It was Thanksgiving morning. The sweet, sweet smell of turkey and its accompanying southern side dishes wafted in from the kitchen, triggering my olfactory's overdrive. I sat patiently on the living room couch, eagerly awaiting the nearing nourishment, both edible and familial. It had been at least 10 years since I had seen the majority of my mother's side of the family, though probably closer to 15 for most of them; would I still be able to place a face with the name?
The noon hour closed in and the first guests arrived: Aunt Carla and Uncle Ted. As seems to be the tradition at these types of gathering, the women migrate to the kitchen to "help out" shortly after arriving, leaving the gentlemen to congregate in the living room and talk shop. In between mouthfuls of Chocolate Caramel Chex -- the highly requested sweet treat, and rightfully so -- I got to know my uncle.
A few aunts, uncles, and cousins later my grandpa left to go pick up the guest of honor. Many years ago my grandparents had "adopted" an elderly lady into their family, claiming that she was their long-lost sister. Ever since then they've remained really close with her, inviting her to all the holiday meals and having lunch with her weekly. Up until this point, I had heard a decent amount about her, but had yet to actually meet her. Boy was I in for a surprise.
The door opened once again and this time it was my grandpa, returning with the aforementioned little old lady, Roine. She stood no more than 4 feet tall with a full head of white hair, bright blue eyes, and a smile that could abolish the emotion sad. No sooner had we exchanged greetings than a proposal was on the table; apparently she had heard of my quest for a suitor and pursuit of a southern belle. Had I been born 40 years earlier like I was supposed to be, I think things just might have worked out.
Over the course of the afternoon, stories were relayed back and forth to color in the past 15 years -- marriages had transpired, children had been born, and illnesses had been contracted and cured. I learned the details of these lives that would otherwise be strangers if not for being family. I've never had that closeness that some people do with their aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents; this alienation I attribute to the amount we moved around during my childhood, and the sometimes great distances which separated us. It's hard not to wonder how life would be different if we all lived on the same block or worked on neighboring farms growing up. But that's the nice thing about family: no matter how much time transpires, they're still there, and they're still your family. You can sit around the same table and joke and laugh as if you'd done it all along, never missing a beat. There's intrinsic acceptance, and that's a beautiful thing.
In the family of gourds, pumpkins are the most popular; one month they're carved up to resemble the wildest of childrens' imaginations, and the next they're gutted yet again to taunt even the fullest of stomachs with an indomitable pie. This year was no exception. As the desert table rolled out I cringed, not because I dislike desert -- no no -- but because I had once again forgotten to save room for what it arguably considered the best part of the meal. Oh well, down she goes, but not without the obligatory oversized dollop of whipped cream.
Throughout the course of the meal I continually teased Roine about our recent engagement and learned as much about her as I could. Turns out she used to be quite the waterskier, a second-tier member of a 5-man pyramid. They managed to get it built on their first try, propelled along by an old boat with a roaring 50hp motor. As she relayed stories from the good ol' days, I could picture every moment; all it took was a glance into her twinkling eyes and you were immediately teleported to the scene of her narrative.
As the evening drew to a close, I said goodbye to all of my relatives and the recently betrothed Roine. I was almost overwhelmed with emotions, most of which I was completely unprepared for on this trip. I had expected a meal with the usual time-killing chatter between pseudo-strangers, but wound up being blessed, re-energized, and truly inspired -- an emotional high for trip, indeed.
That evening the lovely Roine called and arranged a lunch for the upcoming day at her place, an assisted living establishment a couple blocks away. She was excited and eager to show me her apartment, which I had heard was decorated beautifully by my grandmother. The next day we drove over there and dined as planned, each able to order off the menu whatever we desired. Chicken strips, corn bread, and fried okra for me -- I love the food down here! We were in a bit of a hurry since we had more family to visit that afternoon, but we managed to squeeze in the dime tour of her apartment. Atop the bureau sat a picture of her and her husband from back when they got married -- a true glimpse into the past and the personified beauty that she still radiates. Before we left we swung by her storage closet where she gifted me a pet monkey to accompany me in my travels and remind me of our whirlwind love affair.
Our relationship was, of course, all in jest, but there was something uniquely special about her. Perhaps it was the fact that she was 87 and had more zest for life than anyone I've ever met. Or maybe it was the unadulturated, unequivocal, unconditional love that emanated from her soul through those bright blue eyes. Whatever it was, I remain forever changed and inspired.
---
I've thought a lot about my life these past two weeks and how none of this would have happened had I not started down this road a year ago. I've had such an amazing, memorable experience so far and I'm only just getting warmed up. I guess it just reinforces future decisions to break out of any rut I find myself in and take action, regardless of how difficult it might be. I don't expect every change to turn out this well -- sometimes you make the wrong decision, ya know? -- but it's nice to see a positive return on all the effort I put into making this happen.
On the flip side, I've also been thinking a lot about what I left behind. I don't have a desire to turn around and drive back, but I am thinking about settling down somewhere and getting plugged back in to the world, nurturing my inner-nerd whenever I'm not out scaling the side of some cliff. As seemingly non-adventurous as it was, I do miss my weekly routine of card night, raid night, and the general Royal Oak mischief. I think I also have the uphill battle of convincing my family to move closer to me instead of vice-versa. ;)
Herbert has been running like champ. I did have one mishap in the hills of Arkansas (damn the state), but it was no fault of Herb's; a 20mph headwind and steep hills are a bad combination for an already underpowered 2-ton bus, and my lead foot was pushing him too hard in 4th gear. I wound up losing quite a bit of precious horsepower, and after pulling over and inspecting things I found the block to be scorching hot and fuel was literally boiling in the fuel pump. Oops. All was well after letting him cool down, though, and I now know to take hills in 3rd gear at 40mph, regardless of how much it pisses off the long line behind me. Luckily every other state I've been through so far has passing lanes for even the smallest of hills.
Right now I'm in Amarillo, TX, taking solace in Starbucks from the blizzard. That's right: blizzard. It's letting up now, but there's about 2 inches of accumulation out here. I thought for sure I'd avoided this nonsense when I headed south, but I guess I was mistaken. Only one way to fix this: further south! If only I knew Spanish.
Amarillo isn't as big and as bustling as I had hoped, so I think it's another night in a WalMart parking lot, then off to Albuquerque tomorrow. I'm confident that they'll have the culture and cuisine I'm searching for.
November 29, 2009
November 22, 2009
Morning Glory
Sunlight crests the hilltops, its first beams making their way into the bus through the rear window. I poke my head out from underneath my cocoon of sleeping bag and blankets and squint towards the general direction of the clock. 8:30am. The view outside is obscured by a fine layer of frost that has taken up residence on the window panes. It's cold.
I pull my pants out from the layer of warmth between the sleeping bag and comforter and quickly put them on. Next comes the long johns, t-shirt, jacket, and winter coat -- my daily attire thus far. I water the leaves in front of Herbert and then fire up the stove for the morning oatmeal. The stove hisses lightly as it goes through its priming ritual, and then quickly brings the ice-cold cup of water to a boil. My hands hover next to the pot, soaking up as much of the excess heat as possible.
With breakfast out of the way, I make my way into the pizza shop. By now it's around 9:00am and the parking lot is abuzz with the rock climbers' morning routines. Inside the shop it feels like a ski resort: people bundled up in their warmest winter gear, hands cupped closely around a cup of joe, a drone of conversation and laughter over Belgian waffles and breakfast burritos. The only thing missing is the smell and sound of a roaring fire. I grab my $1.00 coffee and take a seat at the only open bench and begin to peruse the latest edition of Climbing. Even if you wanted to read about or do something different around here, you'd fail; climbing is a way of life, and the environment is saturated accordingly.
I step outside once again, and even though the sun has made itself fully known, there's still a crisp chill in the air. As I walk back to the bus to brush my teeth and arrange my gear, I say good morning to a few passersby. I notice something concordant amongst all of them: a single drop of clear snot clinging for dear life to the tips of their noses, barely viscous enough to remain seated in its inverted perch. I reach up and with a swipe of my gloved finger, realize I'm a member of this elite club as well.
Smearing the cold, dry paste onto my toothbrush, I give my teeth a bath, all the while admiring the beauty that surrounds me. The sky is blue with only a few wisps of cirrus, the rocks in the west fully illuminated with a yellowish hue, and the barren trees casting their long shadows onto the colorful foliage below. No, it's not a life of luxury per se, but it has its perks.
I pull my pants out from the layer of warmth between the sleeping bag and comforter and quickly put them on. Next comes the long johns, t-shirt, jacket, and winter coat -- my daily attire thus far. I water the leaves in front of Herbert and then fire up the stove for the morning oatmeal. The stove hisses lightly as it goes through its priming ritual, and then quickly brings the ice-cold cup of water to a boil. My hands hover next to the pot, soaking up as much of the excess heat as possible.
With breakfast out of the way, I make my way into the pizza shop. By now it's around 9:00am and the parking lot is abuzz with the rock climbers' morning routines. Inside the shop it feels like a ski resort: people bundled up in their warmest winter gear, hands cupped closely around a cup of joe, a drone of conversation and laughter over Belgian waffles and breakfast burritos. The only thing missing is the smell and sound of a roaring fire. I grab my $1.00 coffee and take a seat at the only open bench and begin to peruse the latest edition of Climbing. Even if you wanted to read about or do something different around here, you'd fail; climbing is a way of life, and the environment is saturated accordingly.
I step outside once again, and even though the sun has made itself fully known, there's still a crisp chill in the air. As I walk back to the bus to brush my teeth and arrange my gear, I say good morning to a few passersby. I notice something concordant amongst all of them: a single drop of clear snot clinging for dear life to the tips of their noses, barely viscous enough to remain seated in its inverted perch. I reach up and with a swipe of my gloved finger, realize I'm a member of this elite club as well.
Smearing the cold, dry paste onto my toothbrush, I give my teeth a bath, all the while admiring the beauty that surrounds me. The sky is blue with only a few wisps of cirrus, the rocks in the west fully illuminated with a yellowish hue, and the barren trees casting their long shadows onto the colorful foliage below. No, it's not a life of luxury per se, but it has its perks.
November 20, 2009
Wild Wild South?
Anxious to get this party started, I left the comfort of my grandparents' house Thursday morning, destination: Red River Gorge. I had been checking the weather the few days prior, and it appeared as though there was at least one good week of climbing left down in the Gorge before it started to get bitter cold. The drive through Ohio was pretty blasé, but after crossing the river into Kentucky, things perked up a bit. I got to finally put the bus through it's paces on the rolling, green hills; despite putting a bit peppier camshaft in its engine, it was still pretty lethargic -- you get pretty good at swallowing your pride when semi-trucks regularly pass you on hills.
You know that feeling when it's the weekend or you're on vacation, that nagging sensation that constantly reminds you of all your responsibilities just waiting for you Monday morning? I guess it could be categorized as "dread." Well, I completely lack that now. It's really weird to just be floating around like I'm on vacation, but sans angst. I feel like I've unlocked a new bonus level in life, or perhaps I just entered a cheat code -- all depends on who you ask. If you ever get the chance, though, I highly recommend this.
Now this is going to be pretty difficult, and you're probably going to think I'm making this all up, but let me try and relay to you my day yesterday. Keep in mind this is what I consider to be my first real day out in the "wild," free from friends, family, and responsibility. And frankly, I'm not sure I could have even imagined something this crazy.
---
I glanced down at the odometer, knowing that I would pull into the parking lot of Miguel's Pizza at around 24,390. Twenty miles to go. I didn't feel excited or nervous, but my bladder assured me that I was; I swear that thing fills up every sixty miles -- I used to be able to go for hours. Through the town of Stanton and onto the Bert T. Combs Mountain Parkway. Only a handful of miles now and I'd be there. Look at the hills! the rock! The feeling of freedom was starting to set in.
I knew I was rolling in too late to catch a group of climbers on their way out to the crag, so I just got my things settled in the bus and then moseyed on down to the front of the store. Outside sat the owner, Miguel, and another fellow who referred to himself as Wood Hippie. I sat there for maybe an hour, swapping stories with the locals about my travels and plans, and listening to theirs' about how you can entertain yourself in these lonesome hills. I really didn't have much to do, so when Wood Hippie asked if I wanted to tag along to his cabin up in the hills, I said, "Sure."
He grabbed a couple more of his buddies and we loaded into his road-beaten Jeep Wrangler and sped off. I had almost forgotten how beautiful these hills down here could be. In no hurry to return or really be anywhere, he took us on a loop around the hills. Off the blacktop and onto a dirt/gravel road we went, weaving our way around the perimeter of the hills, an incline on the left and a drop-off on the right.
In retrospect I can clearly see he was telling me this story as a bit of foreshadowing, but I just thought he was proud of his juvenile accomplishments. He relayed to us how in his youth he was the runner-up in the sub-16 National Go-Kart championship, and how even at the age of 7 he was zipping around in a kart running 45 mph. Never met anyone that had raced go-karts before, but I'm glad he had. What he did next was speed up just enough to make me feel uncomfortable on these back roads, and then continued to accelerate into a gravel-covered hairpin turn. I death gripped the roll bar and peered out over the cliff's edge -- we were skidding almost sideways through this turn. What the hell did I get myself into this time? I haven't even set foot on a rock yet and here I am gonna die.
After that first turn I realized that he knew what he was doing and this wasn't some drunken charade to try and scare us, though I'm pretty sure he did mean to scare us. We sped through a few more turns -- sideways -- before we came out on the other end of the loop, and rolled once again onto blacktop. This guy was absolutely crazy.
We strolled back into Miguel's parking lot a little bit later and hung out for a few minutes, dropping off the other two passengers and picking up three more. This time we were headed up to his cabin for real, at the very top of a very large hill in the distance.
We pulled off the main road onto his driveway, a mile long dirt road that requires a 4-wheel drive vehicle. We crossed a stream, plowed through mud puddles, crawled up 45-degree inclines, hopped over logs, and blazed new trails up the side of his land. We were only doing about 2 mph this time, but I still thought we were either going to get stuck out there or roll sideways down the hill. At one point, in an effort to "clear the trail," he got out of the Jeep with it still moving, and while hanging onto the side of it he steered with one hand through the window and pushed branches out of the way with the other. A couple times he jumped off the Jeep altogether and ran ahead to clear the brush, leaving the 4 of us sitting in a moving, unmanned vehicle wondering how in the hell we were still alive.
After taking the scenic route, we finally made it to the top of the hill where he was single-handedly building himself a log cabin -- in the mean time he was living out of a run down bus with a breathtaking view. We spent the rest of the evening sitting around his ancient cast iron stove (one you might find in an old log cabin -- guess where it's going) on his very own hand-carved furniture, underneath some overhanging rock, overlooking the valley, watching the sun melt in the west. Read that again if you have to.
For dinner we had cocktail shrimp and homemade cheeseburgers, cooked on an old-fashioned cast iron grill over fresh coals from the stove. De-licious. For background "music" we had the endless tales of his misspent youth. I really didn't say much the whole evening; I guess I was in shock, both to still be alive and for having stumbled into such an amazing predicament. Wood Hippie indeed.
You know that feeling when it's the weekend or you're on vacation, that nagging sensation that constantly reminds you of all your responsibilities just waiting for you Monday morning? I guess it could be categorized as "dread." Well, I completely lack that now. It's really weird to just be floating around like I'm on vacation, but sans angst. I feel like I've unlocked a new bonus level in life, or perhaps I just entered a cheat code -- all depends on who you ask. If you ever get the chance, though, I highly recommend this.
Now this is going to be pretty difficult, and you're probably going to think I'm making this all up, but let me try and relay to you my day yesterday. Keep in mind this is what I consider to be my first real day out in the "wild," free from friends, family, and responsibility. And frankly, I'm not sure I could have even imagined something this crazy.
---
I glanced down at the odometer, knowing that I would pull into the parking lot of Miguel's Pizza at around 24,390. Twenty miles to go. I didn't feel excited or nervous, but my bladder assured me that I was; I swear that thing fills up every sixty miles -- I used to be able to go for hours. Through the town of Stanton and onto the Bert T. Combs Mountain Parkway. Only a handful of miles now and I'd be there. Look at the hills! the rock! The feeling of freedom was starting to set in.
I knew I was rolling in too late to catch a group of climbers on their way out to the crag, so I just got my things settled in the bus and then moseyed on down to the front of the store. Outside sat the owner, Miguel, and another fellow who referred to himself as Wood Hippie. I sat there for maybe an hour, swapping stories with the locals about my travels and plans, and listening to theirs' about how you can entertain yourself in these lonesome hills. I really didn't have much to do, so when Wood Hippie asked if I wanted to tag along to his cabin up in the hills, I said, "Sure."
He grabbed a couple more of his buddies and we loaded into his road-beaten Jeep Wrangler and sped off. I had almost forgotten how beautiful these hills down here could be. In no hurry to return or really be anywhere, he took us on a loop around the hills. Off the blacktop and onto a dirt/gravel road we went, weaving our way around the perimeter of the hills, an incline on the left and a drop-off on the right.
In retrospect I can clearly see he was telling me this story as a bit of foreshadowing, but I just thought he was proud of his juvenile accomplishments. He relayed to us how in his youth he was the runner-up in the sub-16 National Go-Kart championship, and how even at the age of 7 he was zipping around in a kart running 45 mph. Never met anyone that had raced go-karts before, but I'm glad he had. What he did next was speed up just enough to make me feel uncomfortable on these back roads, and then continued to accelerate into a gravel-covered hairpin turn. I death gripped the roll bar and peered out over the cliff's edge -- we were skidding almost sideways through this turn. What the hell did I get myself into this time? I haven't even set foot on a rock yet and here I am gonna die.
After that first turn I realized that he knew what he was doing and this wasn't some drunken charade to try and scare us, though I'm pretty sure he did mean to scare us. We sped through a few more turns -- sideways -- before we came out on the other end of the loop, and rolled once again onto blacktop. This guy was absolutely crazy.
We strolled back into Miguel's parking lot a little bit later and hung out for a few minutes, dropping off the other two passengers and picking up three more. This time we were headed up to his cabin for real, at the very top of a very large hill in the distance.
We pulled off the main road onto his driveway, a mile long dirt road that requires a 4-wheel drive vehicle. We crossed a stream, plowed through mud puddles, crawled up 45-degree inclines, hopped over logs, and blazed new trails up the side of his land. We were only doing about 2 mph this time, but I still thought we were either going to get stuck out there or roll sideways down the hill. At one point, in an effort to "clear the trail," he got out of the Jeep with it still moving, and while hanging onto the side of it he steered with one hand through the window and pushed branches out of the way with the other. A couple times he jumped off the Jeep altogether and ran ahead to clear the brush, leaving the 4 of us sitting in a moving, unmanned vehicle wondering how in the hell we were still alive.
After taking the scenic route, we finally made it to the top of the hill where he was single-handedly building himself a log cabin -- in the mean time he was living out of a run down bus with a breathtaking view. We spent the rest of the evening sitting around his ancient cast iron stove (one you might find in an old log cabin -- guess where it's going) on his very own hand-carved furniture, underneath some overhanging rock, overlooking the valley, watching the sun melt in the west. Read that again if you have to.
For dinner we had cocktail shrimp and homemade cheeseburgers, cooked on an old-fashioned cast iron grill over fresh coals from the stove. De-licious. For background "music" we had the endless tales of his misspent youth. I really didn't say much the whole evening; I guess I was in shock, both to still be alive and for having stumbled into such an amazing predicament. Wood Hippie indeed.
November 18, 2009
The Great Escape
It seems surreal, I suppose, to even contemplate abandoning just about everything you've ever known and running off into the unknown. I think everyone has gotten fed up enough with life at some point to envision something similar, and to most I'm sure it sounds divine. It did to me, at least. And it's not that my life was so terrible -- on the contrary, I'm sure many people would kill to have a life filled with so much comfort and security. But I knew there was something more; I had glimpsed it, and despite the giant hurdle glaring at me, I had to do it. I had to try it out, even at the risk of failure or realizing my giant mistake.
I guess it was about a year in the planning stages. And like all good plans, it started with a dream, a vision. I told a few people about this wild idea I was kicking around, and was greeted with many variations on the look of, "You're friggen nuts." I wish I could somehow extract these images out of my head and mash them all up into some sort of collage, or maybe line them all up like they were spewed out of some sort of psychotic photo booth. However, all of these hints at disapproval or misunderstanding only helped to fuel the fire and my adolescent need for rebellion. Step 1: find an affordable Volkswagen bus.
After many weeks of research I learned a few things: 1) 1971 was the coveted year for the old-school bay window variety, 2) Michigan possessed no rust-free buses, and 3) I knew nothing about automobile mechanics. This was not going to be easy.
At least 6 times a day I would search eBay and Craig's List for VW buses, using about 6 spelling variations of the term "volkswagen bus" and checking all the surrounding states. This went on for 6 months. Finally, this past spring, I stumbled upon a beautiful, rust-free, California bus right in my home town of Royal Oak. I called the guy 45 minutes after he posted the ad on Craig's List. He seemed kind of shocked or weirded out that I called so quickly after he had posted it, but I shrugged it off and crossed my fingers. We met up the next day so I could look it over, my bud and old-school car enthusiast Colby in tow. It was practically flawless, an immaculate find in the suburbs of Michigan. The only problem was the price, of course, and he wasn't willing to negotiate much. I took a deep breath, ran some numbers in my head, and decided this was the one. Despite having to wipe out my entire bank account and then some, this was my golden ticket, and it had to be bought.
Bus in hand, I quit my job, gave all my stuff away, packed 'er up, and hit the road. Yeah right. Nothing is that easy. I did quit my job, though, but only to work somewhere else -- sorry ePrize, it had to be done. In preparation for the big adventure, I went over every system on the bus, ensuring it was ready for the long haul. As it turns out, most of them weren't, and I probably wouldn't have made it out of the state before something failed catastrophically. Over the next three months or so I overhauled that beast, from the engine to the brakes to the electrical, making sure it was all up to snuff. What better way to learn about automobiles than to just dive right in?
I had, in the mean time, found a dream job for a Software Engineer, but the lure of the wild west was too much. I notified them about a month ahead of time what I ultimately wanted to do, and they were extremely understanding and supportive -- I'm telling you: dream job. With that out of the way I began telling friends and family that my departure was imminent. I'm not sure if they believed me six months prior when I told them the wild adventure I had planned, but they believed me now! Why doesn't anyone ever believe me when I tell them what I plan on doing?
So this was it, the final month of preparation. I can't even explain the myriad of emotions one goes through when saying goodbye to everyone and everything they've known for the past 15 years. I would love to tell you that in that last week I was more excited than I've ever been, like a kid finally tall enough to ride a roller coaster, but I was actually pretty sad. I guess there were two competing emotions during that time: the excitement of venturing off into the unknown, and the sadness of leaving so many loved family members and friends behind. I guess it's tough to get overwhelmingly excited about the unknown, so sadness won out. On those last few days as I packed up my apartment, I was borderline sullen, morose. No turning back now.
I hate goodbyes. Absolutely 100% hate them more than almost anything else. They just seem so final, when in all actuality they rarely are. Why can't people just stick with the less absolute, "See ya later?" No sense making a bigger deal out of it than you have to, right? So Monday morning, after my last goodbye (sigh), I fired up the bus and drove off, hoping that all the work I'd done to it would be sufficient enough to get me across Ohio, if not across the country. To be honest I really didn't feel a sense of liberation or much of anything -- it just felt like another trip down to Cincinnati to visit the grandparents. I guess something of this magnitude takes a while to really settle in. Perhaps it will kick in when I'm standing on top of a 1,000 foot tall sandstone spire in the deserts of Arizona? That would seem appropriate.
I guess it was about a year in the planning stages. And like all good plans, it started with a dream, a vision. I told a few people about this wild idea I was kicking around, and was greeted with many variations on the look of, "You're friggen nuts." I wish I could somehow extract these images out of my head and mash them all up into some sort of collage, or maybe line them all up like they were spewed out of some sort of psychotic photo booth. However, all of these hints at disapproval or misunderstanding only helped to fuel the fire and my adolescent need for rebellion. Step 1: find an affordable Volkswagen bus.
After many weeks of research I learned a few things: 1) 1971 was the coveted year for the old-school bay window variety, 2) Michigan possessed no rust-free buses, and 3) I knew nothing about automobile mechanics. This was not going to be easy.
At least 6 times a day I would search eBay and Craig's List for VW buses, using about 6 spelling variations of the term "volkswagen bus" and checking all the surrounding states. This went on for 6 months. Finally, this past spring, I stumbled upon a beautiful, rust-free, California bus right in my home town of Royal Oak. I called the guy 45 minutes after he posted the ad on Craig's List. He seemed kind of shocked or weirded out that I called so quickly after he had posted it, but I shrugged it off and crossed my fingers. We met up the next day so I could look it over, my bud and old-school car enthusiast Colby in tow. It was practically flawless, an immaculate find in the suburbs of Michigan. The only problem was the price, of course, and he wasn't willing to negotiate much. I took a deep breath, ran some numbers in my head, and decided this was the one. Despite having to wipe out my entire bank account and then some, this was my golden ticket, and it had to be bought.
Bus in hand, I quit my job, gave all my stuff away, packed 'er up, and hit the road. Yeah right. Nothing is that easy. I did quit my job, though, but only to work somewhere else -- sorry ePrize, it had to be done. In preparation for the big adventure, I went over every system on the bus, ensuring it was ready for the long haul. As it turns out, most of them weren't, and I probably wouldn't have made it out of the state before something failed catastrophically. Over the next three months or so I overhauled that beast, from the engine to the brakes to the electrical, making sure it was all up to snuff. What better way to learn about automobiles than to just dive right in?
I had, in the mean time, found a dream job for a Software Engineer, but the lure of the wild west was too much. I notified them about a month ahead of time what I ultimately wanted to do, and they were extremely understanding and supportive -- I'm telling you: dream job. With that out of the way I began telling friends and family that my departure was imminent. I'm not sure if they believed me six months prior when I told them the wild adventure I had planned, but they believed me now! Why doesn't anyone ever believe me when I tell them what I plan on doing?
So this was it, the final month of preparation. I can't even explain the myriad of emotions one goes through when saying goodbye to everyone and everything they've known for the past 15 years. I would love to tell you that in that last week I was more excited than I've ever been, like a kid finally tall enough to ride a roller coaster, but I was actually pretty sad. I guess there were two competing emotions during that time: the excitement of venturing off into the unknown, and the sadness of leaving so many loved family members and friends behind. I guess it's tough to get overwhelmingly excited about the unknown, so sadness won out. On those last few days as I packed up my apartment, I was borderline sullen, morose. No turning back now.
I hate goodbyes. Absolutely 100% hate them more than almost anything else. They just seem so final, when in all actuality they rarely are. Why can't people just stick with the less absolute, "See ya later?" No sense making a bigger deal out of it than you have to, right? So Monday morning, after my last goodbye (sigh), I fired up the bus and drove off, hoping that all the work I'd done to it would be sufficient enough to get me across Ohio, if not across the country. To be honest I really didn't feel a sense of liberation or much of anything -- it just felt like another trip down to Cincinnati to visit the grandparents. I guess something of this magnitude takes a while to really settle in. Perhaps it will kick in when I'm standing on top of a 1,000 foot tall sandstone spire in the deserts of Arizona? That would seem appropriate.
Where It All Began
It was a late night in the late summer of 2008. I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unwinding from the day's activities. My phone rang. Odd. Nobody ever calls me that late. It wound up being an old friend from college who had found herself stuck between a rock and a hard place. Over the next two hours I managed to talk her down off the ledge, and she managed to talk me into accompanying her to Kentucky to try out her latest obsession: rock climbing. At the time the conversation seemed innocent and insignificant, but unbeknownst to both of us, it would change my life forever.
My whole life, it seems, I have climbed trees, from the time I could walk until just this past weekend. I have no idea what draws me to them or why I feel the need to sit atop them; is it the act of climbing, surmounting, succeeding? Or the feeling of freedom, isolation, independence? Perhaps all of them, I don't know. But that October I found myself at the base of my first ever rock climb: Creature Feature in the Red River Gorge. I followed the cracks, crevices, and idiosyncrasies of the route, mentally scaling the 60 feet of rock face that stood above me. Left hand there, right hand here, bring right foot up, reach to pocket, up... up. It was beautiful. I tied into the rope, put on my climbing shoes, and began to scale the rock. With each foot gained I heard words of encouragement from below me. Not a big deal, I thought, I've practically been doing this my whole life. And right when I started to get confident (cocky?) I was swatted down. About half way up the route there was a section of rock that jutted out, forming a bit of a ceiling, and the only way past it was to climb out and around it. Hmm, don't remember any trees shaped like this.
I wound up blowing out my forearms pretty quickly, as my hands were nowhere near prepared enough to hold the entire weight of my body for any length of time, and climbing around that roof required a bit of strength and a lot of endurance. So, as quickly as it started, it was over -- after that route I couldn't even muster up the strength to snap my fingers. But that didn't stop me from watching other people climb and asking question after question. Every morning I hiked out to the crag and watched the grace with which these pseudo-professional climbers moved up the rock. I learned some lingo, I learned some moves. I was germinating a new obsession.
A month later I found myself out in Wyoming -- my first time out west. And I was there, of course, to climb. My friend and I drove up into the mountains surrounding Lander with a scenic destination in mind: Wild Iris. At a stout 9,000 feet, I was pretty certain I was going to suffer due to the thinner air, but it wound up working out pretty well; I got incredibly winded on the hike up to the wall, but I never had a problem during the climbs. That first day I decided to try my hand at lead climbing, and was completely hooked. I managed to make it up 5 different routes before I could no longer snap my fingers, a drastic improvement. As we packed up our gear and began hiking out of the woods, the sun began to set behind the mountains to the west. I wandered off the beaten path to a clearing on the edge of a cliff and watched the day's end. I stood there, staring off towards the horizon, attempting to snap my fingers and reflecting on what I had just done, what had just happened. Life could never be the same.
How could I go back to work and sit in an office for 40 hours a week now knowing what existed out there? How could I even pretend anymore that I was happy or content? I began planning my escape, my escape from the monotony, the mundane, and the materialism. And it would involve a Volkswagen Bus.
My whole life, it seems, I have climbed trees, from the time I could walk until just this past weekend. I have no idea what draws me to them or why I feel the need to sit atop them; is it the act of climbing, surmounting, succeeding? Or the feeling of freedom, isolation, independence? Perhaps all of them, I don't know. But that October I found myself at the base of my first ever rock climb: Creature Feature in the Red River Gorge. I followed the cracks, crevices, and idiosyncrasies of the route, mentally scaling the 60 feet of rock face that stood above me. Left hand there, right hand here, bring right foot up, reach to pocket, up... up. It was beautiful. I tied into the rope, put on my climbing shoes, and began to scale the rock. With each foot gained I heard words of encouragement from below me. Not a big deal, I thought, I've practically been doing this my whole life. And right when I started to get confident (cocky?) I was swatted down. About half way up the route there was a section of rock that jutted out, forming a bit of a ceiling, and the only way past it was to climb out and around it. Hmm, don't remember any trees shaped like this.
I wound up blowing out my forearms pretty quickly, as my hands were nowhere near prepared enough to hold the entire weight of my body for any length of time, and climbing around that roof required a bit of strength and a lot of endurance. So, as quickly as it started, it was over -- after that route I couldn't even muster up the strength to snap my fingers. But that didn't stop me from watching other people climb and asking question after question. Every morning I hiked out to the crag and watched the grace with which these pseudo-professional climbers moved up the rock. I learned some lingo, I learned some moves. I was germinating a new obsession.
A month later I found myself out in Wyoming -- my first time out west. And I was there, of course, to climb. My friend and I drove up into the mountains surrounding Lander with a scenic destination in mind: Wild Iris. At a stout 9,000 feet, I was pretty certain I was going to suffer due to the thinner air, but it wound up working out pretty well; I got incredibly winded on the hike up to the wall, but I never had a problem during the climbs. That first day I decided to try my hand at lead climbing, and was completely hooked. I managed to make it up 5 different routes before I could no longer snap my fingers, a drastic improvement. As we packed up our gear and began hiking out of the woods, the sun began to set behind the mountains to the west. I wandered off the beaten path to a clearing on the edge of a cliff and watched the day's end. I stood there, staring off towards the horizon, attempting to snap my fingers and reflecting on what I had just done, what had just happened. Life could never be the same.
How could I go back to work and sit in an office for 40 hours a week now knowing what existed out there? How could I even pretend anymore that I was happy or content? I began planning my escape, my escape from the monotony, the mundane, and the materialism. And it would involve a Volkswagen Bus.
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