The Everyday Back and Forth Motion of Necessity. The Commute

A Basis For Comparison (or, Why I Never Complain Too Much About Commuting)

My mother is 62 years old. Every weekday, excepting one Friday a month that she gets to take off, she commutes from the suburbs north of Baltimore to the heart of Washington, D.C. To do this, she wakes up at 4:30 am, and leaves the house sometime around 5:15. She catches the light rail from the suburbs north of the city to Penn Station in Baltimore. She then transfers to the Marc train, which travels between Baltimore and Washington. Finally, she transfers to the DC Metro, completing her commute a short walk from the Library of Congress, where she is employed (I know, pretty cool, huh? My mom is a librarian at the Library of Congress.) In all, she commutes approximately 4.5 hours round trip every day. She’s been doing this since about 1997. I think it is really cool to have a mom who is a librarian at the Library of Congress. But I wish she would retire soon. And quit with the ridiculous commute.

Washington, DC. ( Or: The Beltway)

When I was in college, I worked as an engineering co-op one summer. I worked at an engineering firm in Bethesda, MD, on the northwest side of DC, and I lived in College Park, MD, on the northeast side of DC. You could call it 10:00 and 2:00, I think, if you picture Washington DC as a clock. Which, I don't. Usually. And if I did, it would probably be a digital clock. Operating in military time. Anyway, my commute took me 15 minutes via the beltway if there was no traffic, and 45 minutes if there was. Google Maps says this is a 22 minute, 14.6 mile drive. It would take me a day to hike 15 miles. I am not sure I could run 15 miles. I would like to try one day. If I biked 15 miles, it would probably take me an hour, maybe and hour and a half? I'm not sure. This commute was my first lesson in the daily repetitive stress of traffic jams. At the time, no one had cell phones. Some people had car phones. And I am sure they talked on them, in their cars, while driving. Driving fast, or slow. But I don't think that the small number of people who had car phones seriously affected the accident rate or traffic speed during my commute. I know the speed of traffic affected my mental well being. It stressed me out. Even if I was doing this commute in a yellow and white 1980 VW Vanagon. With a good stereo and a gigantic sunroof. I can't remember if I waved to a lot of people while driving this hippy van. I hope people waved to me, but somehow I don't think they did. I mean, this was DC. I am not saying that people in DC are mean. Just, maybe, too busy to wave. I did have a CB radio in this van. Boy, the van merits it's own blog entry. Remind me to tell you the short but eventful life story of this van as I know it, and how it managed a way too early retirement in my parent's garage.

Commuting, to me, has never been an extremely painful experience. Although I don’t like sitting in traffic, stuck, in my car, I don’t always mind it either. I don't like it, but I don't mind it. There are no other times in an adult American’s life, I think, in which we are forced to just sit still. If only the rules, regulations, guidelines or maybe even customs of our society dictated that we just stop everything we are doing for 15 minutes of every day, and sit, still, wherever we are at the time, maybe the world would be a much better place. Forced non-action. Required inertia. Mandatory meditation. Even recommended rest and relaxation. Unfortunately, traffic is none of these. It is in no way a relaxing time. As soon as we start to think we are sitting still, we have to move again. Slowly. Hopefully, gaining pace. Picking up speed. Maybe this is the end of it. Maybe I can finally shift into second gear. Maybe the accident that caused all this has finally been completely cleared. Maybe…bam. Slam on the brakes again. Stop. Brake lights. Wait a second. Did I just waste the past 10 minute of my life stuck in traffic listening to an article on NPR about the controversy of skin lightening cream use among adult men in India? Really? Maybe there will be a traffic report soon. Maybe I should call someone on the phone. No. Bad. It's illegal in California. Well, so is smoking pot. Are these bad things because of their illegality? Not necessarily, but yeah, I guess you could get pulled over for doing either one. Which automatically would cause more traffic, and force you to take even more time to get where you are going.

The Glory Days of Vehicles and Carpools

During the entire 2.5 or so years that I lived in San Francisco, I commuted from the farthest south neighborhood of that fair city to different points in Marin county. You have never heard of the neighborhood I lived in in San Francisco. Unless your name is Brian, Nathan, Link, Jasin, Lorena, Natalie, Marilyn, Paolo, Kali (the dog, not the ancient goddess of chaos and destruction, though, you know, there is a comparison there that deserves mention), Lynn, or maybe someone one the above mentioned dated or were friends with. But, lucky for us, this neighborhood had a bus stop or two, and was a quick bike ride (downhill in the morning) to the Caltrain station. So, in remembering my commutes, I have to give this one points for including a bike and a train. And it doesn't end there. In the morning, I could, and often did, ride downhill to the train, get on the train with my bike, and ride north to the end of the line. I then got off of the train, got onto my bike, and road 10 minutes of flat streets to the ferry landing building, where I paid $3 to board the ferry and ride it, with my bike, to Larkspur, in Marin. During this ferry ride I could partake of a bagel, or coffee, or even both. I could sleep. I could stare out the window or off of the deck at Angel's Island, or Alcatraz, or San Quentin or the Golden Gate Bridge. Or, if I was feeling like my scenery intake level was currently too low, I would take one in after the other, perhaps thinking to myself "Ooh." or "Aaah." Or "Hey, this is a great view of Death Row! It's neat how we are in a no-wake zone, and we have to go slow as we cruise by this famous prison. I wonder if Johnny Cash still plays there ever? I wonder what modern San Quentin prisoners would think of Johnny Cash." Or, on passing Angel Island, "Wow, I wonder how immigrants felt arriving at such a pretty island, with such a nice name, only to then be processed like cattle, and quarantined for way too long of a time?" Huh. The Bay Area, with it's thought provoking scenery.

The commute from San Francisco to Marin ended with a 3 minute bike ride across an overpass over Hwy 101 to the office where I worked. So, of an hour of commuting, I rode my bike about 20 minutes on mostly flat and downhill routes, got to enjoy a train, coffee, a bagel, and scenery, and didn't pay too much more than the toll on the golden gate bridge. This commute probably takes the cake in my diary of commute memories. Besides all the benefits I listed, there was the sleeping I could do if I I wanted, or needed to. Then, on the way home, I could choose to reverse the bike to train to bike to ferry to bike to office route, or I could bike the entire 20 or so miles, including a large scenic portion through Marin on bike trails and across the Golden Gate Bridge, or I could split it up. Ride the ferry back to SF, then bike home through the city. Enjoy a beer after work on the ferry. Give a random tourist a talking tour of the scenery. Take a nap on the boat. This was always fun, especially on the catamaran ferry. This boat was fast, and when it hit the waves it tended to rise and fall a bit, especially in the bow. So I discovered one choppy day when I was napping in the bow and we hit some good waves, and I dreamed that I was falling. And rising. And falling.

Besides my time in the bike to train to bike etc commute to Marin, I also spent a significant amount of time in San Francisco commuting via my roommate's Nissan Sentra, my old 1978 Honda CB400 motorcycle, and a large brown Dodge conversion van, affectionately nicknamed "The Big Turd". There were many wonderful days of carpooling across the Golden Gate bridge. After being stuck working in 100 degree summer heat all day in Marin, my coworkers and I would take the Turd to 7-11 to get slurpees. As we cruised south on Hwy 101 towards the GG Bridge, we would sip our slurpees and reminisce about the funny things that the ex-cons and tweakers that we worked with had said that day while we worked beside them, standing in creeks wearing waders and mowing down ridiculously tall and persistent cat tails and pampas grass. At a set point before the bridge, we entered the gay tunnel (that's kind of how I think of it, based on the rainbow, you might also know it as "that tunnel with the rainbow on it", or, perhaps, as the "Waldo Tunnel", that last being what it is actually called. By the time we had gotten to the tunnel, we had rolled up the windows and put down our slurpees. The temperature in the summer in the Golden Gate strait can easily be as much as 30 degrees lower than that in most of Marin. We often hit traffic jams that backed us up into the tunnel. But that's the beauty of carpooling, especially in the turd. At least, during traffic jams, you have folks to keep you company. And somewhere to sleep. If you're not driving. Which, since it was my van, I always was.

I am still waiting for someone to create a fuel efficient conversion van. I mean, really fuel efficient. If a van is invented that gets better mileage than my Honda Civic, and I suddenly win the lottery, I will buy one. Cause I miss those days of the Turd carpool commutes. But, life moves on.

And so did I. Commuting, really, whether it's a good commute, or a long commute, is a necessary part of our lives. Unless we don't work. Or, maybe, we work from home. Or, better yet, we don't work. But for many years of my life I was lucky enough to work from home. Well, reverse that. Not as luck as those of you who rent or own a place and live there and work out a home office or something. I have worked at a variety of places over the years that provide me with a paycheck and housing at the site of the job. Meaning my commutes have often been short walks from home to work site. Whatever that work site may be. In the early 00's it was the Marin Headlands Golden Gate National Recreation Area. The commute there was a short bike ride or hike through a coastal national park. In New Hampshire, I spent a few years working seasonal education jobs for the Appalachian Mountain Club, and there I walked a short distance through sunshine, rain, sleet and many feet of snow. But always in a forested area with nice mountains around. In other places where i lived and worked in the same location, the commute really didn't exist.

Right. Climate Change. It's My Problem Too.

Being somewhat of a self-described environmentalist, I think the car commute is something, ideally, that I should avoid. I think that the closer that we live to the places that we live and work, the better our environmental conscience is. It's better for the planet if we reduce our carbon footprint. As I write this the leaders of the world are gathering in Copenhagen to talk about climate change reduction. Of course, they are, many of them, flying there in jets that use massive quantities of fossil fuels. I don't know though, maybe some of the Europeans are riding their bikes instead. Or at least traveling by BMW motorcycle. Well, okay, probably not. But maybe some of their security staff are traveling by motorcycle. If even one leader was riding his or her bike to get there, well, I would vote for that person as Ruler or the Universe. Ideally, if I ever attend a conference, I will bike there. Ideally, soon, I will be biking to work. At least a few times a week.

This past summer, though, I experienced a change of heart about some of the ideals that I had carved out for myself over the years. Well, not a change of heart, but a reorganization of my priorities. I needed to save money, so I stayed with my parents north of Baltimore. I really wanted to work on water quality issues in the Chesapeake Bay, so I commuted daily back and forth to Annapolis, the state capitol of Maryland, so I could work for the MD Department of Natural Resources. This commute, according to Google Maps, consisted of 47.6 miles, or 57 minutes, of driving. Also, according to Google Maps, it could take "up to 1 hour and 20 minutes in traffic." Which is true. But another statement that is also true is that this commute could take up to 2 hours and 30 minutes in traffic. Or, it could take 2 hours and 27 minutes. Or there could be an idiot whose car broke down in the tunnel that cause a ridiculous, and seemingly spontaneous, backup. Or, that, if it was raining, some people would drive this route very slowly and cautiously. In the left lane. Next to another person driving slowly and cautiously in the right lane. Of a two lane highway. One thing I will say for the drive I did this summer - there was an endless variety of surprises when it came to time frames and events that caused those varied time frames. And I got a lot of thinking done about human nature. And life. And whether or not I enjoyed commuting. Despite the audiobooks. And the phone conversations I sometimes caught up on. (I know. But in Maryland it's not illegal. So it's okay, right?)

When my work season ended in Maryland, I decided I needed a different commute, so I moved back to the north coast of California. Living in Mendocino for a few years has presented me with a variety of commutes. I have walked from my house to the office, or driven a work truck from my house 100 feet downhill to the office. I have driven 10 minutes, about 10 miles, north from one small town to a slightly larger town along the Pacific Coast Highway, checking the status of the Pacific Ocean and its associated scenery at a variety of bridges and beach overlooks. And most recently, I have moved from a 57 minute commute in Maryland to an approximately 45 minute commute here in Mendocino. The gate to the off-the-grid farm where I lived until recently is about 11 miles from were I work. It took me about 10 minutes to drive over rutted dirt road to reach the gate, then another minute to open the gate, drive my car through it, and close it behind me. I then drove another 3 miles, or 15-20 minutes, depending on road conditions, bears, weather, mountain lions, gnomes, mushroom pickers and strange old men with toyota pickups parked by the side of the road and looking like the ghost of Edward Abbey dressed in black vietcong pajamas (actually, this guy was probably just another mushroom picker, but he waved to me every morning during my commute) to reach pavement. 15-20 minutes, or 10 miles later, I arrived at work. Traffic consisted of the above mentioned oddities (okay, I never really saw any bears or mountain lions, or gnomes, but I could have if I had kept driving this route) and the occasional logging truck, CHP SUV, or tourist. I didn't bother with audiobooks but instead switched back and forth between the two different dial locations for the local NPR affiliate. I couldn't talk on the phone whether or not it was legal, my phone didn't work for most of this commute. I often oohed and aahed at the sunset and sunrise over the cloudy redwood covered hills of the watershed next to and below the road. Exposed for great scenery in some spots by old logging clear cuts. I marveled at how many years I had spent driving my poor Civic up and down these roads and others like them. I recalled how short the days during winter are. And despite the idyllic farm location of the cabin where I was staying, I looked forward to the shortened commute that I would soon experience when I moved a bit closer to town.

Which is where I am at now. This past summer was a great eye opener for me. It showed me that I miss riding a bike to work. I don't mind spending time in my car, but I'd rather spend it outside with my bike, or my dog. I do think it's a good idea to use less fuel. I value the time I free up when my commute is shorter. I strongly believe in designing a society where we all live near where we work. I have reignited my healthy dislike for suburban sprawl. I don't want to sound preachy here, but, well, I probably do. Do you have a long, hellish commute? Can you shorten it? Can you work from home sometimes? Can you possibly take a train or a subway to work? How about a bus? Can you bike to work? If so, you are lucky. If you can, and you don't, why not try it sometime? At the least, can I recommend an audiobook or two to take the edge off?

I'll try to remember to let you folks know, one of these days soon, how the next stage of commuting is going. I face a 7 am bike ride in December up a reasonable hill, then down a steep one facing a view of the Pacific and a vast stretch of dunes and beach. From there, a mile of PCH 1, then 3 miles of old logging haul road - paved and closed to motorized vehicle traffic, alongside that same ocean. It should be wet, cold and beautiful. Now I just have to get the bike tuned up. And buy some lights.

Forgetting Sarah Marshall

Apatow strikes again. No movie reviews intended here, but more of an honest, soul searching mistake of a journal entry gone blog posting. Did you ever love someone? Did you ever write letters to that person, and then never send them? Did you ever pour your anger, frustration, love, hate, jealousy, rage, bile, tears, butterflies, boulders or strawberry shortcake emotions out onto the page for that person to read, then tear the page up, or keep it for yourself, holding it away from that person, thinking that you had won something back, that finally, you had something that she couldn't have? Or maybe you just were to afraid to say what you had written? Or maybe, just maybe, you realized you were afraid she just wouldn't bother to read it?

But maybe you felt better once you wrote that letter.

My admission. I am still living in a state of heartbreak. I would say 4 and a half years later, but that isn't it. It isn't about forgetting someone, at this point. It really better not be. If it was, well, I know who it would be, and she and I are friends, and well, really I wouldn't want a relationship with her now. We've grown, we're different. No. I've forgotten as need be. It would be kind of easy to write a journal entry about those long buried emotions, but no. That's not it. It's not about one specific missed love. It's sadder than that. It's about feeling sorry for yourself. Living in a state of limbo. He spent a year on the couch. I could see the appeal in that, I think. Who doesn't want to eat cereal out of a gigantic bowl sometimes. The moment that really struck home was when the clock read 2:24, and he was still in bed. Okay, I'm not that bad. I like to sleep in. Sure, I can be a lazy fuck. But nah, I'm not that bad. The point is, it isn't about getting over someone.

But damn if I still couldn't relate to the movie. Not the random fucking, necessarily. Though, like the giant bowl of cereal, I can see the appeal. Not the Hawaii bit, either. Or the surfing. I tried, I didn't get back on the board. But damn if it isn't time for me to write my Dracula musical.

Corn and crosses

Okay, I admit it, it's been 4 months since I drove across the country to get here, home, to Maryland. I haven't written a lick of blog since the first week or two that I have been back. I have some photos and a brief journal, and here I am thinking that I will try to capture some of the rest of the trip, at least for the sake of having a bit more of a record.

But there was a specific question I really wanted to answer with this last trip across the country. Poised to me by a friend from Kansas. I told her I really didn't enjoy driving across the midwest. The corn belt. The bible belt. I told her about the time I drove from Maine to Mendocino, back in 2003. The time that I camped in western Tenessee. I saw a sign for a state park campground as I drove down the highway. I pulled in. It was very late. Quiet. Dark. I pulled my sleeping bag out and slept on the grass next to my car. I woke up early, and decided I hadn't really spent enough time at the campsite to pay the fee, so I left. I watched the sun rise in my rear view mirror as I crossed the border into Arkansas. I saw three crosses standing by the side of I-40, and I decided that this was to be the day that I quit quitting smoking again. I bought a pack of Marlboro Reds at a gas station, planning to chain smoke, if necessary, to get across Arkansas, Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle that day. It was a long drive, but I made it, throat ragged and gas tank near empty, to a rest stop just inside the border of New Mexico.

What bothered me so much about driving through the midwest? Why did I feel the need to just get it over with? Based on my reaction to the crosses and my desire to smoke (maybe I was just looking for an excuse there), it wasn't just a question of the distance, of putting a big chunk of the country behind me. It was something else. Something specifically related to that particular area. A stereotype I had.

My car has bumper stickers. At the time it probably had a bumper sticker that said "Think Larger, buy Smaller - Not Everybody Needs an SUV". I drive a Honda Civic. It definitely had a sticker that said "Bread not Bombs", and certainly there was a sticker on it that said "Work Buy Consume Die".

I was almost certainly sporting a beard. A couple guys at a gas station in New Jersey (the same guys who were filling my tank and cleaning my windshield) had seen me with my beard and called me Osama Bin Laden. Funny. I thought about shaving before my trip. just to avoid drawing attention from folks who might be looking to get in an argument about the looming Iraq war, or terrorism, or freedom, or my bumper stickers, or about whether or not it was okay for John Ashcroft to use taxpayer's money to buy the Crisco he anointed himself with. But I was too lazy to shave. And for the record, I would have been smoking American Spirits, or Camels, but all they had was Marlboros.

So I did, eventually, make it across the US that time. After a night spent at that rest stop in New Mexico, I drove to Flagstaff, AZ, and stayed in a hostel. I met some really great folks there. I cannot say enough great things about the four or five times I have passed through Flagstaff. I am always just passing through, but I always seem to meet great people and have interesting conversations. I first did Karaoke in Flagstaff, in the bar in the basement of a haunted hotel. The Monte Vista, I think.

While settling in at the Flagstaff hostel, I met an extremely beautiful girl. She was not beautiful in any way that I typically find beautiful - she had no quirks. She was a billboard. She was a magazine cover. She was what the majority of people think is beauty, perfection, etc. She was not the type of girl I would typically try to talk to, yet alone hang out and have dinner and a drink with, but she and I just happened to be in the living room at the same time, feeling hungry and thirsty. We went out, just the two of us, to get liquored up and to eat. I couldn't believe it. (Yeah. I know my self esteem needs some work, but that's another blog entirely). There had to be a catch. There was a catch. Apparently, this girl was from a bit of a radical right wing Christian upbringing. She seemed innocent enough at first - ex-boyfriend a pro snowboarder, she was waiting to catch a bus to the grand canyon so she could work at a hotel there, she believed the war in Iraq was a complete and total necessary jihad to wipe the muslims off the face of the earth, she really missed her dog...wait. What? Seriously? This was March 2003. The war was on my mind. I expected to be talking to people about the ridiculousness of it while I was in Flagstaff. She didn't make fun of my beard though. We didn't make out, either. On a note unrelated to politics, I met another girl the next morning who I sat and talked with for an hour, and managed to fall in love with before saying goodbye. She was not billboard, or magazine, but more farm, or music fest. Deep brown eyes and that certain something that so many people have when you meet them, as your paths cross, heading in opposite directions.

Showers, Soul Theft and Geysers

Day 3

We left the Grand Tetons, headed north towards Yellowstone. The plan was to tour around Yellowstone, seeing a geyser or two, a buffalo or two, and definitely a moose. Stop, take pictures. No hurrying. This day (I am not even sure what day it was...) was going to be at least one day of this trip where I wasn't thinking about all of the distance I had to drive. I would be a tourist. I would get out of the car many times. I would "ooh" and "aah". And when I left Yellowstone, I would trave a short few hours, possibly as far as the Bighorn Mountains, and then stop to camp at a campground.


The day started with a shower. Amazingly, in Grand Teton National Park, there was only one place to take a shower. It had many showers, sure. Also a laundry, a grocery store, a visitor center, a gas station, and other modern lifestyle necessities. I showered, and took a walk through the woods behind the facilities, to see if Abbey wanted to take a shit in this small piece of Babylon nestled in nature. As we wandered through the woods, I thought I saw the ghost of John Muir glowering towards the gas station. He was up in a tree. All the way at the top. Dressed in a long overcoat, munching on a crust of bread he had pulled from his pocket.

As we drove through the valley between the two parks, we passed construction. There was a sign that read "Your Admission Fee at Work." I thought about it, and wondered if tax dollars still applied to National Parks too. I am pretty sure they do, but I was reminded that in California, many State Parks are in danger of closing for lack of state funding. There was a brief image of the elusive bull moose taking a big crap on the Governator's head. If you need help with this image, you should know, that like many herbivores, a moose's crap comes out in pellet form. Big piles of brown pellets about the size of shooter marble.

With the window open, I smelled something. It wasn't rank, bad, stinky. But it was a bit stinky. It wasn't offensive stinky, but if you farted, and it smelled like this, you wouldn't want to claim the fart as your own. It was a really familiar smell. I thought about it for a while, and realized that it smelled just like the off-gassing of a lager yeast fermenting when I am homebrewing beer. Rotten eggs. Sulfur. Geysers.

On the way into Yellowstone from the Grand Tetons, there is a waterfall near the road, maybe called Lewis Falls? I stopped there, like so many others, to take a picture of this beautiful, yet relatively short, waterfall. Later on I would think to myself that maybe I was just falling victim to peer pressure. Maybe there was no point in taking a picture of this waterfall. It was nice, pretty, splashy, wet, as waterfalls tend to be. It was bad ass. If it was located in Maryland, people would flock to see it. But here in Yellowstone, it was, I realized later, a shot or two under par.
Still, it was the first one, so people, including me, stopped, gawked, snapped, and left. I have to admit, I had the thought, many a time while I was in Yellowstone, that maybe we tourists weren't really there to see the beauty, or to ponder it, or to meditate in the vast awesome nature of the place, but only to steal its soul with our cameras.
"Honey, pull over, I need to get a photo of that."
Click.
"Okay. Got it. On to the next scenery."

I felt that way a bit myself in Yellowstone. I was sad that I couldn't hike anywhere with Abbey. I was glad when the hike to the brink of lower Yellowstone Falls was something like 5/8 of a mile and down 600 feet. In a nice gentle rain.

Before leaving California I had done some music trading with my friends, and in the process I had acquired a lot of Phish shows. It had been a long time since I had listened to some good Phish - late 90s stuff - and in this case, the music was a great soundtrack to the drive through Yellowstone. (Which, by the way, I kept calling "Yosemite", in my head. I always get the "Y" National Parks confused.) I swear, as were driving through the first hour of Yellowstone, I was hearing Phish sing "Take the highway...to the great, divide!" And so we did:


The next scenery for me was Old Faithful. I admit, I wanted to see the famous geyser blow. I drove by a number of much more beautiful geysers, but didn't stop. I went to Old Faithful, and I was lucky enough to arrive within about half an hour of the next eruption. Right now, apparently, Old Faithful is blowing its top every 90 minutes or so.

I had read that dogs were not allowed near the geyser. The review said, "but, you and your faithful companion can watch the show from 200 ft away." I walked out to the geyser area to survey the scene, and found that the geyser field was surrounded by a boardwalk with benches. Which was surrounded by a concession building, a small visitor center and bookstore in a mobile trailer, some bathrooms, and a massive construction site. Which, in turn, was all surrounded by a massive concession area, and a massive parking lot. Which, in turn, was adjoined to many other random buildings.

I noticed some other dogs relaxing with their owners on the boardwalk, so I went to get Abbey out of the car. She was, to say the least, happy about this. We walked back to the boardwalk and positioned ourselves with a great view for the show to come. About 20 minutes ahead of the predicted "within 10 minutes" of 1:10 pm.

There was lots of steam, the whole time. There was some premature bubbling. Lots of small jets of water which were false alarms. And then a whole lot of hot water erupted from a small hole in the ground

Running, with Dog, in Bear Country

Day 2 (con.)

Well, despite the likely presence of a brewery and maybe a buffalo burger with a couple of beers, we skipped Jackson Hole. Drove right through it, admiring the rafts piled on trailers being pulled by vans, and on top of vans, and the school buses that were not headed to school but to the river, and I thought that I would like to do some of that whitewater river kayaking one day. I am not sure what Abbey thought. It may have been something like "I am tired of being in this car. I like the smells coming in from the window. I want to eat something."

Entering Jackson Hole through the Teton Pass, you see mountains in the distance with snow on the top, even in June. Cool. I have never been to the Grand Tetons before, and if I have seen pictures, I can't remember, so I am thinking that maybe those snow covered peaks in the distance are the grand tetons that I am hoping to see. And I am thinking, "Sure, yeah, they look kinda grand." And I read somewhere that the Grand Tetons ridgeline is one of the most recognizable mountain ridgelines in the world. The snow covered peaks in the distance don't really look that familiar to me.

Then we get into the park proper, and off to the left, I see the Grand Tetons. I am think, "Oh. Yeah. Those Grand Tetons. That recognizable mountain ridgeline."

It does look kind of familiar, really.
I had done some pre-planning and some research for this part of the trip. I was very proud of myself, and thankful to Noah and Facebook, when we pulled into Jenny Lake campground, nice and early (around 2 pm), and there were tons of open sites. A tent only campground, nestled among conifers, with options for shade, or exposure to the flat moraine valley opposite the moutains. We chose the latter.

I was definitely tired, at this point. It was really tempting to set up camp, crawl into the tent, go to sleep. When I set up my tent, sleeping bag, and pad, I like to lie down for a minute, just to test the placement of it all, make sure that I will be comfortable for the night, before making a final commitment to the spot. I did this, and I almost didn't get up again. It felt so good, so nice, so wonderful, so, well, spacious, to rest with my body fully extended. (I need to put a quick note in at this point - a friend of a friend has a blog about his current bike ride across the country (yeah, I know. Why are you reading this crap. Why am I even bothering to write about my drive?). He talks a bunch of times about holing up in shelters at rest stops to get out of the rain, spending the night stretched out in his sleeping bag. I will never again fear the highway patrol eviction. I swear. Stupid. Those picnic tables looked so tempting. Why the hell not?)

I did get up again. I could not leave Abbey tied to the picnic table - though she looked rather comfy herself, stretched out in the shade. Amazingly, in hindsight, I got my running garb on. It had been a few days since I had run. I swore back in December that I was going to start a great habit of running three of four times a week, and stick to it. Well, for a while now I have been really determined to at least keep the sticking to it part alive by running at least once a week. So, why not? I am tired, but running seems to ignore that. I was feeling like a good stretch was needed, so I did that before running. I felt like I had eaten too much food the day before, why not burn some of it up in this beautiful spot.

Another reason that I wanted to take a run was that I couldn't take a hike. Dang National Park rules, dang John Muir preservation ethic, trying to preserve everything, not mess with it, let people see it, but not let dogs chase it. Abbey was not allowed on trails in this, or most other National Parks (thank you Gifford Pinchot and the land of many uses, National Forests, though). So instead of a big hike up into a canyon, or around a lake or two, or both, I would run on a road. Luckily Jenny Lake had a scenic drive route next to it, and looking at the map I realized I could make it a nice run.

I wasn't sure how long I would be able to go. I wanted to try to get at least half an hour in. We were at altitude, compared to the CA coast, so I figured that the thinner air and the road exhaustion would probably knock me out shortly after that. I told myself to keep it slow, and I did. Abbey had no complaints. But after 20 minutes, I felt like I could do 40, and my mind was thinking at that point that it was beautiful in the park, and I want to run distance, and I am not feeling tired, and I am keeping a nice calm pace, and hell, maybe I can make an hour. I have never run for an hour before, but why not. I would run the lake drive until I got to the other end, and make a loop of it, or turn around when I got to a half hour point.

The lake was off to our left as we ran. Cars passed by every once in a while, driving slow. I thought then of how much more detail I was getting to see. I think now of that guy, and my friends, who cross the country on a bike. Hell yeah. Put it on the bucket list. As we got close to the 30 minute mark, I marveled at how good I felt, and how the thinner air didn't seem to be a factor at all. I thought I might even make it to the end of the loop.

In the Santa Cruz mountains before I left California I had been working as a naturalist again. Taking students for hikes in redwood forests and to the tidepools at Natural Bridges State Park, teaching them about the science of those places, and the general rules of ecology as they apply to all places. Eat or be eaten. Food chains. Life and Death. Predator and prey relationships. Adaptations for survival in the natural world. I was aware that there is an outdoor science school based at Grand Tetons that is pretty famous in the naturalist world s science schools go. So I was kind of happy when a van marked with the logo of this school pulled up next to me from the opposite direction as I was running.

The driver smiled at me and said, "Hi."
I said, "Hi."
She said, "I just thought you might want to know that there is a grizzly bear next to the road just a little ways down."
I looked at Abbey, and said "Thanks. Guess I'll be turning around now."
The kids in the back of the van all laughed.
She said something about being cautious, if I did decide to keep going.

I thought about it for a minute. I really wanted to see a grizzly. I hadn't seen one in over 15 years. I started running again, in the same direction I had been headed. The next car was driven by an older fellow. His wife was in the passenger seat. He motioned me over and showed me a picture on his camera. Of a grizzly bear. Told me that the bear was just down the road, and was right next to the road.

I turned around. I was bummed. But I had seen Abbey whine and whimper excitedly when she saw a squirrel. I was running, and I didn't intend to run past it, so would I want to run away from it once I saw it? What if it saw me? Would it chase me? Would Abbey try to chase it? Would it eat me or my dog first? What was really the point of seeing a griz if I didn't have my camera with me? Just kidding on that last one. I had also seen Abbey give chase to a black bear before. She was on leash, but I didn't want her getting too excited. We turned around. We ran back the other way. The time on my watch was 29 minutes into the run. How appropriate.

On the way back one more car pulled up next to me. "Hey man, just wanted you to know we saw a big red bear headed this way through the woods from the other side of the loop." I thanked them, and quickened my pace a little bit. I kept glancing into the woods to my left, but I didn't see a bear.

I asked the campground host later if they get many bears in the campsites. I had been to Yosemite, camped in Little Yosemite Valley, at the base of half dome, watched two black bear cubs climbing up onto some stupidly unprotected backpacks (they were lashed to a tree about four feet off the ground.) My friend and I had been visited by a ranger whose job it was to hike through that campground, warning people to expect bear visits. I had woken up in the middle of the night, opened the tent door, and thrown the previously prepared pile of rocks and sticks at a large black bear, while yelling at it, only to discover later that it had knocked our bear canisters about and bitten a hole in my friend's plastic fuel bottle. The host said it was pretty rare. A few weeks back one camper thought they had heard one. I was sort of disappointed. But, hell, I still had lots of Tetons and Yellowstone to drive through. Maybe I would see a griz. Maybe I would at least get to see a moose. Maybe even a bull moose.

I was proud of myself for finishing an hour's run. We made it back to the campground at 56 minutes, and so we circled the loop once to make it 61 minutes, then circled again, walking, cooling down. My first thought when I stopped running was "Wow, this is what they call the runner's high." I had felt it before, I am sure. I feel it to some degree after every run. But damn if it didn't really kick in after an hour. Of course, there was jello legs sensation, and the mild urge to puke, but these were secondary to the daze I was in. I walked around the loop, then went back to the campground and stretched, and wondered how I could possibly have chosen to run that day knowing that the campground had no shower. The sign next to the ice cold water faucet said "No brushing teeth, washing dishes, or bathing." I didn't read it.

The First and Second Day of the Trip (without much of a noticeable boundary between the two)

Day 1

The first line on the first page of the Driver's Guide to Driving Across this Ridiculously Large Country We Live In is probably, "Be sure to plan ahead." Which I thought I did, by getting my brakes checked. And, so far so good on that note. But, sleeping has been a bit more of an issue. Once again, the Civic is a great car for everything but.

The second line is probably something like "Allow extra time to...to do everything."
(And somewhere in there there is probably a line about not mooching great writing ideas off of John McPhee, but I am feeling spiteful right now due to the scratched nature of my third book on CD, his "The Founding Fish." It's about shad, okay?)

My intended departure time was early Tuesday morning. And despite what you all know about me and my sleeping habits, when I said early I meant early, like 7 am. I did allow enough time in the final days before for blogging, final Facebook checking, drinking with the cohorting coworkers, 9 holes of frolf with the goats and goat-like naturalists, buying a new guitar case and eating one last boring meal at the brewery, and lots of other good stuff. I managed to have a few beers and a couple of attempts at redeeming the men's team in euchre (both lost, which I would like to blame Millipede for, but really it was a team effort) as well beforehand. I did get some packing and cleaning done. On Monday evening I decided to leave the final hour of packing and cleaning for Tuesday morning, and reasonably pushed the departure time back to 8 am.

I managed to wake up Tuesday morning at 8 am, and after breakfast, goodbyes, and a final hour of packing and cleaning that stretched into about 3 hours, I was on the road by early afternoon. Aiming to get to a campground near Elko, NV.

In hindsight, I probably should have left earlier. By the time I reached the exit on I-80 where I knew the campsite to be located, I had had three Rockstars and way too much Subway, and I was amped up on my first book on tape, The Diamond Age, by Neal Stephenson. And the thing about me and books, is, well, once I am reading I don't really like to stop until I am passing out. Which I managed to widely avoid by grace of the rest area gods and their choice of placement of a quaint rest stop somewhere along the lonely state route 93 in the NE corner of NV, just south of the ID line (and well past my planned stopping point near Elko). A real nice place to wake up to see the sunrise - middle of the desert, next to a river. Or at least I imagine it would have been. I crashed for an hour, waking up every ten minutes or so to experiment with a new attempt at comfort in the front seat of the Civic. Damn it, this is just what I swore I wouldn't do this time around.

So the first night I slept in rest stops. One in NV, one in ID a few hours later. Sunrise......somewhere just short of Massacre Rocks State Park in Idaho, a place I had researched ahead of time as a possible campground if I made it that far on my first day of driving, or intelligently split the drive to Idaho into two days. I didn't stop at Massacre Rocks. I wish I had.

A list of things to do differently on Day 1, next time I drive from the Santa Cruz mountains to Maryland (or, really, so far, to Remington, Indiana. Don't ask.):

• pack early, leave the night before
• stay with Shawn and Emma in Oakland on a work night for early departure and hometown inspiration
• stay at the campground as planned
• Stop to take pictures of that crazy house on the south side of I80 in NV.
• Or drive across NV 50 instead of 80, cause it sounds cool
• Based on above, camp in Great Basin
• drive through NE NV during the day time to fully appreciate the desert
• Scratch that last one. Drive through all desert areas at sunrise of sunset only, taking photos the whole way
• Travel in larger vehicle. Ideally, synchro Vanagon Westfalia or Dodge Sprinter camper

Day Two

Abbey was spending as much time staring out the window, shedding, and sleeping as I was listening to Neal Stephenson. She also was managing quite nicely to pee quickly every time I let her out of the car. At gas stations, at rest areas. A good travelling companion. Calm in the car. Not prone to howling. Only once every thousand miles or so did she try to crawl out of her cave in the back, onto the front seats and into my lap. Which I generally discouraged.

When we finally were up and on the road on "day two" of the trip, my intention was to aim for the National Forests and associated campgrounds south of Grand Tetons National Park. This meant a few hours of freeway and a lot of wandering mountain roads. We had driven through Twin Falls, ID, in the blur that was the early morning driving, between rest areas. Really, we skirted it, driving around the actual city on border roads. I was not awake enough at the time to take a break from Stephenson to put on Built to Spill, or for that matter Josh Ritter, though I am not sure he is from Twin Falls, only somewhere in Idaho. I had been to Idaho once before, actually Mountain Home, but that was more westerly than we were ever going to be on this trip. I did think a bit about how the last time I had driven up this way there was a lot more desert between CA and ID, and I realized there might be some merit to by strategy of driving at night.

We passed through Pocatello, ID, and I wondered why this place sounded so familiar until later I recalled that Jack Black (the hobo turned librarian, not the actor) had spent many a day there visiting Salt Chunk Mary and exchanging pilfered goods for cash. This was to be the first of an old west theme that is hard to avoid when driving through Idaho, Wyoming, and South Dakota. I managed to later pass Wild Bill dam, WY, and Deadwood, SD, and I almost bought a Stetson and the biography of Seth Bullock at Wall Drug. Last night, I camped in Garretson, SD, apparently a place where Jesse James occasionally ran from posses.

On the way into Grand Tetons, I discovered a few things. There is yet another form of the picnic robbing jay that I know as the Stellar's Jay on the west coast (blue and black, with a mohawk, annoying) and the Grey Jay on the east coast (grey, also annoying). I think, anyway. I saw one, but didn't get a photo. It was black and white, about the same size as a Stellar's Jay, and though brave it wasn't really as annoying. I could be wrong. Could this have been a shrike? I thought they were smaller. This was at Palisades Dam, on the Idaho side of the ID/WY border on the snake river. I stopped at the dam because, well, it was big, and it was on the Snake River, and I was hoping there was a fish ladder there that I could take pictures of salmon in. There wasn't, as far as I could tell. I didn't really get too near the dam though. There was barely anyone there, so I let Abbey off the leash for a bit. She immediately took a shit, and we were both happy about that. Though I missed out on taking pictures of fish and that jay-like black and white bird, I did get some of my first (don't laugh now) non-brown pelicans. White pelicans, I think they are called.



Just before leaving the dam, I realized it would be a good idea to look at the map. I did, and then realized I had made a semi-wrong turn. Or missed a turn, really. I would still make it to the park, but I was neglecting a scenic route. I turned around a headed back the way I had come. It seemed only appropriate to make sure I entered Grand Teton National Park by climbing up and over Teton Pass. Which I am proud to say the Civic managed all 8, 431 ft of (though I am sure not all at once), only slowing to about 25 mph in second gear (fully loaded, though I am glad I sold the kayak before leaving CA) on the steepest parts.

At the top of the pass, I pulled over to let the guy in the VW Passat wagon with a picnic table tied to his roof pass me, to let Abbey pee (higher than she had ever peed before!) and to take a picture of the first of much western cheese

Across the country again

In 1998, I graduated from Virginia Tech with an engineering degree. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I only knew that I didn't want to be an engineer. I was thinking, at the time, along the lines of mechanic, or environmental educator. The mechanic thing didn't work out, though I still find myself under the occasional shade tree from time to time.

I spent the summer after graduation partying hard and working a night shift job at a construction site on campus pulling wires for a construction company, making more money than I had ever made in my life. For $6.25/hr I was hanging out with my good friends, falling for a girl, working, getting paid, and hitting the bar at 12:30 am to start a night of partying. Sleeping until after noon, going to work. Repeat. It wasn't too bad of a life. I was always happy hanging out in Blacksburg, partying, doing a radio show, drinking cheap beers at the Cellar, falling for beautiful hippie girls. But one fateful day I was sitting downtown on a bench. Probably smoking, probably people watching. I happened to run into Nathan and Lorena, and they were discussing an upcoming move to San Francisco. On a whim, I asked if maybe I could come along. I figured San Francisco would be a good place to start off the next phase of my life, the "after college" phase. Nathan said yes. This was to be the first of a series of cross country trips. This first one was accomplished in a 24 ft Ryder truck and a early 90s Nissan Sentra sedan, with two dogs and four people. The two dogs consumed a lot of dramamine, the four people many a cigarette. We managed to clip the side of a shed with the truck while leaving Kent St. on the east coast. On our arrival in San Francisco, we managed to bend the drive shaft of the truck pulling into the parking lot of our new home.

In 2001 I found myself, suddenly, without a job, and therefore without a place to live, and without the money to pay rent in the San Francisco area. I had left my well paid job as an Engineering Technician to continue pursuing that environmental education dream. I was living in an amazing house in an amazing park just north of San Francisco. But I hadn't really thought too far ahead when I accepted the 6 month position, and when August rolled around, I realized I did not have prospects for work in the Bay Area, and the when the job ended the housing it provided ended too. So I sold the motorcycle, and packed up the Civic for a trip back to the east coast, where I had landed a job in the White Mountains of New Hampshire on short notice. This was to be a great break from my California life, a great place to teach, a great place to finally experience some real wintertime, a place where I found myself immersed in an amazing community of great people. Along the way I managed to sleep in a couple of rest stops, traverse the Badlands and an equivalent confusing alien terrain of emotions, listen to a BBC performance of the Lord of the Rings trilogy (not recommended for road trips, get the books on tape instead) rather than James Earl Jones reading the Bible (it was a hard choice), and almost die getting myself stupidly lost amongst cows and long long roads in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

A few years later, I found myself doing the edumacation thing in Acadia, ME. An amazing place. Beautiful. Mountains meet the ocean. Epic. Also, crowded. My friend and I had both spent some time in San Francisco, and we met there in Acadia. We had a few conversations about how, well, yeah, Acadia is beautiful, ME is beautiful, but really, well, the Northern California coast is comparatively more beautiful and much less crowded. We both ended up in California again before too long. I spent the winter in MD at my parents house working in a homebrew supply store, and then at Sunday River Ski Resort in ME, paying cheap rent, living with great friends and my first baby buddy (Simon, who was 6 months at the time, and loved it when I played the Beatles on guitar for him), and learning to snowboard. In March I drove across the country. Of this trip, I recall that I crashed late in a campground in western TN, then woke up early to dodge the fee. I drove, I believe, from TN to New Mexico, not being able to cope with the midwest at the time. You might recall that this was the advent of the stupid war in Iraq. When I hit Flagstaff, AZ, I found a hostel, and met a very cute girl who was feeling equally compelled to go for a drink and some food. We went out and talked a blue streak. Turns out she was a southern baptist who believed we were finally fighting the jihad we good christians should be fighting against the heathen muslims. No, she wasn't from Flagstaff. Luckily, there were many other great people at the hostel to balance my impression.

On arrival in CA, I started work at a place that was to change my life, the Mendocino Woodlands. I became a naturalist deep in the redwoods. My edges softened, my cynicism started to fade, I learned a greater appreciation for reggae music.

It is now 6 years and 2.5 months later. I am running late on my cycle of moving across the country. But tomorrow I do it again. This time, a return to the homeland. I will be driving towards MD, the long way through NV, Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, the Badlands, across the Mississippi, through Ohio, and home through the Cumberland Gap. I have a job waiting in MD, taking water quality samples for the state. Who knows what comes afterwards. I look forwards to thunderstorms, muggy summer nights, lightning bugs, family, old friends, new babies, Charm City, sailing?, paddling some east coast marshes, and hurting my knees on icy slopes this winter. I intend to teach myself to take nothing for granted.

Happy trails, CA. It's been, well, utopic.