I stood at dusk by an on ramp by a tiny Montana hamlet. It was Sunday and beginning to become too dark for hitchhiking when, out of the blue, the noisiest contraption on four wheels
I've ever ridden in rolled to a stop at my station. Thus began my time with the boisterous Uncle Greg.
Uncle Greg was a tall man with a toothless smile, a beer gut and a delightfully eccentric disposition. He had just recently been involved in a slight fender bender, which had torn the exhaust system clean off the undercarriage of his 79 Dodge RV (hence the noise). He and his travel mutt Ardee were on their way to Washington so that Uncle Greg could attend to a lady friend, but it was clear to me this was not his first journey across America. He was doubtless an experienced rubber tramp, and picked up hitchhikers all the time. There were signatures all across the starboard flank of his vessel. I added my own.
Before I go any further relating my voyage with Uncle Greg, let me fill in the blanks between now and the night I spent back in the Indian Reservation in South Dakota. I'll give you the briefest summary possible: I woke up, hitched to Rapid City, hiked into the black hills and saw Mount Rushmore (which was awesome, though I enjoyed the surrounding woodsy hills themselves much more), pooped on one of the Black Hills (which was also awesome), slept in a park, was woken up fiendishly early when the sprinklers turned on, caught a ride into Beulah Wyoming, was put up by a kindly cowboy named Blair who bantered with me at the local saloon, continued across the state untill I saw the Big Horns (my first mountains), met a fellow hitchhiker who seemed incapable of talking about anything but weed and how awesome Colorado is, and from there cruised my way up to Montana.
All the while I had received more blessings and acts of kindness than I can count; this guy pulls over to hand me a taco, that guy offers his yard for me to pitch my tent in, yonder lady who picked me up insists I take a twenty as she drops me of. Absurd. Wonderful. Humbling.
I've ever ridden in rolled to a stop at my station. Thus began my time with the boisterous Uncle Greg.
Uncle Greg was a tall man with a toothless smile, a beer gut and a delightfully eccentric disposition. He had just recently been involved in a slight fender bender, which had torn the exhaust system clean off the undercarriage of his 79 Dodge RV (hence the noise). He and his travel mutt Ardee were on their way to Washington so that Uncle Greg could attend to a lady friend, but it was clear to me this was not his first journey across America. He was doubtless an experienced rubber tramp, and picked up hitchhikers all the time. There were signatures all across the starboard flank of his vessel. I added my own.
Before I go any further relating my voyage with Uncle Greg, let me fill in the blanks between now and the night I spent back in the Indian Reservation in South Dakota. I'll give you the briefest summary possible: I woke up, hitched to Rapid City, hiked into the black hills and saw Mount Rushmore (which was awesome, though I enjoyed the surrounding woodsy hills themselves much more), pooped on one of the Black Hills (which was also awesome), slept in a park, was woken up fiendishly early when the sprinklers turned on, caught a ride into Beulah Wyoming, was put up by a kindly cowboy named Blair who bantered with me at the local saloon, continued across the state untill I saw the Big Horns (my first mountains), met a fellow hitchhiker who seemed incapable of talking about anything but weed and how awesome Colorado is, and from there cruised my way up to Montana.
All the while I had received more blessings and acts of kindness than I can count; this guy pulls over to hand me a taco, that guy offers his yard for me to pitch my tent in, yonder lady who picked me up insists I take a twenty as she drops me of. Absurd. Wonderful. Humbling.
I related this to Uncle Greg as we rolled down the interstate that Sunday evening and he related to me similar acts of kindness he had received.
"You've just gotta keep good karma man. You just gotta put yourself out there, you just gotta talk to people, tell stories. People love hearing about American adventure, guys chasing their dreams. People will pay you for that man, it inspires them."
Over the next few days Uncle Greg and I had many small adventures. The RV broke down multiple times every day. The occasional roadside hustle kept gas in the tank. We camped out on the side of the Yellowstone River, battled swarming wasps, watched bald eagles catch fish, downed a six pack of Mikes and ate shepherd pie.
The man was nuts. From what he told me he had been driving for the last three decades without a driver's license and had never been nailed for it. This flabbergasted me all the more as he habitually rolled cigarettes, texted or chugged coke and liquor whilst flying down the freeway. Sometimes all at once.
There was one episode when, during a storm he and I went coasting down a winding mountain road, pavement wet, no windshield wipers, pitch dark night, frequently blinded by oncoming headlights, 80 mph...At one point Uncle Greg came within a breath of loosing control and plummeting off a cliff, and although I made a good show of retaining my composure, a small string of profanity foreign even to myself rattled through my mind. As for Uncle Greg: "The way I see it, I came into this world crying while everyone around me was rejoicing. When I leave this world, everyone around me will be crying and I'll be the one rejoicing!" I quite nearly soiled myself with "joy".
Another day we decided to detour into Paradise Valley, a beautiful stretch of open range nestled between majestic woodland peaks. Uncle Greg had been taking us up a winding road into the pine-laden mountains. The view as we ascended was heavenly. I now believe the closest man can reach in this world to the ecstasy of heaven is in nature, up and among the mountains.
It was storming, and there is nothing quite like experiencing the wrath of a lightning storm in the high country. Arcs of electricity rolled across the sky, some distant, some near, some above our heads. Thunder boomed, wind cried, clouds opened and burst and shut. Uncle Greg's RV, built with the arrow dynamics of a brick, swayed on its suspension in the fierce gusts as we skirted narrow cliffside roads up and up and up. It was exhilarating.
Finally we reached our designated camping spot and Uncle Greg went to sleep. But before he did so, he shared tale of a majestic waterfall several miles into the mountain trails. Wise though it may have been to wait the storm out, testosterone won the day and I set out.
The trails were muddy and treacherous with washout and slippery slopes at every turn, but such was my glee in the wild winds of the storm that I trotted along with as little mind for the danger as seemed sensible at the time. I am often told I am brave or tough for choosing this journey, but I'm not sure that's wholly it. For some of us, there's just lighting in who we are. We can't help but play wild, we can't help but go extreme, we can't help but taunt the lion or dance in the storm. There's a voltage, an energy, a force of unquenchable barbarian violence that cunducts our reckless charge into the fires of tribulation. It is an utterly integral facet of who we are. We cannot be changed. We cannot be restrained.
"You've just gotta keep good karma man. You just gotta put yourself out there, you just gotta talk to people, tell stories. People love hearing about American adventure, guys chasing their dreams. People will pay you for that man, it inspires them."
Over the next few days Uncle Greg and I had many small adventures. The RV broke down multiple times every day. The occasional roadside hustle kept gas in the tank. We camped out on the side of the Yellowstone River, battled swarming wasps, watched bald eagles catch fish, downed a six pack of Mikes and ate shepherd pie.
The man was nuts. From what he told me he had been driving for the last three decades without a driver's license and had never been nailed for it. This flabbergasted me all the more as he habitually rolled cigarettes, texted or chugged coke and liquor whilst flying down the freeway. Sometimes all at once.
There was one episode when, during a storm he and I went coasting down a winding mountain road, pavement wet, no windshield wipers, pitch dark night, frequently blinded by oncoming headlights, 80 mph...At one point Uncle Greg came within a breath of loosing control and plummeting off a cliff, and although I made a good show of retaining my composure, a small string of profanity foreign even to myself rattled through my mind. As for Uncle Greg: "The way I see it, I came into this world crying while everyone around me was rejoicing. When I leave this world, everyone around me will be crying and I'll be the one rejoicing!" I quite nearly soiled myself with "joy".
Another day we decided to detour into Paradise Valley, a beautiful stretch of open range nestled between majestic woodland peaks. Uncle Greg had been taking us up a winding road into the pine-laden mountains. The view as we ascended was heavenly. I now believe the closest man can reach in this world to the ecstasy of heaven is in nature, up and among the mountains.
It was storming, and there is nothing quite like experiencing the wrath of a lightning storm in the high country. Arcs of electricity rolled across the sky, some distant, some near, some above our heads. Thunder boomed, wind cried, clouds opened and burst and shut. Uncle Greg's RV, built with the arrow dynamics of a brick, swayed on its suspension in the fierce gusts as we skirted narrow cliffside roads up and up and up. It was exhilarating.
Finally we reached our designated camping spot and Uncle Greg went to sleep. But before he did so, he shared tale of a majestic waterfall several miles into the mountain trails. Wise though it may have been to wait the storm out, testosterone won the day and I set out.
The trails were muddy and treacherous with washout and slippery slopes at every turn, but such was my glee in the wild winds of the storm that I trotted along with as little mind for the danger as seemed sensible at the time. I am often told I am brave or tough for choosing this journey, but I'm not sure that's wholly it. For some of us, there's just lighting in who we are. We can't help but play wild, we can't help but go extreme, we can't help but taunt the lion or dance in the storm. There's a voltage, an energy, a force of unquenchable barbarian violence that cunducts our reckless charge into the fires of tribulation. It is an utterly integral facet of who we are. We cannot be changed. We cannot be restrained.
We can only die...but death is something I've never had much of an affinity for, nor a talent. The rain beat according to the sporadic swaying of the wind and despite my poncho I was mostly soaked within twenty minutes. On I pressed, chilled to the bone, moving deeper into those rocky trails until finally the storm began to die down.
Out came the sun and dried up all the rain.
Everything was pretty now. Mountains towered all around me. I gazed upon their awesome majesty through coalescing treetop steam, summoned by the naked sun. I came to a glacial river and meditated on a boulder among the rapids, listening only to the current. The water seems to taste better the further west you go. Then I got bored and hastened several miles along the riverside to the waterfall, which looked far too climbable for any good ideas.
I climbed it.
The whole way up was slippery and terrifying, but I made it, and I commemorated my victory with a Tarzan howl and some chest beating.
I took the long way back, down through a valley, and returned sore and soaking wet to find Uncle Greg looking uncharacteristically vigilant. He directed my eyes to a fresh stool nearby, which he identified as bear, and informed me that my route had taken me right through a blueberry patch (bears love blueberries almost as much as they love killing anything with a face). Huh.
We traveled a few days longer into Montana until we ran into Ed, or as we liked to call him; my replacement. He was a young guy, tramping around just as I was, except he was headed the same way as Uncle Greg and I was heading down to Yellowstone. It was decided that Ed would ride off with Uncle Greg in the morning, and I would press on in my own direction.
I spent a night hoboing several hundred yards from the road in a creepy, deteriorated, abandoned, shack-like house with Ed, kept warm by the heat of a burn barrel we'd dragged in. Ed was a smart guy with a healthy outlook on life and a healthy appetite for old mary jane. We chatted til we slept, and in the morning I made my way out of town.
With Ed and my adventures with Uncle Greg behind me I couch surfed into Livingston, near Yellowstone. I was shown about the great national park by my kind host Jess and her adorable little girl Reagan. I was captivated at every turn, from the elk to the bison to the geysers to the canyon. Everything was so wild. A dream come true. Seeing the park was dandy, but I intend to camp out next time and experience it.
Everything was pretty now. Mountains towered all around me. I gazed upon their awesome majesty through coalescing treetop steam, summoned by the naked sun. I came to a glacial river and meditated on a boulder among the rapids, listening only to the current. The water seems to taste better the further west you go. Then I got bored and hastened several miles along the riverside to the waterfall, which looked far too climbable for any good ideas.
I climbed it.
The whole way up was slippery and terrifying, but I made it, and I commemorated my victory with a Tarzan howl and some chest beating.
I took the long way back, down through a valley, and returned sore and soaking wet to find Uncle Greg looking uncharacteristically vigilant. He directed my eyes to a fresh stool nearby, which he identified as bear, and informed me that my route had taken me right through a blueberry patch (bears love blueberries almost as much as they love killing anything with a face). Huh.
We traveled a few days longer into Montana until we ran into Ed, or as we liked to call him; my replacement. He was a young guy, tramping around just as I was, except he was headed the same way as Uncle Greg and I was heading down to Yellowstone. It was decided that Ed would ride off with Uncle Greg in the morning, and I would press on in my own direction.
I spent a night hoboing several hundred yards from the road in a creepy, deteriorated, abandoned, shack-like house with Ed, kept warm by the heat of a burn barrel we'd dragged in. Ed was a smart guy with a healthy outlook on life and a healthy appetite for old mary jane. We chatted til we slept, and in the morning I made my way out of town.
With Ed and my adventures with Uncle Greg behind me I couch surfed into Livingston, near Yellowstone. I was shown about the great national park by my kind host Jess and her adorable little girl Reagan. I was captivated at every turn, from the elk to the bison to the geysers to the canyon. Everything was so wild. A dream come true. Seeing the park was dandy, but I intend to camp out next time and experience it.
Thanking Jess I moved on deep into the mountains. To Idaho I go!
QUOTE OF THE WHATEVER`~
"The mountains are calling and I must go." ~ John Muir
Awesome blogging Austin.. really enjoy reading of your many adventures.. Ron says Hey!
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