souvenir shop employee tell a woman about the movie that was showing later. Perhaps she was hoping they might be having a Stanley Kubrick retrospective film festival that day, but she asked,
“What’s it about?”
Sadly he dignified her question with the response,
“It’s about the Corn Palace.”
(Shelby’s favorite overheard line was “You wanna go ahead and get that unicorn?”)


"Misnomer"

We made PBandH’s in the parking lot and headed to the Badlands. I know what you’re thinking, but they were actually really good lands. Giant termite hills or drip sandcastles. A long, eroded cliff wall separating the Upper Prairie from the Lower Prairie.
We stopped along with scores of other tourists at the scenic overlooks and walked out on the gnarled cascading fingers of what felt under our feet like dried mud. It was not hard to imagine that if the threatening thunderstorm in the distance were suddenly upon us we would be washed into the White River Valley like the centuries worth of silt that left these formations.

We set up camp in the Badlands National Park on the Lower Prairie at the foot of a steep winding pass, long ago paved by the park service and not currently as intimidating as the pioneers must have found it in their wagons. That is unless you are two relatively out of shape city slickers trying to bike their way up for a photo op. Chicago is flat. Hills are hard to find. Needless to say, after a few minutes of panting we walked our bikes up. The ride down was a little scary for me because I wasn’t totally confident in the repairs I had made to our bikes. The whole way down, I kept having images of failed brakes or imploding wheels, Shelby flying over the handle bars and sliding face first sown the highway. Then I flashed forward to a week later. One broken arm and a full body scab. Strange, but actually in our relationship Shelby is the worry-wart.

We made it back down though without incident, had soup, the best zucchini, squash and onions, and played a little bacci ball. After dinner and bacci, the sporadic light rain we had been experiencing seemed to blow over completely and we watch the same distant thunderstorm light the horizon with cloud to cloud and the occasional ground striking flashes of lightening.

We went to bed and I was startled awake by the business end of the same storm. I sat up for a while afraid that the wind would tear our rain fly away, leaving only mosquito netting between us and the rain. Tried to sleep. Then a crash came from outside where we had left our stove and some pot and stuff out. There was nothing there I thought could blow away but I quickly got dressed and went out to investigate. There was surprisingly little rain, big drops but not a lot them. What made it sound like a downpour from inside the tent was the strong, steady wind. The crash had been Shelby’s bike blowing over and had crashed against the picnic table.. So I secured it (set it on the ground) so that it wouldn’t blow over again and try to go back to sleep. In the morning the sun was out like nothing had ever happened. The tent was dry by the time we packed it up. After a breakfast of oatmeal, we drove the rest of the way through the park and back to the interstate, headed to the Black Hills.

June 12, 2009

June 12

“Forward”

Shelby and I left Chicago this morning and headed for Madison, WI. It doesn’t seem like the obvious honeymoon destination and it’s so close to Chicago that we almost dismissed it when telling people that it was our first stop. But neither of us had ever been, and we’d toyed with the possibility of grad school At Wisconsin, so we wanted to give it a try. It was beautiful. We biked around part of Lake Monona (or was it Mandota) and said “This would be a nice place to open a theater.” We met a man selling a streetwise (or streetwise style homeless newspaper) gregarious and seemingly knowledgable about racing bikes. I stood out side the drugstore where he was stationed waiting for Shelby, So I got to hear his banter quite a bit. After any woman would decline him he would always compliment their top.
“I like your top.”
No matter the top! (He complimented some pretty blazaise tops, y’all.)
“Looks infinitely better on you than it would on me. I’m just sayin’ is all”
By this time the women were well down the block and awkwardly smiling and knodding over their shoulder. Then invariably someone with small children would walk by and he would say “How’d you get so short?” which would confuse the children. “Hope it’s not catching…”
More confusion.
“I better get some antibiotics if it is.”
Kids are well down the block confused and crying, parents are scowling.


We had peanut butter and honey sandwiches (from here on referred to as PB and H) on the capital lawn. Saw a statue with this plaque and continued on to Myre-Big Island, MN to camp for the night.



“Perfect Record”





We are 3/3. It always rains when we camp. It was dark by the time we got set up. It stopped raining long enough to build a fire. The tattooed people next to us had a couple of dogs and Shelby says again that she misses Kevin. (Our dog Kevin is staying with her parents in NC while we jaunt around the country) On a little hike we saw a toad, a deer, a raccoon, and a beautiful sunset over the lake.
We made a very nice dinner on the propane camp stove. Exhausted, Shelby went in the tent with a flashlight to write in her journal and read. I stayed out to watch the stars as the fire died. I eventually coaxed her out for a few minutes. She spotted what she thinks may be a shooting star, but is moving so slowly that I think must be a satellite. I’ve never seen a satellite before and not even sure if you can see them, but whatever that was we saw another. Bed time. Tomorrow, we set sail for South Dakota.

Packing up

It's late. Shelby is asleep and I am finishing up packing so we can leave early. Tomorrow, we are driving west from Chicago and the first stop is Madison. Shelby has the summer off from teaching and I am without a 9 to 5, so we are taking the summer to travel for our honeymoon. We were married last September. Just over ten months ago.