The most important aspect of the adventure is in the dreaming and the planning. The dreaming about the journey is what allows you to get through the hard and stressful times called work, or everyday life. Anymore in our work lives the mental ante keeps being raised to a glass shattering rate. So I decided to buck up and save my annual leave to an awe inspiring level, for the celebration of my 20th year in the environmental business, and my 37th year in life.

I went to my boss, and gently proposed the idea of my being away for four or five weeks. Of course I wasn?t serious about the four weeks, and was going for seven. Anyway, it panned out to five weeks, and I couldn?t believe it. Of course I was given the guilt treatment for months before I left, but I didn?t give in.

When the idea was set, I was off to the wonderful plan a trip land. I had been thinking about a trip to the Northwest before I even realized that a friend of mine had moved from Maui, Hawaii, to Kalispell, Montana. She sent me a Christmas card at the end of 1995, and I called her to tell her that I was going to be up her way during the early summer of 1996. From there, my world was engulfed for at least six months in preparation for my fated trip.

The first cog in my trip started in 1995, when after ten years I broke down and purchased a new ruby red truck in unknowing anticipation of my adventure. I saved my pennies and put a matching cap on the back, which would serve as my mental surrogate home during the trip. If all else failed, I could always hop into the truck bed in the comfort (a twin mattress) of my little home on wheels. I was never FORCED to sleep under the cap, but did a couple nights just for the experience. This occurred when the beds in my little one room cabin were full with my new reunited friends from Montana.

After trying to anticipate all aspects of my adventure, I carefully packed my new little home with goods that I thought I would need to survive the forces of nature and man. Unfortunately, during the final stages of planning, I managed to catch a roving office virus. The day before my trip I was coughing and sniffling up a storm, but ignored it as I hadn?t been sick in three years.

I would survive the cold better than the self-doubt that had been incurred upon me from people saying, ?You?re not driving to Montana by yourself!? I excitingly pulled out of my parking spot at home, off on my adventure, when a neighbor stops me and says, ?You?re not going alone, are you,? and I said, ?Only to Montana.? Well, after a short silence, and a few fair wells, I was off again!

Rolling, rolling, rolling, keep those truck wheels rolling . . . enough of the Rawhide metaphor. My first leg of the trip stretched out for about 2700 miles. I pointed my red steed west and we plowed through Maryland, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania and into a new foreign land called Ohio. Miles after painful miles buzzed by until I pulled up into what I thought was my first stop - Indianapolis, Indiana.

Unfortunately, it was a convention season for the good ole boys, and they?re good ole cars, and there wasn?t a hotel room to be found. I continued from town to town, only to be met by a wedding, and a strawberry festival, which had crowded all available hotel rooms. I had one hotel call ahead 150 miles to Champagne, Ill., to hold a room. Finally, the last 300 miles through driving rain; 14 hours from home; and 750 miles later, I bedded down for the night. I think I pushed the gas pedal all night in my dreams, hacking, coughing and sniffling the whole way.



The dawn broke, with a new and shining day. I packed my saddle and was off to buzz by the remainder of Illinois, only to meet up with IIIIIIIOOOOOOWWWA. Just take a look at Route 80, in Iowa, and you will see almost a perfect straight line across the State. I could have tied a rope to the steering wheel, and taken a long nap, without ever venturing off the road. There was a steady north to south wind blowing through the growing fields, which caused me to tilt my steering wheel a little to the right in an effort to keep going straight.

Fortunately, I had planned, and was listening to various books on tape during the journey. Some of the most enjoyable parts of the trip were lost in the stories that were read for me from my cassette player. I haven?t had the luxury of the leisurely written word for some time, in my everyday world, and I was engulfed in the passing of fiction with the passing of miles.

At the end of Iowa, and it does end, I traveled north through Sioux City to take a second day rest in Sioux Falls, SD. I was still smarting from the prior day?s anxiety of room searching, but I was pleasantly surprised with a vacancy at my first stop. After my first day?s road snacks, I thought I would treat myself with dinner at the local Red Lobster, but quickly realized why food chain restaurants have always disappointed me. I visited the local grocery store, and stocked up on the following days food, and things that I had forgotten, in my so called careful preplanning. I talked to the checker, who had a son who now lived in Fredericksburg, Virginia, and we enjoyed the thread of connection to home and family.

South Dakota. All?s I can say is, this is the highway billboard capital of the world and quit possibly even the road kill capital. The one highlight in the middle of South Dakota was the stunning surprise of finally hitting a curve in the road, which unexpectantly lead down to the Missouri River. This must have been such a welcome surprise to all who traveled west in wagons many years ago. This river appeared to be the line of demarcation between the grassland and the beginning of the salty Badlands geology.

Toward the western side of the State, I was mesmerized for several hours by the formation of this colossal thunder head cloud in the horizon. I skirted the Badlands and stopped in a local tourist store to use the facilities and pick up my first stock of post cards. The Badlands side tour was an inviting trip, but my draw to push west, and my continuing cold forced me to move on. I stopped in Rapid City to call the folks to let them know I was still kicking. I know mom held her breath for the entire trip, being the skilled and kindly worry wart that she was, but I am sure her rosary beads will hold out for another day. I am hoping that her repetitive exposure to my wanderlust ways will make her worry wartisum beguine for my future adventures.

I passed up on Mt. Rushmore, as the monstrous thundercloud was by now resting on the presidents lips, and broke through to a somewhat sad State called Wyoming. Driving through Wyoming was going to require a tremendous amount of loud music and wild truck seat dancing in order for me to pay attention to the road. I?m sure the site of me bouncing around in my seat gave a pause to a few truckers and travelers as I passed by, but I didn?t care because I didn?t know them and most likely wouldn?t. Now, it just might make them think twice before they set feet in Virginia. The land of Looney truck seat dancers.

This was my first true taste of isolation. Each road sign blew by proclaiming that the upcoming town exit did not have any services, and the next ?services? would be 100 miles away. My need for services seemed to be weighed by the capacity of my bladder, and I sometimes pushed my red truck a bit hard to reach the next small taste of mediocre civilization.

The next form of civilization was puzzlingly modern but a bit dusty. The young attendants of the services seemed to have this distant dream of better times or futures in their eyes, which were also propelled in their body movements. I felt very conches of being non-bravado in the fact that I was passing through, or possibly passing from something better, or venturing onto something less mundane than their everyday lives. I would collect my beverage, fill my fuel tanks, and climb into my all too familiar seats for another couple hundred miles.


Each morning I would attempt to plot out my destination for the day on my trusty map. Of course, I am a little fresher in the morning, and seem to forget my praying and deals made with the sleep god toward the end of the journey the day before. After eight hours of driving, I am really pushing another hour or two to get to my final resting point, at the end of the day.

The third day was to be Sheridan, Wyoming, which are just a few miles shy of the southern Montana border. Again, I am lucky with the hotel room and settle in for the night after a small driving tour of a small western town. My big observation of the day is that regular gas is an 85.5 octane versus my normal of 87. This is a stupid small discovery, but I would wonder about the why of this particular octane rating till this day. Why 85.5??? One would think that in the thin air of the mountains, one would need more octane, not less. Anyway, this is just an example of how it was so nice to have the time to contemplate some seemingly unimportant topics.

The morning of the fourth day was a little rough, as I had peddled so many miles in the previous three days. I was listening to a book by the Delaney Sisters, ?Having My Say,? as I busted through the Montana border. The speed limit sign said, ?Reasonable and Prudent.? Now, I had to decipher what speed for me was reasonable and prudent. Well, when you don?t see another car, or human being, but for every few miles, reasonable and prudent cannot seem fast enough.

I traveled on through Billings, Butte with a stop in Missoula for a bit of fuel. My friends were about a hundred miles away, down a two-lane road, and I didn?t think that I would make it at this point. My sheer will and general pigheadedness dragged me along through some very beautiful country. The final view, before my first destination, was of Flathead Lake, which is the largest fresh water like past the Mississippi River. It went on and on for about 30 miles before I pulled into Kalispell, Montana.

I called my friends on the phone, only to get Lori?s 14 year old daughter who says that they hadn?t made it home yet. I?ve driven 2700 miles in four days and their not home! Geeeeezzzzze. Well, I scouted out a car wash in town and proceeded to try to remove 40 gazillion bug guts from my front bumper. My trusty stead had long deserved my undivided attention to its proper grooming after such a loyal trip. I then called back and the phone was busy! It turns out that her son was just getting out of Navy boot camp and was being transferred to California unexpectantley for Chef School. We finally hooked up and all were glad to finally meet again after eight long years. I was in a true blob state at this point and tried to stay awake through the whole encounter.

After a short stay in Kalispell, it was off to my little cabin on Fish Lake, which I had rented for a week. The trip was about an hour north of Kalispell, and four miles on a dirt and bumpy road to a small resort called Loons Echo. This place is secluded, but full of small perks. The main house and restaurant are situated between two lakes, and boasts a small indoor pool, Jacuzzi, game room, library and part time restaurant with a New Orleans cook. My little one room cabin has been slightly modified with the addition of a bathroom, but is just as rustic and simple as I had hoped it would be. It had a small patio out front, which butted up against Fish Lake and towering Mt. Martston.

The nights, the glorious nights, sitting in our Adirondack chairs, looking up at a million stars and breathing the cool fresh air by our crackling make shift Smoker Joe grill wood fire. I had never counted on the appearance of so many satellites in my whole life. We soon learned to set our watch by a particularly bright 10:45 p.m. satellite on a nightly basis.


During the days, we explored the back fire roads of Northwestern Montana. Our maps told us that we could cut over the mountains to the western entrance of Glacier National Park, so we packed lunch and set off for the hills. The road started off quite pleasant, but soon became high, narrow and quite rough. I was beginning to wonder if another human sole had traveled this road in the last couple years. Soon we were seeing signs of snowdrifts on the upper banks of the road. We rounded a corner and were met by a gigantic snow avalanche, which had covered the road, by 20 feet. Much to my surprise, there was a truck ahead of us and a few people perched on top of the snow mound. It was easy to see that we were not to continue on our voyage, and I had to find a way out. Ever so slowly, we backed up and up and up. This game went on for about three miles before I inched my way around forward. The 100-foot cliff off to my right did not allow a great sense of comfort to my reverse skill, and I had to peel my hands off the steering wheel when all was said and done. Needless to say, this east coast hill driver was awed with a new found respect for dirt road Montana Mountain driving.

We had been befriended by an extremely large dog called Bear (tan and blue eyes). Now, we had not been told his name, but Dee had guessed his name one day, and he responded to its calling. We later ask the owners what his name was and they stated, ?Bear.? He would not allow any of the other dogs to enter our camp, or cross over to be petted, during our whole adventure. Lori and I figured that he we had proclaimed us as his ?****? since we first met. A couple times a night he would patrol down to our patio, and inspect the area before coming along side for a short pet or snack. He would then retire by our makeshift fire for about 20 minutes before continuing on to his ?Loon?s Echo? duties. If another dog dared venture into our space, he would properly escort them from the property. He was a great source of company during my short solitaire stay at the cabin during the middle of the week.

My alone stay at the cabin was not without trepidation. I figured that this was just another cog in my personnel aversion therapy. I am always trying to complete an event or task, for which I assume that I will not enjoy, in an attempt to prove myself wrong. And again, I proved myself wrong.

Late the first night, I sat out in my chair, on my little patio, and enjoyed and flinched at the unfamiliar sounds of the night. There was my little fire burning strongly and my ever present hulk of a dog at my foot. I wrapped myself in a tacky old comforter, when the weather started to go afoul, and finally called it a night alone in my little cabin--- fat, dumb, and happy.

The next couple of days were quite raw, which afforded me a good excuse to hunker down in my cabin with a good book. I had lost my voice as a side effect from my cold, and my solitude for these couple days seemed to afford it some repair. I had driven out earlier in the week, to the nearest convenience store, and called pop to wish him a happy father?s day with my squeaky and grungy voice. Toward the end of my solitude, I was now repairing my voice to its normal robust volume. During some mild breaks in the weather, I ventured out to the patio to enjoy the passing of wildlife on my lake, and the sight of fresh wispy snow on the mountain background.

My solitude was broken by the return of my Montana friends. Lori was to spend the last night with me, in the little cabin, before we set off for Canada. In the morning, we said goodbye to Bear the dog, and bumped down the dusty road toward Banff, Alberta, Canada. Last stop in the US was Eureka, Montana. Not much Eureka here, so we buzzed on for the border.


Alberta was pretty uneventful at first glance. We were to travel about 500 miles to our home for the next five days in Canmore, which was just outside Banff Park. We hit the traditional road blocks with the new construction or expansion of roads. My first impression of Canada?s park system was that it was much more of a business venture than it was in the US. This was quite a surprise and somewhat of a disappointment. The government charged five dollars a person per day to visit the park system. For the two of us, it was 50 dollars, but I couldn?t imagine what the impact of the new costs would be for a normal family. The toll collector stated that there was much more ?to do? in their parks than the US. The ?to do? was much more shopping and commercial ventures, which I didn?t see as a perk.

We checked into what I will call a small cabin trailer park or village. I was quite nice and comfortable, but it was much more modern and citified than my little cabin in Montana. I was beginning to feel much more like a tourist than I wanted to at this point. I guess my biggest problem was that I had to also take into account my traveling companions site seeing ways as a consideration in our daily planning. I had to be tourist, which I found that I do not do very well.

We drove straight North one day to visit the Columbia Ice Field, which is suppose to be the largest glacier in these parts. On with my winter coat again, as the refrigerator like air blew off the ice pack. Some people were venturing out onto the field despite warnings of death by slipping into the nearest crevasse. I felt quite privileged enough to hike around the outskirts of the glacier when all others risked life and limb for the bragging rights of stepping onto the ice.

We continued onto Jasper, Alberta, just for the heck of it, when a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer decided to stop me for speeding. The next time you get in your car, look at that little gray kilometer speed scale, which hides lightly below your miles per hour scale. Here we were, out in the middle of what seems like the great deserts of Egypt, traveling down a large mountain, and they expect you to do 45 mph? . Anyway, after checking to see that I was not a drug lord from South America, the Royal Cop advised me to consider the ticket as a souvenir. Right, like I was really happy with the experience, as I had not had a ticket in at least 10 years, and only one in my lifetime.


After a few more days of the touristy thing, we headed south east for Montana and the US. The eastern part of Alberta was pure cow country. We broke through the US border on the eastern side of Glacier National Park. Our plan was to drive to the eastern entrance and travel through Logans Pass back to Kalispell. All the plans of mice and men were foiled. The Pass was again closed due to an avalanche which had killed a Japanese tourist. By this time I thought that ?I? and the Park were hexed. We had to drive clear around the park, which took and extra three hours, over pot holed and curvy roads.

By this time, I was starting to get a little jumpy, and just wanted to set off on my own. Damn the plans, as I knew that I would. I seem to have this constant imbalance and battle with the two halves of my brain. One half tells me to meticulously plan for all the contingencies, and the other half says, the hell with that, lets be free and wing it. I know you may not understand the wanderlust nature, but there is a certain freedom and irresponsibility about it. The stuff that I think keeps me young at heart.

One more night in Kalispell, and my second oil change in as many weeks. In the morning I took my trusty steed off for a much needed cleaning, said my goodbye and was off for Yellowstone. I curved my way along Flathead Lake before picking up Interstate 90 on a south eastern path.

It was time for John Steinbeck on tape with his book ?Travels with Charley.? Steinbeck, at the age of 58, set out with his elderly French poodle Charley, to rediscover the country he had been writing about for so many years. He named his new truck and home Resonate after Don Quixote?s horse. It was amazing to ride along and listen to his America, as it unfolded in front of him during the time of my birth. A lot has changed, for better and worse, and a lot is still the same.

I had got a wild hair of freedom listening to his observations, and played them out after climbing a tough mountain road outside of Butte. I had met the Continental Divide once again. During my first passage over the Divide, I was too full of my mission, which was to reach my first western destination, to enjoy the sights. My second visit was filled with a crop of monstrous boulders stacked one on top the other, kind of like the hand of god was tossing marbles about, quite rugged, free and beautiful. Spread out in front of me, descending from the divide, was a straight downhill path of road which extended for an endless expanse of miles. With no one around in front or back, I decided to test the ?Reasonable and Prudent? speed limit which was exclusive to wild Montana. I rolled down the windows, smashed down on the gas, and went at a speedometer-pegging race down the mountain. It was kind of like kicking a horse and streaming along with great confidence and wild abandon, screaming and laughing all the way. No thoughts of mortgage or any consequence had penetrated my mind during this downhill venture. Oh how it was so wonderful to remember the child within again!

We settled out onto the flats of Montana and traveled down a mountainous road for miles behind an 18 wheeler. The large truck allowed me to still drive relatively well, but to also look about at the wonderful log cabins and rushing mountain streams. Mile after mile I passed by rubber boats enjoying the rapids bouncing by me at sometimes piercing streams. Other people were enjoying the solitude of a slow passing riffle, standing thigh deep in water, slowly whipping fly rods back and forth in hope of telling a soon to be tall fish story.

After my usual 500-600 miles drive a day, I pulled into West Yellowstone, Montana, to search for my rented home for the next few days. West Yellowstone was again the typical tourist town attempting to act like the old western towns of the past. The streets were extremely wide, and the store fronts were a passing attempt at a John Wayne movie. All mixed into the brew were the old standbys of Days Inn?s and want to be 7-11's.

I ventured into the park the next day after scrounging for a room to spend the night. I went without a promise of a room for the next night but after all I had been through I didn?t pay it much mind.


There is still some wild in the west of Yellowstone. And the Wild West was in the numerable value of the pot holes in the road. Now I am riding in a brand new truck with what I will call ?Lincoln? suspension, yet I was getting the **** beat out of me with the bucking bronco ride given by the repetitive nature of the pot holes. There were more holes than road in some spots! No chance of squishing any wild life at this pace - or so I thought.

I soon learned that it was wise to pay attention to the road as I had to slam on my brakes to avoid a roving black bear which tossed out of the hillside woods onto the pavement below. He wandered around the road for a while, oblivious to the ever growing humming mass of vehicles which were by now lining up on the road. If this were a moose or other seemingly harmless animal, the humans would have spilled out of their metal and plastic mobiles to clamber for a closer look or perhaps a frozen in time photo of the beast. The big chickens didn?t pop a door hinge and were most assuredly jealous of my first in line position. Just to spite of them I left my camera on the seat and inspected his every move with my naked eye. Just as he had descended to the road, he slowly roamed down the grassy hill bored with the sterile and ?tasteless? company.

The altitude! I passed onto the gushing geysers. To the Grand Canyons of Yellowstone and the bumpy side dirt roads and enjoyed the sights along the way with an occasional huff and puff. Most of the Park is at the 5000-6000 feet level with the top parts hitting 10,000 feet. I stopped on top of Mt. Washburn, a 10,000+ foot peak, for my picnic lunch of the day. An older fellow was wondering around the front of my truck and noticed my Virginia Tag and decided after a slight hesitation to approach and speak. It seems his son lived in Northern Virginia and he wished to exchange his location for mine. He was quite proud to state that he was familiar with Woodbridge, Virginia and several other land marks along the way. We spoke for awhile and he soon was off on his binocular hunt of wild Moose, and me onto crunching my tail gate picnic of cheese and crackers amongst the new sights, clean breezes and welcome solitude.

Late in the evening of my first full day at Yellowstone, I went back to my rented home along the long road out of Yellowstone Park to the Town of West Yellowstone. The rivers were still dotted with an occasional fly fisher person, the fields with herds of Moose, with a puff here and there from an unnamed geyser and a sea of past fire scoured forest. I was shocked at the amount of the trees toppled and tossed by the pain of the wild fire. I am told that the main damage had occurred during the wild or accidental fires of the late eighties. The damage in some places seemed so apparent and fresh to have been done around eight years ago. I just seemed to remind me of how short our human lives are and how long it takes for ?nature? to repair and prevail. I just hope that nature has enough time to prevail over the ravages of man.

I had to go to the IMAX Theater that evening to experience the six story screen shows with booming surround sound of the Story of Yellowstone. Now I had carefully planned my seating with space on both sides of me to allow for bountiful use of the armrests when a French couple climbed over the rows to ask if the seats were taken. Well I had to say no and they plopped themselves down wafting perfume and all. As usual my plot was foiled and I squished my size big body into my size normal to small space.

Dawn was up and I packed my belongings in my little mobile home for the second half of Yellowstone. Now I will admit that it is impossible to properly see the wonders of the park in a couple of days, but I was compelled to keep moving by some strange and unknown force.

I tried to beat the tourists (as if I wasn?t one) into the park but was soon stopped in my tracks by what I thought was a traffic jam. I sat in my truck wondering what in the heck was going on, when a sea of matted and motley buffalo streamed past and enveloped my vehicle. The herd marched down the road at their own slow pace, unencumbered by the large motorized beasts in their path. This situation was ok until a few pesky, probably males; buffalo stopped in front of my shining ruby red vehicle and had that look of charge on their face. I waved my arms like a white flag in an attempt to distract them from there damaging tasks. They finally got bored and they huffed and bleated as they went with the rest of the herd.


It was a day filled with fog and showers and didn?t afford much prime sight seeing time. I was just happy to slowly motor along and enjoy the bumpy sights. I stopped at noon at the ultimate tourist way station of ?Old Faithful.? I pulled into the parking lot along with the sea of vehicles which had brought similar ?pilgrims? to this famous spot. Bumbershoot in hand, I set off for my hike to the celebrated big geyser.

The Old Faithful hole was surrounded by a low fence and wooden seating along three sides. The seating was arranged in a crescent moon shape and probably spread out over a football field in length. I lucked out as Faithful was about to make its next presentation just a few minutes after my arrival. I found a wet wooden seat on the fringes of the moon and listened to the buzz of the crowd which had gathered for the event. A few low rumbles and sputters began to appear from the Faithful hole and all heads spun to attention. Everyone seemed to grab hold of their seats as if they were about to be blown off the face of the earth. The spout of the geyser looked like the ?Little Train That Could? as it attempted to reach new heights against the cloudy and foggy sky. Now a small bug or passing mouse may have been very impressed with Ole Faithful, but this crowd of humans seemed quite motionless and bored.

It?s apparent that a large portion of the crowd had also been to the IMAX Theater. Mother Nature cannot seem to compete with any electronic embellishment of her accomplishments. With the theaters teeth rattling sounds and its soaring views and magnifications of poor Ole Faithful, the IMAX had turned the natural wonder of the famous geyser eruption into a mire squirt from a rubber garden hose. Never mind the IMAX. We are all so spoiled by our electronic age that we always end up disappointed by the sheer common nature of grand happenings. I refused to let the crowd ruin my experience, and I lingered on the wet bench as the masses grumbled and left.

After I was satisfied that I had given my admiration and respect to the poor garden hose, I wandered off to my trusty stead lost amongst the sea of parking lot dwellers. I was approaching a Chevy Blazer when the frantic tossing of arms and rummaging of bodies caught my eye. As I drew closer to the side of the truck, instant recognition of the frantic behavior washed over me. The keys were in the outside door of the truck, and the humans were on the inside. I took my bumbershoot and tapped on the window. The gentleman looked at me a little annoyed and finally rolled down the window a bit. I simply said ?your keys are in the door? pointing with my window tapping object. Well you would have thought that this guy had just seen The Father, The Son, and The Holy Ghost standing before him. Instant relief and pure joy beamed on his face at the same time. I noticed that they had Pennsylvania tags and I am sure that their second set of keys were back at home tucked away in some dark hiding spot as mine were. As quickly as I had stopped, I wandered away followed by a serenade of grateful thank you and waving arms from my key rescue couple. I had only hoped that someone would do the same for me!

I have arrived at the bottom of the mountain, THE BIG Mountain. My right of passage at my fathers prodding. I must go to Pikes Peak and savor the thin air and look down upon the earth. It all seemed simple and innocent at first. I?ll just toddle up this little mountain and scoff at all inhabitants below. Just that simple, to a simple moron, that I have been found out to be.

A nightmare in fast forward has stepped upon me, repeated at every dreadful gripping switch back and turn in the road only to be rewarded by popping my head into a hanging cloud of the unknown. Once I am above, I feel that all of the ever present humanity is perched below carrying on their everyday lives, sniffing, scratching and sometimes breathing in the reciprocal effect of my exhale.


The air they say is thin at such elevations, but my body, mind and everyday objects expand as I climb up the elevation. The east coast truck begs for oxygen to be added to its cocktail as much as my living or soon to be dying cells does. The cells beg to your common sense to quickly be returned to standard reality as prescribed by their basal Pavlov response.

Fight or flight. As stubborn as I am at this moment not to fail despite my ever-present fear of flying off the mountain at the next switch back -- I chose fight. I am driven by the sense of the end of the mountain in its wistful diffusion as my imagination conceives as the ends of the earth. As I stand up above all which is familiar and comfortable, I breathe in the landscape with which I can focus upon, and I am connected with the heavens and unconnected with mire physical life. The masses about me become muted and fuzzy, and I lose track of the position of the sun, and the timing of the moon.

Well, my middle name is Jeanne and I am getting the hell off this mountain. Going down seemed so simple. Just point the truck down the hill and roll with the flow. Well, a moron in a mini van from Mississippi impeded the flow. All the while toddling down the mountain, stopping and pointing at every rock on the side oblivious to the ever mounding hunks of the motorized plastic stacked up behind him. After a mile or two of this action, I know that I am quite familiar with the smell of melting brake pads and the taste of Pike?s dust.

After several new and innovative forms of the English language have been spewed from my vehicle to the moron from Mississippi, we pull up to the monitoring station at about 11,500 feet elevation. The attendant checks the temperature of my brakes and the look on his face tells my near future. It takes quite a while for brakes to cool down from the 600 degree range, and my steed has been grounded for at least an hour. All?s I want to do is flee down to a breathable elevation and Mr. Mississippi gives my truck the hot foot.

After a ?tasty? five cent a cup coffee, I am off again on my panacea decent. The truck has stalled twice when the idle and oxygen have gotten to low, so I struggle to keep my power steering and BRAKES as I free fall off the mountain. I am in a wrestling match with the curves and the downhill and the brakes. Skidding is occurring at every turn and sliding on every corner. God, please get me to the bottom. And, of course, he does.

That is basically the end of my journey. It still contained the drive from Colorado back to my home, but I don?t really have a memory of the travel. I don?t quite know why my memory is gone, but I guess in returning provides a great importance only to be stalled by the next wandering.

And of course as I breath, I will Travel.