Marooned. It had been a day since hitchhiking from Champagne Illinois, and now I was stuck a town called Normal.
This was mostly due to the untimely disintegration of my backpack. Its load was too much,
and the poor thing fell apart at the seams. Thus I was forced, arms loaded with my belongings, to trek through the pouring rain until I reached a sporting goods store. Here I found no backpacks, so I had to settle for a dufflebag I purchased with a large portion of money I had earned working back in Champagne. With daylight fading, I took up residents in an old gazebo and slept there for the night. It was a rough evening.
But that's just how it is sometimes. It's not all butterflies and rainbows. Sometimes I'm left mulling about in some overindustrialized town just looking for a way beyond. Sometimes I get picked up by a creepy gay Mexican who won't stop trying to pull his creepy gay Mexican moves on me. Sometimes I go days at a time without peeing. Days! Resisting even in my sleep the inclination to urination.
The next day I waited vainly for hours at a barren on ramp until I decided to try my luck several miles west, out of town and into the country. Three miles is not a lot, but with everything I own consolidated into the single strap of that single dufflebag digging into a single shoulder...Enthusiasm was not abundant.
Not too long after those three miles of considerable suck, I was picked up and made my way Northwest until I was dropped off at the edge of a small country town. There was a little diner off in the distance, and I had no particular reason to go to this diner. Perhaps I was a bit peckish, but there were a few other eateries in the area I may rather have gone to. To put it simply, I just needed to go to that diner and I knew I would meet a friend there. I was being lead, drawn, there was no resisting.
The very moment I set foot in the parking lot, a stranger struck up conversation.
Ronnie was endlessly cool. He was tall and gangly and about fourty, with many piercings and tattoos to be seen. He took me to a lovely state park and showed me around, and then to his mother's house (whose name is Ruth) where he had a backpack he never used and insisted I take. I was then fed and given the couch to sleep on. I have seldom felt so grateful.
The next morning I packed up, thanked my hosts and left. The new backpack was ten times better than the old one.
After four unsuccessful hours standing by the freeway I was picked up by a kindly old man with a long white beard. He took me all 150 miles to my destined city. When I was set down in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, I thanked him, holding out my hand for a shake. He replied by thrusting a wad of cash into my outstretched grasp and told me to take care of myself. Then he sped off into the sunset. I never got his name.
My Cedar Rapids host Shawn showed me about and provided much quality company. We enjoyed each other's company over local cuisine and coffee, and for those hours when he worked I wandered the town and spent serene hours reading, journaling and sipping coffee. Much coffee. It was good.
At the end of my last day in Cedar Rapids I had a few drinks with Shawn and some of his friends. Then I stalked into some woods, climbed a wall, hopped a fence and trekked to the top of a massive hill. Dubbed by the locals "Mt Trashmore", it was an old landfill, and from the top I could see what seemed like the whole city.
There I sat quietly, lounging about in the tall grass and listening to the crickets and cicadas until the sun set. Then I left Cedar Rapids.
I tip my straw hat to those young at heart indaviduals who see fit to pick up leather tramps like myself for the simple novelty of picking up hitchhikers. As for the rest...well. Sometimes they don't even look my way. Sometimes they avert their eyes and hastily accelerate past my roadside station. Old ladies just don't drive that fast, not unless they catch sight of something that profoundly disturbs them. Do I in my rough, trampy roadside soliciting really inflict such discomfort? This pleases me.
But I was picked up! After four hours of flagging I was liberated from the rainy roadside and from there managed a few rides until I was dropped off in the parking lot of a gas station/convenience store in a tiny country town.
There I sat, munching on mixed nuts and working out my next move. Should I try hitchhiking again? It was getting late and daylight was fading. It was at about that moment when I was approached by a wild eyed man who had just pulled up in his Toyota pickup and decided to strike up conversation.
Uncle James was a perplexing man. Sanity is not a word I would associate too closely with him, yet somehow, as I got to know him he would reveal to be more sane than most people I've ever met. It is hard to say.
He took me into the back roads, into Iowa's deep country (if there is such a thing). Eventually we came to the place he called his "oasis", a small island of dense forest jutting from the sea of corn. He offered me a bunk for the night. I accepted.
Uncle James' Oasis was a lovely little nook of woodsy/gardeny property covered with all manner of crops and strewn with building materials and projects in process. After showing me around and talking endlessly of the states of his crops and what he planned to do with the place, he acquainted me with his abode, a little house he had built, hardly more than a shack. He gave me the top bunk.
For the next couple of days we lazed about in paradise. Uncle James's lifestyle emphasized minimalism, self sustainability and a relationship with God through the cultivation of the land and in basking in the beauty of the natural world. For those few days I was inundated into his lifestyle. I cooked my meals over the fire, showered outside with just a bar of soap and a few jugs of water, and strummed my guitar lazily by the firepit deep into the nocturnal hours. Rarely, except on those nights deep in the wood, with only the fire and the moon and the sounds of the night, that with no regard for the hour do I feel so awake, does the world seem so alive. Suddenly all things stand as real in my mind and spirit and body.
All the while Uncle James and I spoke long of things spiritual. We spoke of things philosophical. We spoke of government and of conspiracy and of human nature. We spoke of plants and of animals and of mountains.
Uncle James was extremely well read and had a wealth of book smarts. His ability to memorize and quote verse was astonishing. I saw as he flipped through his tattered old bible that there were highlights and notes in various places on every page. I didn't doubt that he had every one of those verses stored away in his head.
He was an enigma of a man. He stood so tall and proud in his ways. There was a rare wisdom to him, a wisdom that extended into a world few dare to look to, yet he walked through it with regularlity and understanding. It was as if long ago he had been taken in by the spirit of the forest and the land, and now lived intimately with the workings of the wild. I was humbled by his understanding and the power it gave him in guiding his own life.
The man seemed always to have some profound proverb of his own devising, which fit into whatever subject or circumstance that came up. He spoke mostly in proverbs and parables, and I often had to take time to ponder them in order to understand their deep meanings (or what I thought they meant). I wish I could remember half of what he said, but there were just so many, and I haven't that sort of mind.
He said things like "Corresponding ideas and sharing dreams."
Or "Whosoever blesses themself in the earth blesses themself in the God of truth."
Or when a bald Eagle flew overhead, he pointed and said "That's you buddy!"
I cannot really begin to relate the incredible strangeness of character that makes up this marvelous man. He was truly a man of mystery and enchantment. You just had to be there.
After the two nights I spent on his land I said a heavy hearted goodbye to Uncle James. I hope someday to see him again.
From there I passed through Minnesota and rode to Sioux Falls in South Dakota in a minivan full of Mexicans. In Souix Falls I weathered a fierce storm in my little tent. It was an intense experience, but somehow I slept and kept dry, and the next day I continued to hitch rides until I was most of the way across the state of South Dakota and quite sick of the freeway.
I was deposited at a small town that was ever so slightly in the middle of nowhere, and seeing a road that appeared to lead even deeper into nowhere, I set out into the hilly country.
I walked and walked and hitchhiked a couple of times, but mostly walked, and I was able to enjoy the beauty of the endless grassy hills and rock formations at a leisurely pace. Being a native of Southern Michigan I had never seen such vast expanses or experienced the natural beauty of such a dynamic countryside. Eventually it became night, and I climbed up a ridge and layed my sleeping bag just on the outher side. There, hidden from the road, protected from the wind by a hey bale, I set my head down beneath a sea of stars and fell to sleep in the quiet solitude of the back country.
I slept well.
QUOTE OF THE WHATEVER ~
"To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common -- this is my symphony." ~ William Henry Channing
This was mostly due to the untimely disintegration of my backpack. Its load was too much,
and the poor thing fell apart at the seams. Thus I was forced, arms loaded with my belongings, to trek through the pouring rain until I reached a sporting goods store. Here I found no backpacks, so I had to settle for a dufflebag I purchased with a large portion of money I had earned working back in Champagne. With daylight fading, I took up residents in an old gazebo and slept there for the night. It was a rough evening.
But that's just how it is sometimes. It's not all butterflies and rainbows. Sometimes I'm left mulling about in some overindustrialized town just looking for a way beyond. Sometimes I get picked up by a creepy gay Mexican who won't stop trying to pull his creepy gay Mexican moves on me. Sometimes I go days at a time without peeing. Days! Resisting even in my sleep the inclination to urination.
The next day I waited vainly for hours at a barren on ramp until I decided to try my luck several miles west, out of town and into the country. Three miles is not a lot, but with everything I own consolidated into the single strap of that single dufflebag digging into a single shoulder...Enthusiasm was not abundant.
Not too long after those three miles of considerable suck, I was picked up and made my way Northwest until I was dropped off at the edge of a small country town. There was a little diner off in the distance, and I had no particular reason to go to this diner. Perhaps I was a bit peckish, but there were a few other eateries in the area I may rather have gone to. To put it simply, I just needed to go to that diner and I knew I would meet a friend there. I was being lead, drawn, there was no resisting.
The very moment I set foot in the parking lot, a stranger struck up conversation.
Ronnie was endlessly cool. He was tall and gangly and about fourty, with many piercings and tattoos to be seen. He took me to a lovely state park and showed me around, and then to his mother's house (whose name is Ruth) where he had a backpack he never used and insisted I take. I was then fed and given the couch to sleep on. I have seldom felt so grateful.
The next morning I packed up, thanked my hosts and left. The new backpack was ten times better than the old one.
After four unsuccessful hours standing by the freeway I was picked up by a kindly old man with a long white beard. He took me all 150 miles to my destined city. When I was set down in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, I thanked him, holding out my hand for a shake. He replied by thrusting a wad of cash into my outstretched grasp and told me to take care of myself. Then he sped off into the sunset. I never got his name.
My Cedar Rapids host Shawn showed me about and provided much quality company. We enjoyed each other's company over local cuisine and coffee, and for those hours when he worked I wandered the town and spent serene hours reading, journaling and sipping coffee. Much coffee. It was good.
At the end of my last day in Cedar Rapids I had a few drinks with Shawn and some of his friends. Then I stalked into some woods, climbed a wall, hopped a fence and trekked to the top of a massive hill. Dubbed by the locals "Mt Trashmore", it was an old landfill, and from the top I could see what seemed like the whole city.
There I sat quietly, lounging about in the tall grass and listening to the crickets and cicadas until the sun set. Then I left Cedar Rapids.
I tip my straw hat to those young at heart indaviduals who see fit to pick up leather tramps like myself for the simple novelty of picking up hitchhikers. As for the rest...well. Sometimes they don't even look my way. Sometimes they avert their eyes and hastily accelerate past my roadside station. Old ladies just don't drive that fast, not unless they catch sight of something that profoundly disturbs them. Do I in my rough, trampy roadside soliciting really inflict such discomfort? This pleases me.
But I was picked up! After four hours of flagging I was liberated from the rainy roadside and from there managed a few rides until I was dropped off in the parking lot of a gas station/convenience store in a tiny country town.
There I sat, munching on mixed nuts and working out my next move. Should I try hitchhiking again? It was getting late and daylight was fading. It was at about that moment when I was approached by a wild eyed man who had just pulled up in his Toyota pickup and decided to strike up conversation.
Uncle James was a perplexing man. Sanity is not a word I would associate too closely with him, yet somehow, as I got to know him he would reveal to be more sane than most people I've ever met. It is hard to say.
He took me into the back roads, into Iowa's deep country (if there is such a thing). Eventually we came to the place he called his "oasis", a small island of dense forest jutting from the sea of corn. He offered me a bunk for the night. I accepted.
Uncle James' Oasis was a lovely little nook of woodsy/gardeny property covered with all manner of crops and strewn with building materials and projects in process. After showing me around and talking endlessly of the states of his crops and what he planned to do with the place, he acquainted me with his abode, a little house he had built, hardly more than a shack. He gave me the top bunk.
For the next couple of days we lazed about in paradise. Uncle James's lifestyle emphasized minimalism, self sustainability and a relationship with God through the cultivation of the land and in basking in the beauty of the natural world. For those few days I was inundated into his lifestyle. I cooked my meals over the fire, showered outside with just a bar of soap and a few jugs of water, and strummed my guitar lazily by the firepit deep into the nocturnal hours. Rarely, except on those nights deep in the wood, with only the fire and the moon and the sounds of the night, that with no regard for the hour do I feel so awake, does the world seem so alive. Suddenly all things stand as real in my mind and spirit and body.
All the while Uncle James and I spoke long of things spiritual. We spoke of things philosophical. We spoke of government and of conspiracy and of human nature. We spoke of plants and of animals and of mountains.
Uncle James was extremely well read and had a wealth of book smarts. His ability to memorize and quote verse was astonishing. I saw as he flipped through his tattered old bible that there were highlights and notes in various places on every page. I didn't doubt that he had every one of those verses stored away in his head.
He was an enigma of a man. He stood so tall and proud in his ways. There was a rare wisdom to him, a wisdom that extended into a world few dare to look to, yet he walked through it with regularlity and understanding. It was as if long ago he had been taken in by the spirit of the forest and the land, and now lived intimately with the workings of the wild. I was humbled by his understanding and the power it gave him in guiding his own life.
The man seemed always to have some profound proverb of his own devising, which fit into whatever subject or circumstance that came up. He spoke mostly in proverbs and parables, and I often had to take time to ponder them in order to understand their deep meanings (or what I thought they meant). I wish I could remember half of what he said, but there were just so many, and I haven't that sort of mind.
He said things like "Corresponding ideas and sharing dreams."
Or "Whosoever blesses themself in the earth blesses themself in the God of truth."
Or when a bald Eagle flew overhead, he pointed and said "That's you buddy!"
I cannot really begin to relate the incredible strangeness of character that makes up this marvelous man. He was truly a man of mystery and enchantment. You just had to be there.
After the two nights I spent on his land I said a heavy hearted goodbye to Uncle James. I hope someday to see him again.
From there I passed through Minnesota and rode to Sioux Falls in South Dakota in a minivan full of Mexicans. In Souix Falls I weathered a fierce storm in my little tent. It was an intense experience, but somehow I slept and kept dry, and the next day I continued to hitch rides until I was most of the way across the state of South Dakota and quite sick of the freeway.
I was deposited at a small town that was ever so slightly in the middle of nowhere, and seeing a road that appeared to lead even deeper into nowhere, I set out into the hilly country.
I walked and walked and hitchhiked a couple of times, but mostly walked, and I was able to enjoy the beauty of the endless grassy hills and rock formations at a leisurely pace. Being a native of Southern Michigan I had never seen such vast expanses or experienced the natural beauty of such a dynamic countryside. Eventually it became night, and I climbed up a ridge and layed my sleeping bag just on the outher side. There, hidden from the road, protected from the wind by a hey bale, I set my head down beneath a sea of stars and fell to sleep in the quiet solitude of the back country.
I slept well.
QUOTE OF THE WHATEVER ~
"To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common -- this is my symphony." ~ William Henry Channing
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