Day Four, 2.0: Buffalo (the town, not the animal)

I left Crazy Horse and headed west. There wasn't a lot of mapping regarding the destination; I knew I had another day until my next waypoint, which was Bozeman, Montana. There were multiple stops in between, but for now, I was enjoying the scenery.

It had dwindled late into the afternoon, and I was scouting out places to stay. Soon enough, I found myself in Buffalo, Wyoming, and the sun hung low in the sky. It seemed like as good a place as any to stop. The corolla exited the highway almost on autopilot and I found a campground immediately. It seemed odd that there was a campground in the middle of town, but I'd resigned that there were no rules the further west I got. I went into the office and paid for my camp space, but the day was still young enough that I wanted to explore what Buffalo had to offer. Clearly, of course, there were no actual buffalo in Buffalo. Par for the course, damn it.

The clerk at the campsite told me that I absolutely had to visit the Occidental Hotel and Saloon, just a half mile up the road. The bar was apparently something to behold. With that, I hopped back in the car and found the place. It was nestled in the cutest little downtown I'd seen, just second to my hometown's quaint main drag on the water back east.

Upon walking in, I was quickly greeted by about a thousand taxidermied animals on the wall. Not just the wall; on the eaves, the bar, and the overhangs as well. Elk, jackalope, a catamount, moose, deer, antelope, bear, bobcat, duck... the walls spoke of wild animals past. The bar was a wooden splendor; carefully hand carved spirals, filigree, and intricate details so out of their time in today's modern age. The bar reminded me so of the Raleigh Times on Hargett Street, an antique dinosaur surrounded by a bustling city that still appreciated class and ages past. At the center was a true relic of a cash register, so reminiscent of the antique register at Blount's drugstore on Broad street back home, or ever of an old Underwood typewriter, with the buttons standing up boldly on their individual pegs. Yes, this was my place.

I sat down quietly and ordered a beer from the bartender. The sun was setting outside, and yet due to the dog days of summer, there was still somehow plenty of daylight left in the sky. Drinking quietly, I listened to the inquiries and subsequent history lessons surrounding the Occidental Hotel. The place had been standing for a hundred years or more; the molded tin ceiling still held bullet holes from a massive shoot out in the early 1900s.  The term Occidental is the antonym of "Oriental:" Oriental means eastern, and Occidental means western. The arched stained glass rose light fixture over the register was an original Tiffany, one of two still remaining from 1909. The stained glass did look out of place in a western bar, in all fairness; but once I heard where it came from, its placement seemed perfect.

The bar was more or less empty save one silver haired couple two seats to my left. The bartender recommended I take a quick stroll outside to photograph Crazy Woman Square, which was a quirky spot in the downtown block. I stepped out and was greeted by a horse carriage and a lush green square with a tiny stage for musicians. Upon my reentry, the couple was ready to talk. The gentleman's gray hair matched his beard, and his wife was a pleasant looking lady with short cropped dusky hair. They sat drinking beverages in tiny wine glasses; I inquired as to what their drink of choice was and they told me it was an aperitif dessert wine, so sweet and syrupy that it was meant to only be sipped on in minute increments. They were wearing matching t-shirts, white with "Chigaco" emblazoned across the chest in orange. They were from Canada, and had so thoroughly enjoyed their first road trip through the United States in their camper. We chit chatted about their travels and they questioned me about my journey. They had found the Hotel online and were quite excited about their stay there.

I took a brief stroll about the downstairs lobby. The original barber shop still stood, mostly untouched, with its leather-bound chairs in the center. The room now served as an impromptu bookstore, with historical books about Buffalo and the wild west lining the shelves where straight razors, combs, and shaving cream once sat. The lobby was a sight to behold, a parlor out of its time with claw footed sofas, hand woven rugs, frilly lampshades, and an old-tyme saloon piano against the wall. What a gem I had found!

I returned to my seat at the bar and chatted more with the Canadian couple. Before I knew it, the hour had grown late and they were ready to retire. I was several drinks in at this point, and was not sure what my plans held before me. They bid me goodnight and safe travels, and left. The bartender (who was so very cute, by the way), approached me and informed me that they had slipped him an extra $20 bill and said to make sure to cover my drinks, au gratis.

Moved by their kind gesture, I offered to the bartender that he also use the money to buy a drink for himself. The bar, in all its splendor and grace and tackiness, was ours. He asked where I was staying. I mentioned that I had paid $15 for a campsite across town, and he told me to sit tight.

"So, I spoke with my boss; the rooms usually go for $180 a night here, but rooms unoccupied yield zero dollars, so she agreed to let you a room for $60 if you want to stay. Some money earned on a room is better than none, so if you'd like to stay here you're most welcome to."

If the parlor, bar, and barber shop were any indication of the rooms to be rented, I was most certainly down for a unique and kitschy experience. With that, I laid out my wallet and paid for a room. Each had their own name and theme. I was given a key to the "Hole in the Wall," a single room full of promise and charm.

Room squared away, I ordered a shot; one for me, and one for him. He had dark brown hair, a scruffy beard, soft brown eyes, and a friendly yet laid back demeanor. Of course that meant that I was all about it. I didn't have to always play nice, and while I'm all about safety, I was going to shamelessly flirt with this guy as much as I could because, simply, why not?

We went shot for shot as the night went on. Soon enough the bar had to draw to a close, and it was time to head up to my magical out-west room. He sat at the bar over his last shot and asked if he could take me up to show me my room, which of course I said yes to. I wasn't scared; this wasn't some sketchy house in Iowa, it was a place of business where I could get his name and details if he turned out to be a creep. As it were, he was a ridiculously handsome bartender in Buffalo, Wyoming, and I was, at the moment, all about living for the moment.

He led me up the rickety staircase blanketed in a weather-beaten carpet and we rounded the corner past the antique coal stove to the "Hole in the Wall" room. I entered and was nearly bowled over by the character of the place. Floral wallpaper donned the walls, a wooden antique radio sat on the nightstand, a bedpan and pitcher rested delicately on a table in the corner. The bathroom had a pocket door and therein sat a claw foot bathtub, with perfumed soaps, lotions, and bath powders on the ledge with the Occidental Hotel's emblem on them.

I turned around to comment on how beautiful the room was, and as I did so, he put his hand to my face, gripping it with some combination of fierce and gentle hold, kissing me right against the wall of the doorframe. This didn't phase me. He was soft and kind and affectionate in all the right ways. The evening had landed me here, neglecting my pre-paid camp site and leaving the corolla outside in a dusty parking spot. In one fell swoop, we landed on the bed in the Hole in the Wall, the outlandish floral bedspread giving way to a hot and heavy bit of passion, his hands holding firmly to my face, assertive yet soft kisses pecking at my face and neck.

With some sort of suave that only seems to happen in movies, I found myself disrobed to a certain extent. Then again, he had likewise matched the dress code for the moment. He leaned down to kiss me and a pendant wrapped around his neck dangled on my chest. I grabbed it and pulled him down to lock lips. Upon the release of said smooch, I looked at the necklace I had grabbed. It was a dogtag. A woman's name was on it. Screech the record to a halt.

"Um. Who is Allison?"

"Oh, I mean, um, she's my girlfriend, but she's away so anything goes."

If it were possible to jerk my head backwards so hard that I broke the pillow in half, that about sums up my reaction. "Excuse me?!"

"It's not a big deal, really."

"I bet it would be to her. I think you need to get the fuck out of here," I said, shoving myself to the side.

Enter a thousand excuses, a thousand apologies, a thousand humble attempts to correct the observation I had made.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. Here." I said.

Once again, I had trusted the honesty of strangers and been sorely disappointed. I kicked myself for thinking I could have an innocently good time with a stranger and not somehow have to feel guilty about it for one thing or another.

He left stumbling over his apologies. Another beautiful moment ruined by dishonesty and an overwhelming dirty feeling.

I don't know who Allison was, and I hope they never married. At any rate, I was going to enjoy the beautiful room and leave Buffalo, Wyoming, never to return. At least I had that freedom. In the morning I awoke to a brilliant bouquet of flowers on the wall, and I took a leisurely bath in the claw foot bathtub. I decided to not let one douche ruin my time in the Occidental Hotel the way I did my time in Fort Dodge; I appreciated the experience for what it was and relished in my encounters with delightful folks such as the couple from Canada. I pocketed the shampoo, bath powder, and lotion from my room and packed my bag, hustling to the corolla with a sense of relief once I sat in the driver's seat. I had to remind myself that I would never be there again, and that it was still an experience that I could look back on fondly.

On some level I wish I had just gone back to the campground. On the other hand, I was happy I had met the people that I did, and that I got to stay where I did. The walk out was a sort of walk of shame as I crept past the lobby, hoping not to see the manager that the bartender had haggled down to $60 a night. Luckily she wasn't there when I laid my parking pass on the counter.

I nearly skid tires as I left Buffalo, headed west once again, shaking the dirt and grossness off of my shoulders in favor of the bright sunrise that kissed my face and wiped away all the grit that this town had placed on my shoulders. I'm glad I ripped him a new asshole. I'm not sad that I found a stellar hotel room. I'm sad that I didn't get the name of the Canadian couple, because I'm 90% sure they would have let me crash their couch if I ever made it up to Alberta. I'm sad I didn't stay for breakfast at the Occidental Hotel. I'm glad I didn't fall for the "my girlfriend is away" schtick. I'm glad I had the horizon to greet me and fill me with promise, and optimism, and excitement. I was so grateful for a new day, a new destination, and a new set of moments to be had on the grand journey that this trip has to offer. On to bigger and better. Tomorrow yields Yellowstone and Beans and old friendships rekindled. Surely there will be no disappointment there with such impeccably wonderful people. It's all up from here.

Day 4: The New American Way: A Lesson of Heart

I woke up to sunlight peering into the car. It was a brisk morning, but the temperature was already climbing. I deflated Magic Car Bed and showered in the bath house, which was substantially cleaner than the last bath house I had utilized. On the way out of the campsite, I stopped to pick some wildflowers so I could dry them and put them on display upon my return home.

It was early and the roads were empty. Perfect! It was time to head back south, away from Pierre. I had resigned today to be a cliche tourist trap day, and rightfully so; Mount Rushmore, Crazy Horse, and countless other monuments and tributes to the "wild west" were all concentrated in the area I was headed through. Not without taking the scenic route to get there, of course.

The southwest destination involved a rural zig zag through farm country. At first, it was mostly lackluster green and brown, but suddenly in a color burst, I was driving through a golden sea of sunflowers, farther than the horizons could border. I felt like Moses, my little black swath of concrete parting the Red Sea, barely holding back the waves of bobbing and swaying flowers that towered far over my little car. It all felt like a surreal dreamland. The landscape was flat in some areas, and in others it rolled on in graceful hills and valleys. I wondered where all these flowers would end up, in their vases, bouquets, and wreaths.

"Sunflower fields forever..." - No relation to that Beatles "Strawberry" song or anything.

I drove through this golden blanket for what seemed like an eternity, but not once did I grow bored of the view. Who could get bored of an ocean of colorful cheer? As the terrain became more hilly, the road began to cut below the field level, and the sunflowers bid their farewell - at least for now. Something caught my eye on the ridge above the road, and my foot instinctively switched from gas to brake. Was that... an antelope? Really? I'd heard that there were antelope out west, but it must have slipped my mind in my great quest to find a buffalo. I stopped the car and stepped out. I was too far away to be a threat, so he stood boldly, still as stone, gazing down on me. It was almost a look of boring disregard, as if I had interrupted his busy schedule of standing around looking majestic. Welcome to the west, I thought.

Majestic AF.

My first touristy stop of the day was Wall Drug. For my eastern seaboard readers, it's very clearly the "South of the Border of the west." Billboards for hundreds of miles in any directions point travelers to the giant hub, advertising free ice water and ten cent coffee. The pharmacy/general store became famous by using this advertising tactic when Mount Rushmore first opened, as tourists from all over America traveled in droves to see the spectacle. To this day, they still offer free ice cold water and ridiculously cheap coffee. Even on this rural isolated byway, I saw a couple of small handpainted billboards.

Of course I had to go; they advertised a giant dinosaur sculpture and a rideable jackalope! The key to enjoying any kitschy trap is to acknowledge it for what it is - cheesy, hokey features and cheap trinkets. Basically, you know, things that I absolutely love.

'Cause why not? Have  YOU ever ridden a mythical jackalope?

Free.99 is my favorite price. 

I entered the maze of buildings and was greeted by a live instrument honky tonk jukebox. Put in a dollar, pick a modern or classic tune, and dozens of wires and hooks and hammers pluck out your song on banjo, accordion, guitar, and drums. I stopped in a few gift shops, then headed to the courtyard. There I found the ice water fountain, as well as my giant jackalope and a multitude of statues giving tribute to the famous names of the "wild west." A giant mural said, "welcome to the Black Hills," and I thought of my favorite Beatles song, "Rocky Raccoon," imagining my mother, uncle, and all of their friends, sitting around in my grandmother's living room in the 1970's singing the song by guitar. What I wouldn't give to have been a fly on the wall for one of those nights.

Honky tonk wizardry.

On my way back through to the car, I spotted the "tiniest church in the west," nestled in between two gift shops. I walked in and was greeted by a single row of pews, an empty pulpit, and an open bible. Never one to shy away from the opportunity for a quiet moment, I sat down on one of the benches for a few minutes. The dim light in the chapel was soothing. It seemed like I had already seen and done so much, and I had only hit day five. I'd already encountered so many challenges, lessons, and inspirations, and it only made me more excited for everything coming up next. Life is only as boring as you allow it to be, and its excitement and wonder knows no limits if you're willing to look at the world with bright eyes and an open mind.

Religious affiliation not required. 

I hightailed it out of Wall Drug and headed west. Next up was Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse. It was an uneventful drive to get there, but when I got to Rushmore, I took one look at the admission fee and decided I'd do just fine to view the stone faces from afar. Besides, Crazy Horse was a lot more interesting to me. These two monuments are kind of near each other, but when in the mountains, miles don't equal minutes, so even though they are 20 miles from each other, it was at least a 45 minute drive. I was miffed that I'd added the extra driving, but when you're 2000 miles from home, you have to realize that the odds of "just passing by" one of these two monuments again is highly unlikely. Better to see both than to wonder if I'd missed out choosing one over the other.

To preface my visit to Crazy Horse, a bit of backstory is due. The monument has been a work in progress since 1948, funded by the Lakota Tribe, which he was a member of. When completed, it will be the largest statue on earth. The U.S. Government offered to assist in financing the production, but due to, well, the less than favorable history that the Native Americans have had with the U.S. Government, they politely declined any intervention and elected to craft and create it independently. The sculpture is so massive that it's projected to be finished in 2150. Yes, you read that correctly: it's going to take 200 years to finish. It's that big.

I was excited to see the monument, even though only his face and a very rough outline had been completed in the sixty plus years since groundbreaking. At the base of the mountain sat a Native American History museum, which was included as part of admission to the park. Proceeds go directly to funding excavation and construction.

Holy geez.

The road into the park led directly up to the monument, and when I first saw it, the sheer size was staggering. It's difficult to adequately convey in words or photos just how truly massive this structure is. There was a tiny hollow spot under his face (which will be the gap between his arm and his horse's mane), and that alone was tall enough for a double decker bus to drive through. I felt like an ant. It was awe-inspiring that humans could make such a mammoth thing.

Those railings are as tall as a person. Let that sink in. 

I entered the museum and explored the artifacts and photos on display. From room to room, a sense of unease arose, at first coming on as a small knot somewhere in my gut, gradually growing into a fuzzy pit that rippled goosebumps across my arms. It's hard to pinpoint what exactly I was feeling. Guilt. Sadness. Shame. A culture and a nation robbed, raped, and run off their own land. By people like me. No, a modern 2013 Jamie would never consciously hurt anyone, but my people sure did. I wondered what the purpose of guilt was. It's a sensation I fight with on almost a daily basis in one way or another for a myriad of reasons, but specifically here, what good does guilt do, some 150 years later?

Individually hand beaded ceremonial dress

Well, it certainly won't do a damn thing to erase, correct, or undo injustices past. It's not like I could go up to one of the museum curators and say, "I'm sorry for how my people treated your people," and a magic wand would give them back their land or their way of living. What guilt can do, however, is serve as a driving force to always strive to learn. To acknowledge the past, even if it makes us uncomfortable or it isn't pretty to look at. To be better than those before us. To try to make sure the next generation is even better than that. To educate yourself in the ways of others, and to celebrate and respect the cultures of those different from you. To first, do no harm. To be kind. That is basic human decency and civility. It's not something that we should pat ourselves on the back for, either. It should be a trait that is standard issue in every person; a trait that is expected as a fundamental aspect of how we see the world and the people in it.  That's the America that I want, and that's the America that we all see potential to be.

"A very great vision is needed, and the man who has it must follow it as the eagle seeks the deepest blue of the sky." - Crazy Horse

The Crazy Horse Memorial may have only earned $30 or so from me to help in its progress, but I took away a perspective and outlook from it that feels priceless. Fast forward to 2016. The world is still facing all manner of social, civil, racial, and cultural turmoil and intolerance. If history is good for anything, let us use it as not just a lesson in what could have been done differently, but also what can and should be done differently in our day to day in the present. Mankind is evolving; let our minds, eyes, and hearts evolve with it.

"My land is where my people lay buried." - Crazy Horse

*Author's note: To donate to the creation of this memorial, please visit https://crazyhorsememorial.org/

Day 3 Continued: Trains and Plains and Sioux Falls...

I left the Grotto after stopping by the gift shop for a couple of trinkets, including a postcard for my mother. I wrote a sweet note on it and swung by the post office. I had a bought a book of postcard stamps just for sending family and friends mail throughout the trip, but this was the first one.

"I wish you could be here with me to feel the peace and calmness of heart that I do now. See you soon. XO"

I sidled the corolla up to the blue drop box and it slid into the spout. I noticed that there was no clunk when it fell, and peered into the box. It was filled to the brim with letters and postcards, a pretty impressive feat for a tiny town. I wondered if the post office it was next to had gone defunct. I didn't see anybody inside, nor parked out front, come to think of it. No way to get the card back now. Oh well. I guess I was truly meant to experience the Grotto alone, which seemed to be par for the course with most poignant moments in my travels.

I hightailed it out of the oasis that was West Bend back into the desolate Iowa highway. I was pleased to see that the sunny weather held up for the rest of the morning as I tore through the endless sea of wheat. I headed northwest, eventually making it to Minnesota. I rolled through the downtown of a tiny, out of the way town and stopped to stretch my legs. There was a coffee shop just across the street. This town was just another isolated small community, but I think I felt compelled to stop because it reminded me of my hometown. I walked into the shop and inhaled the fresh scent of roasted beans. An antique cash register sat on the counter and next to it, a glass pie stand with a luscious homemade apple pie in it, slices priced at $2.50. The register reminded me for the world of the ancient teller machine at Blount's drug store downtown back home, where my sister slung sodas and shakes in high school. I always went there for hand-mixed vanilla Cokes--with extra vanilla, of course, in my youth.  In a moment of financial preservation, I opted not to get the pie. To this day, I regret that decision. As I passed through the southwest corner of Minnesota, I took in the landscape in deep gulps, the sun in my face and puffy, crisp clouds framing the scene.

Not too shabby.

Along my way, I saw curiosities that fascinated me. I passed an abandoned, rusted out train that sat decomposing quietly along the side of the highway. The rusty decay was crawling its way from top to bottom of the cars, the faded blue paint at the berth giving way to a green-yellow middle, gracefully blending into a ruddy orange on the roof. I wondered how many passengers rode on it over the years, headed to some new adventure on the rails. I wondered how it must have been when smartly dressed porters manned it as passengers gazed out the windows, back when it was shiny and new, and how it must have looked when it roared through the open plains and mountains. I wondered how long it was used before being unceremoniously dumped along the side of a desolate rural road.

Further down the road, I saw a drive in movie theater completely in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by crops as far as the eye could see. I've never been to one, and seeing as they're becoming a bit of a rarity, I was of course enamored by it. I've always wanted to sit under the stars and watch a film, nipping bourbon from a smuggled flask on a blanket in the evening air.

When I hit South Dakota, it was time to get back on the interstate. I hopped on to fast track through some of the miles to keep me on schedule. It's a necessary sacrifice when one travels like I do. I enjoy the small towns, the funky attractions, and the unusual destinations. However, two weeks of driving on secondary roads and scenic byways won't allow you to get as far. So I ride the middle, picking out interesting attractions and fast tracking some parts of the trip to allow me to linger in others.

I approached Sioux Falls and felt the need to refuel both myself and the car. I exited the highway and found an enormous Flying J complex. I parked the car and walked in. There was a Denny's connected to it. Normally, I like eating at places I can't find back home, but at this particular moment, if you had tried to get in between me and a ham cheddar melt, I'd have cut you five ways-- and then proceeded to eat that melt over your corpse.

I sat down in a booth by the window, quickly served by a heavyset brunette waitress with a thick, endearing midwestern accent. As a southerner, not only do I not notice my accent (which I have been told is surprisingly subtle), but I rarely encounter great dialects outside of our native tongue. I find most accents to be interesting and charming, especially those found away from the east coast. I looked across the dining room and saw a large group of people eating a hearty meal.

My lunch arrived and I inhaled half of the giant melt. I looked across the diner and saw a picture on the wall of a buffalo and laughed to myself, remembering the discussion I had with my friends back home about seeing a buffalo in the wild. I'd become mildly obsessed with seeing them, especially after hearing tales from a friend who had lived there very briefly and regaled me with tales of them causing traffic jams. For some reason, they seemed to be delightful and beautiful creatures. I hadn't seen one yet, and was rather disheartened about it. Today would be my day.

Amused at my own silliness, I got the other half of my sandwich to go and pulled my car up to the gas pump. As I refueled, I looked at the pickup truck in front of me at the pump ahead. In the bed was an assortment of what looked to be Native American ceremonial items: drums, feather wands, and even a large ceremonial headdress. I thought about the items as I fueled, wondering if these were for private events or for some sort of entertainment value. I always feel a pang of guilt when people's culture is turned into a sideshow, which was rampant in the rest stops and attractions I'd passed so far.

Dismissing the thought, I hopped in the car. While waiting for the GPS to boot up, three men exited the gas station, walking towards the pump I was at. I recognized them from the large table in Denny's. As I watched in the rearview, they they split up as they approached our vehicles. Two of them walked slowly on either side, the third on the right leaning sideways against the Corolla, pausing to stare in my window at my belongings, and then at me. One on the left hovered by my driver side door. The scrape of his jeans on paint crashed against my ears as he slid slowly on the side of the car.

Are these assholes seriously pulling this mess in broad daylight, in a busy gas station? I thought. Still, concern and anxiety began to tingle in my gut. South Dakota was a very, very long way from home.

I pretended to be calm and looked up to the rearview mirror. The third man was standing directly behind my car, now preventing me from being able to move it. He rocked his weight forward, bumping the corolla with his hips. Enter panic mode. I had three intense, unpleasant looking guys flanking my car and a pickup blocking my front. I reached my left hand to my hip, slowly and deliberately pulling my knife out of my pocket. He bumped my car again, this time leaving all his weight pressed against the bumper and trunk, the corolla budging forward on its shocks gently. He locked eyes with me, and a slow grin crept across his face.

I didn't drive all this way to get the wits scared out of me in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, in broad daylight, did I? Fuck this, I thought. They'll move, or I'll fucking move them. 

I locked eyes with the one making love to my bumper and angrily shoved the gear shift in reverse, the car shuddering in a simultaneously subtle and aggressive click. He remained unmoved. All right, let's play chicken then, I thought. I eased delicately off the clutch. The car began to roll, pushing him with it. Needless to say, their fun was over as they threw in the towel and he moved, but I was thoroughly shaken. Their eyes followed me all the way from the pump to the road. I nervously lit a cigarette, trying to quiet my jitters. Well, Sioux Falls can go right to hell, I thought.

The day was nowhere over though. There were miles to cross still. So I kept driving. Sketchy dudes be damned.

By this point I was making good time on the interstate. I was headed for another "offbeat attraction" called Porter Sculpture Park. It was listed as being in Montrose, South Dakota. It was described as being a large field full of big sculptures that had been hand welded and constructed by a single man in his free time. The photos I saw online looked colorful and whimsical.

I was getting close to the general vicinity and wondered how I would find this place, considering it didn't have an actual address on the website I saw. Then I saw it, rising slowly on the horizon: a hulking, massive bull head bigger than a house. Yep, this must be the place. I exited the interstate and hooked a left. There was a long dirt road to get to the park. The sign said "Welcome to Porter Sculpture Park. Things to bring: 1. Leash (for pets or significant others) 2. Camera (not responsible for bad photos)." I crawled the car up the grass road and around the bend to where a small RV and an open shipping container sat. I parked the car and got out to to stretch. There was stiff, refreshing breeze on that hilltop with white, billowing clouds unfolding higher and higher into the brilliant blue canopy above me. To my distant left rolled the cars on the interstate, their droning engines inaudible between the distance and the wind that swirled around me. The tall, unmowed grass bowed to its force gracefully. To my right, rolling expansive plains of what appeared to be wheat, cresting and falling in tides just as the ocean does on a bright, balmy summer day at Kill Devil Hills.

I stood for a moment at this great ocean and inhaled deeply, savoring the late summer heat. It was then that I took note of the shipping container before me-- or more importantly, I saw who was taking note of me. A man sat inside, shielded from the overbearing sun, quietly waiting for my peaceful moment to come to a close. I walked to where he sat and bid him hello.

His face was a mix of leather brown and flushed pink, the cracks and lines on his face etched deeply into his forehead and the corners of his eyes. His hair was short, but shaggy, a straw-colored yellow that only comes from long hours spent baking in the hot sun. He appeared older than he was, prematurely aged by harsh elements and, from the look of it, a possible long term relationship with the bottle. He sat patiently, if not slightly awkward in his gaze.

He greeted me and explained that he was the creator of this place. He loved sculpting by means of welding, and would put together his works one at a time with painstaking labor, then assemble them at the sculpture park for long term installment.

He was undoubtedly a strange fellow. His demeanor, tone of voice, and posture gave me the impression that social interaction might not be his forte, but he was kind and honest in his representation of his artistic vision. His words sort of hung in the air, attempts at humor that fell short, resulting in forced laughter and a slight unease.

I paid the modest admission fee to the park and was given the keys to a golf cart. Reserved for the disabled or elderly, he explained, but since it was a slow day I could use one as VIP since the park was empty.

Now let me clarify it's called a sculpture park, but not in the conventional means that we think of parks go be. It was more a scattered, yet carefully placed assortment of massive metal structures laid surrealy onto a grassy hill-- no sidewalks or fences, just a beaten grass path linking between each piece like a larger than life connect the dots.

I began my golf cart ride peacefully enough, rolling up to some large goldfish that fit perfectly against the backdrop of the grassy ocean behind them. Shortly after, an eighteen foot tall sculpture lay out the abstract frame of a goldfish bowl, contrast perfectly against the rich hues of an almost cerulean sky behind it, the fight within seeming completely at home in their blue enclosure.

Human for scale. 

As I went on, the statues became a bit less idyllic and more interpretive. I encountered a statue of a man painted completely black with one hand on his head, as if in shock. His eyes were white circles with his jaw dropped completely to his belly. White, disturbing teeth outlined as a macabre, gaping maw.

I know that feel, bro. 

Further ahead, in a tangle of old bicycle parts, helmets, and haphazard metal scraps, lay the metal skeleton of a dragon, with a sword piercing the ribcage, buried deep in his heart. The grass was deliberately unmowed at this statue, crawling between the metal ribs, protruding gently out of the orbital sockets as an unwanted visitor that represented the lapse of great time, illustrating a forgotten victory of an epic battle.

I rounded a corner to see two large red robed figures with the ghostly absence of faces looking penitently down at the ground, the space where their features would be completely shrouded in black. These statues were becoming a bit disturbing.

I was getting closer to the giant, overbearing metal bull head. As I approached, I came to skeletal figures, half man half goat, standing watch in corners around the bust. Each stood in a different stance, once with a staff held out dominant, the other with his hands falling limp-- metal bike spokes and gears serving as weapons, a battering axe in hand, human body with a metal goat skull for a face. They were intimidating. They reminded me of so of Jason and the Argonauts, an old-time film I saw in my tender years, as skeletons rose from the ground bearing swords in a chilling and horrific battle. Well, at least, to me, at my impressionable and innocent age of youth, they seemed absolutely terrifying.

The Guardian

There he sat, at the edge of the park, the other statues out of view from the angle at which I sat in my golf cart fortress. This massive, overwhelming bust of a slowly rusting giant bull. There stood a plaque before it commenting on its origin, noting that it was a testament to the gods worshipped of old. It noted also, "bats are known to inhabit the inside of the sculpture. Please don't disturb the bats." It beckoned visitors to enter the back of the skull to look inside. As previously mentioned, the head was the size of one of the faces on Mount Rushmore. As a landmark I hadn't yet seen, this was a foreign size comparison to me. As it stood, the sculpture was impossibly huge, made completely out of railroad plates - the large, flat pieces that railroad ties are clamped to at the base where the rails meet the wooden planks. How could that little man, brown and pink and blonde and leathery, make such an amazingly huge monument?

I hopped out of the golf cart and approached, the grass whipping at my exposed feet. The wind was pulling me forward. I stepped to the back of the mammoth sculpture and looked at the rusty opening. The entrance seemed to be as tall as two of me. I stepped in, the breeze whirling into a vortex of sounds and gusts around me as I moved into the head of the giant ungulate. The rising dome around me engulfed my presence as I stood beneath the hulking creation, amazed at the fact that this was all painstakingly built by hand. The sculpture towered around me-- at a distance, resembling a heap of rust, but on closer inspection, it was a carefully constructed masterpiece and a hand made labor of love.

I looked to the right of me above. There, nestled to the wall on the inside of the bull, were various clusters of iron bats, clearly molten parts poured into a mold and made into the shapes of cave-dwelling creatures. There were a handful of these clusters surrounding me inside the cavernous beast.

It was mildly unsettling as I looked at them, remembering the warning of bats in the sculpture. Were they butterflies that the sign warned of, it would be whimsical. At the same time, I remembered the awkward sense of humor the creator had, and felt like it was par for the course that he would make a joke that didn't quite hit home. He probably thought that warning about "bats" was hilarious, but to the casual bystander that didn't quite get pop art, we may think it was a bit odd. Nevertheless, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

At this point it should be mentioned that I missed something ominous in this sculpture's belly. Amongst the beams suspended for support, pressed back and hanging from between what would be the inside of the eyes of the bull, a figure of a man lay hanged in a crucified style. His rusty iron body was spread as if on The Rack, tiny horns of The Beast subtly budding from his head. His face flared back at me as I gawked, a jigsaw smile on his face that resembled a jack-o-lantern.

I stared, enraptured by this crucified demon. Again with the demons. He seemed to stare back at me, his eerie grin piercing through my core and finding nothingness behind it, an unsatisfied observer. The wind inside the beast curled around my face in a vortex that chilled me to my bones. I had barely escaped one demon facing off to me this morning; I wasn't prepared to deal with another so soon. The silence was deafening around me. This iron shroud was more of a tomb than anything else.

The light from the bare sun pierced harshly through the holes of the railroad ties, giving a filtered view of the interior of the bull. The dust and dirt and grass mad a brilliant show midair, captured brilliantly by each beam of light that peered through the statue. It resembled, at times, smoke whirling about in an empty room.

Me? I lay stuck in a staring contest with the hanging demon. He seemed to mock me from his rusty throne.

The beauty of not being currently suspended from an iron edifice is that, when confronted with a demon (who seems to see through you and be judging you for every bad decision) is that you have the freedom to walk away. I did just that.

Axe wound to skull added for accent, I imagine. 

As I left the iron bull, I was blasted in the face with a harsh breeze. Never that matter; the sun shone on my face with radiance and warmth once more. It was all I could hope for in that moment.

I perused the remaining sculptures with a slight unease, but quickly felt refreshed. It had been a wildly productive day as far as mileage and events, rich in symbolism and introspect. The golf cart steered back to its parking spot at the metal building and I thanked the gentleman for his time, as well as for creating such a lovely place. He offered a handful of candies that were sitting by the cash box and with that, the 'Rolla headed back on the road.

I stayed on the interstate briefly, but my next waypoint was Pierre, South Dakota. Once you leave the southeast corner of the U.S., the road systems do a magical thing: they start to make sense. There's this incredible thing called a grid, and the streets and highways follow this design almost to a fault in Middle America. Even if you have never been there before, you can kind of figure out where you're going based on a simple understanding of "x blocks up and y blocks over." The highways are similar. The only drawback to that is that one often has to zig-zag across a state to get somewhere specific, as was the case with Pierre. It sat a few hours north of the main interstate, so I had to drive so many miles due west and then take a perpendicular highway north.

It was no bother. I turned onto the highway and set my course for north, admiring the open and spacious layout of this road. Four lanes with a graciously wide median between the southbound lanes set the stage, with a golden-green blanket of grass to fill the space in between. This was the opportunity to make up for lost time, flying through the landscape at 75 mph. The terrain was slightly hilly, with the road cutting through the path of least resistance, rolling hills swelling up gracefully on either side. There was little of note on the sides of the road other than sun-toasted grass, but about an hour into my drive there were some animals off in the distance that looked like deer. When the car got closer, I realized they were horses, untamed by any fences, buildings, or rails along the road for miles. I smiled at these wild ponies as they grazed, passing peacefully from a safe distance.

Hope you fueled up. 

My approach to Pierre, South Dakota, came as the sun dragged low in the sky. Upon looking into campsites, I found the Farm Island recreational grounds on my phone. There was but one must-visit place in this city, but first, lodging had to be acquired. As I pulled off to the access road where the camp was, I paused to look at the sunset. The car was perched atop a perfectly straight railroad track, and where the two lines converged on the horizon, the sun rested just barely off center.

Once the fees for the site were paid, I scanned the campsites and picked a spot that backed directly up to the small lake at the center of the grounds. This one had 100% less geese than the last, which was a relief. With housing arranged, I headed to town. Firstly, the name of the town is spelled Pierre, but is pronounced the way one would say "pier," as in "I went to the fishing pier." I didn't want to sound like a blatant tourist, so this information was helpful. It was a town highly recommended to me by a friend that lived there briefly. Countless hours were spent drinking cold beers and dancing at the Long Branch, Pierre's watering hole.

The town was quiet and still as the sun peeked over the horizon. I pulled up to the bar and stepped inside, the dark carpeting and wooden walls greeting me sleepily. The whole place was practically empty, but judging by the number of tables and chairs as well as the length of the long, square bar, it was safe to assume that it was probably pretty hopping on a weekend night. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a PBR, perusing the menu. I ordered a sandwich and browsed about the room, surveying the men playing slots in the back corner of the bar.

After a quiet dinner, I headed back to Farm Island and settled into my campsite, inflating magic car bed and settling in with my things. The weather was much less oppressive than other stops so far, and I had the next few sites vacant next to me, which was a nice change in the privacy department. I kicked off the shoes and toed into the quiet, calm water of the lake and thought about the day as the last light lingered in the sky. There was a light breeze, bringing in unfamiliar, earthy scents to my nose. How strange to be so far from anyone I knew. A quiet peace filled my ears in the absence of noise. I felt alone, but I was anything but lonely as I inhaled the sunset.

Today had been one for contemplation and introspect. I kept thinking back to the Grotto, to the Sculpture Park, the open fields, and all the other beautiful, brilliant sights of the day and wondered what the universe was trying to tell me. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps these were messages I was gleaning from my own subconscious. Life certainly had been tumultuous as of late, and trying to sort out ones thoughts and emotions or find direction while dealing with the day to day routine is about as effective as trying to catch a breeze on a sailboat with a screen door. Sometimes you have to step outside both your safety net and your zip code to see things clearly. Upon looking at my life from the safety and distance of South Dakota, I realized I had a lot of demons to conquer, but it was a challenge that, at least at this moment, I felt that I was finally up for.

This image brought to you by South Dakota and the Anti-Goose Poop Coalition.

P.S. Still no buffalo sightings.
P.S.S. The damned check engine light was still on.

Day 3: A Little Slice of Heaven

I woke up spread eagle on the king sized bed in the Comfort Inn. Immediately I crawled out of the soft, luxurious bed with an urge to clean myself of all the filth that yesterday's poor decisions had brought.

I showered at leisure in the clean, white, tampon-less bathroom and dried off with the fluffy towels. I packed up my gear and headed downstairs to load the car. I felt so refreshed that I nearly forgot about the impending doom of the check engine light.

After a quick search, I found the auto shop Dan's brother in law worked at and headed over. Dan may have been a bit off, but I wasn't going to turn down a perfectly good lead on someone who may be able to help me. I parked my car and inquired as to where I could find him to speak. While Dan turned out to be sketchy, I looked at his brother in law and felt as though I knew him instantly. As the daughter of a mechanic with plenty of gearhead friends, he may as well have been one of my boys back home in Elizabeth City. I knew he would shoot straight with me.

He hooked up the reader and turned to me. "You probably have nothing to worry about, to be honest. This error is pretty much saying that sensors for your catalytic converter may not be reading properly, which means you may have elevated emissions. But trust me, if your cat stopped working, you would know it. You'd hear a godawful racket, to begin with. In your situation, I'd just worry about it when you get home unless it craps out on you along the way. I promise you, you will know if it dies. The only issue you have right now is that you won't be able to pass your emissions inspection."

"Huh. Well, I don't have to pass an emissions inspection where I live, just a safety one."

"Well shit, you're good to go then," he said. It was the best news I had heard on the whole trip.

With the mechanic's blessing, I decided it was time to get the Hell out of Dodge. Literally. I set out on the open highway on the bright, cheery morning and felt relieved to kiss Fort Dodge goodbye. Once again, I could enjoy the scenery and landscape. As it turns out, Iowa is actually quite beautiful. I smiled. My friends have always commented that they would get so bored on the open highway, or creeped out, or some combination of the two.

To me, however, the undeniable beauty and serenity of an unsullied horizon has always set my heart alight, as if it had wings fluttering inside my chest. Whenever I round a corner and see a vast expanse before me, my breath trembles and my eyes begin to twinkle with all the luster of a thousand stars. My mouth pulls taut until I realize that subconsciously, a beaming grin has crawled across my face, and goosebumps tickle my flesh just the same as when a new lover, in excitement, kisses your neck softly for the first time, their breath raising the hairs along your spine. The music crescendos into a symphony that frames the soundtrack of my life, immortalizing a memory in sun-bathed splendor. I realized in that moment that, while I've loved and been loved in this life by men, my heart will always belong to the road.

I was headed for a little town called West Bend. It was so small and isolated that there was no direct route to it, nor did any interstate lay remotely near it. Even my GPS had difficulty recognizing it as an actual town. It sat at the northernmost county in the state. The state highway I took for a large portion of the trip was like going back in time. I scarcely saw any other vehicles and when I did, they were farming trucks. I almost missed the turn to West Bend. I was driving amid a broad, open sprawl of farmland that rolled out on each side of me, swaying in the breeze as puffy white clouds hung throughout the scene. It was so peaceful and comforting as I blew through the landscape.

It seemed as though the crops of corn and wheat I had been driving through for the past two hours were a huge, desolate desert, as it was late in the scorching season. Everything was some shade of brown - the shoulders and ditches were mostly dusty gravel with some fried grass. If you've ever seen old time sepia photos where everything is some mix of beige, you could compare it to the scene before me, with a Carolina Blue sky that seemed all the more colorful next to the drab crops. Then, like an oasis in that Iowa desert, there rose West Bend. It was so small that I could see the entire town from one end to the other.

A little bit about the tourist attraction I sought in this tiny town. I scoured the internet for interesting things to see and do in the months prior to the trip. I knew roughly which states I was going through which was vaguely outlined by where my old friends lived that I wanted to see across the country. I found a website called roadsideusa.com and they had a whole section of "offbeat attractions." The attractions were categorized conveniently by state. Iowa didn't have much, but there was a site in West Bend called The Grotto of the Redemption. It was a religious monument made in the early 1900s by a catholic priest who created a grotto the size of an entire town block. He made it entirely by hand as a testament to the healing salvation of Christ.

Now, let me say outright that I am not an overly religious person at this point in my life. I was raised baptist and as I became an adult, I became quite confused on what I believed. At the same time, I always felt comforted by the church my mother took us to; the pastors over the years were always kind and spoke of love and compassion as opposed to so many that raise their voices about fire and brimstone. For me, these unusual monuments that were built out of love and good intentions always brought me some sort of peace, as if I were enveloped in the soft arms of my childhood, in a place where I was safe and loved, baptized by the memory of the innocence I once had. In those moments in these places, I felt as though my purity had not been lost, and I was able to see the world through rose colored glasses once more. I think that's what this destination was about and at this point, the timing was perfect, because I needed it.

Father Dobberstein lay stricken with pneumonia in the very early 1900s and he prayed to the Virgin Mother that, if she could spare him from death, he would spend his life devoted to sharing the love of God with others. Lo and behold, he survived and made good on his promise. He was always a rock hound, fascinated by gemstones and the like. In 1912, he went to work crafting a monument by hand out of his own homemade mortar recipe and gemstones he had collected. People were fascinated by his endeavor and would often donate stones (many unpolished and unrefined) or petrified wood that they had come across during farming, construction, mining, and so on. His monument grew over the years, sprawling wider and taller as he tirelessly labored. His intent was to make a non-denominational site so that anyone might enjoy it. When he died in 1954, his dream did not go with him. Custodians continued according to his plans, with new construction being added up until 1980. It's still not considered complete, but as donations allow, the final statues will be purchased.

I entered West Bend, population 785, around 10:00 a.m. The grass was a vibrant green, the lawns reminiscent of the well-manicured yards in Pleasantville. Many sat lined with white picket fences, the trees gracefully swaying as a light breeze kissed their leaves.

The grotto wasn't hard to find. When I rolled up to it, at first it looked like a heaping, brown sandcastle with craggy archways and no color to be found. My heart sank a little. This is it? This brown pile of dirt? I parked at the office and entered the office/gift shop. It was tended by two sweet, graying ladies who told me that I could take an official tour, or I could just go in. The tour wasn't for a couple hours, anyway. Entry was donation based, and all the souvenirs were used to fund the construction and maintenance. They encouraged me to step over into the church next to the grotto when I was done, as this was the church where Father Dobberstein had served for so many years.

Nobody was inside the grotto when I arrived, so I opted to wander it solo. I liked doing these kinds of things by myself anyway. Go figure. I crossed the vacant street and stepped to the main arch of the entrance. The closer I got, the more the hue transformed from a sandy beige to a twinkling kaleidoscope of vibrant colors. The arch was lined with hulking amethyst, jutting out in sharp peaks. Words and bible verses were pieced together by a mosaic of bright aqua and turquoise stones. I stepped through and looked to my left. An open abbey of columns and arches lay spread, and at the end was a carpet of lush, brilliant emerald grass.

Actually, quite colorful upon closer inspection. 

I stood motionless as the lightest of a breeze wafted a bit of hair across my face. The entire town was quiet, but this place was completely silent, save for the gentle twitter of songbirds in the trees nearby and the faintest trickle of a fountain next to the grotto.

Goosebumps crawled up my arms as I realized how massive this place was, and how serene the moment of silence was. It felt like I was meant to be here, on this very day, at this very moment.

Impressive.

I explored the grotto inquisitively. There were many little alcoves and cubbies with statues depicting the various stages of Christ's life. I entered a small room that was a shrine, with several crucifixes and vases on the wall. Flowers and wreaths adorned many of the ledges. The gemstones used in this place were incredible. There was no brick or cinderblock to be found; it was all painstakingly crafted with stones, gems, and fossils.

I stopped to admire a massive column that I soon realized was a whole tree trunk, petrified into stone. The grain of the wood was still palpable on the glassy surface. I rounded a corner and saw a staircase, to which I climbed until I saw the massive mound before me with an enormous statue of Jesus Laid in the Arms of His Mother, with a very stately cross rising at least 12' tall behind them.

This place was so lovely, I lost track of time. I walked through to the right of the grotto. There stood, away from all of the rest of the monument, a large statue that rose before me as I approached. The sun was behind the statue, casting it entirely in a gray shadow. As my eyes focused, I saw the great Archangel Michael, wings boldly spread towards the sky, with a mighty sword in his hand pointing towards the ground. I looked to his feet and saw the devil lying prone on the ground with Michael's foot holding down his head. Chills crept up my spine as the sun seemed to beam out from behind his head, only for a moment, and then slipped behind the clouds again.

I thought about the symbolism. I thought about all of my demons, all my secrets, all my mistakes, all my problems, and all of my fears. As I thought about all of the choices and moments in my life that had brought me to the point where I stood, it almost felt like the mighty angel was looking down into my eyes, his foot bearing down the villain before me as a bold statement. In that moment, I wondered to myself: was I the angel victoriously overcoming, or the demon conquered? To this day, I'm not sure that I'll ever know.

I walked around the back of the site and saw a bronze statue standing solo. I neared it and realized that it was a statue of Father Dobberstein, erected lovingly by the custodians of the grotto after he passed. He stood there with a cardigan sweater on and a cap on his head, a gentle and kind smile on his face. One arm hung by his side with a small rock hammer in it. The other lay outstretched before him with a gemstone in it.

The grotto was so lovely, peaceful, and rejuvenating. However, seeing this statue of the sweet little old man that built it filled me with more happiness than anything else. There was something about him that for the world reminded me of my childhood hero, Mr. Rogers. Perhaps it was the sweater and the sweet smile. And there it was. In that moment, standing before Father Dobberstein, a soft breeze on me and the sun warming my face, I found what I was looking for. I felt as though someone had hugged me and said gently into my ear, "Everything is going to be okay. You're a good person. You are loved." A calm washed over me and I felt a fuzzy glow swell in my chest, which was an experience I couldn't quite articulate - and still, words escape me to adequately portray it. I don't know if everything was going to be all right, but in that moment, I was never more certain, and I felt like he truly believed I was capable of doing wonderful things. I call this the Mr. Rogers Effect. Funny how the statue of a man long deceased somehow brought me so much comfort and peace. Perhaps that speaks volumes about how desperately I needed it.

I felt as though my time at the Grotto sadly needed to draw to a close. Before leaving though, I had to check out the church. I entered through the side door which let out close to the pulpit. It was completely empty in the church, all the lights off, the filtered sunlight softly illuminating the room through stained glass windows. To the right of the room was an altar with dozens and dozens of candles laid out in neat rows. A half dozen or so of them were lit, their delicate flames dancing and then falling still before me. A padded rail ran in front for kneeling onto, and a small collection box hung next to the altar with long matches sitting beside. It was a $0.25 offering to light three candles. I'm not Catholic, but this was something I felt compelled to do. I silently dug out a quarter and dropped it into the box, letting off a muffled clunk that echoed through the sanctuary. I thought about where I was, where I had been, and where I wanted to be -- both literally and figuratively. I had found peace in this place, but was no closer to finding answers than when I begun. Perhaps that wasn't the Grotto's purpose for my trip; maybe this road weary traveler just needed a quiet moment in a quiet church in a quiet town, and maybe it took driving 300 miles into the middle of nowhere to find a place quiet enough to let the noise in my head settle down, even if only for a little while.  I lit three candles: one for the sweet child I used to be, one for the damaged woman I was presently, and one for the me --no, the better me that I wanted to become. I closed my eyes and let the minute pass. It was time to go.

Rising from my kneeled position, I walked up to admire one of the stained glass windows. Stopping in front of the pulpit, I turned around and looked to the back of the sanctuary, a small dot of flesh and blood in a large, empty room. At the back of the church, one door lay propped open and the other, with a glass cross-shaped window, let in beams of light in the silence, their thickness almost tangible compared to the darkness of the rest of the room. I attempted to take a photo, but as with most moving experiences, film can't capture it quite right. The hair on my neck stood once more as I looked back to my three candles and then again to the doors that were flooding sunlight into the darkness. There are many days where I don't know if I'm the angel or if I'm the demon. That day, however, I made the long walk up the aisle towards the beams and let myself be baptized by the sunlight of a hot August day, leaving behind the silent darkness of the sanctuary.

I walked out into the grass, looking at my watch. Definitely time to go. The gentle breeze kissed my face again as I sighed, looking down at the soft, illustrious green carpet beneath my shoes. I slipped them off and quietly lay down, squishing the blades between my toes softly. It doesn't matter how pressed for time you are, sometimes one has to make time to roll in the grass and watch the clouds roll by, especially a lawn as inviting and perfect as that one. I hadn't accomplished much at the grotto. On the other hand, maybe I had accomplished everything. I had, for a brief moment, quieted my troubled and busy mind, finding clarity and peace and some sort of absolution. I was able to breathe in the warm, sunny air lying flat on my back, face to the sky, and truly enjoy myself. One day I'll conquer the demon for good. In the mean time, the highway awaits.

Day 2: Debacles, Disasters, and Dumb Decisions

I woke up to the sound of car doors slamming and voices speaking quietly. It was early, but the sun was up. I was swallowed by Magic Car Bed, clammy from a fevered sleep on a nonabsorbent surface. I fought comically to climb out of the hole I was wedged into.

Exiting the backseat of my car after sleeping in it has not once appeared graceful to bystanders. I struggled to put pants on as I lay on the bed, the temperature already climbing in the car. I then proceeded to tumble out of the car and find my shoes. I was exhausted, partially because benadryl always leaves me with an unfulfilling sleep cycle, and also because I woke up off and on all night.

I wanted to check out the shower situation, so I hopped in the driver seat and rolled back up to the entrance of the campground. There was a building up there that had male and female showers as well as laundromat-style washer and dryers, vending machines, and a few chairs.

I walked back to the car and began to disassemble my sleeping set up, folding up my linens and pulling the vent plug on the mattress. As I tugged it out of the car, a heavyset man exited the shower house and lit a cigarette.

"Quite the set up you've got there," he commented in an intrigued fashion.

"Oh yeah, it's my solo set up for road tripping."

"Well, that's one way to do it. I've never seen a car bed like that before." We made small talk for a few minutes as I lay the bed across the hood of the car to get all the air out of it and fold it up.

He was staying in one of the RVs. "My old lady and I are from Florida. The kids, well, they're all grown and she and I got tired of sitting around doing nothing all day. We're retired, so we bought this camper and sold our house and just took to the road. Now, we just go wherever we want and we have seen some wild things, let me tell you."

We smoked a cigarette in the early morning sunlight and chatted about interesting roadside attractions for a while. Eventually I bid him farewell and safe travels as I grabbed my toiletry kit and towel. I headed into the shower.

The showers were pretty grody, but most campsite bath houses are. I made the bold decision to go into the large shower stall barefoot, mostly because my flip flops were leather and they get soggy and stay damp all day when you get them wet. I hadn't thought about shower shoes when packing. The hot water was refreshing as I pulled out the tiny shampoo bottle and lathered up. So soothing. It was just a shower, but damn if it didn't feel like a symbolic purging for me as the last remnants of my hangover were scrubbed away. The grime and dirt from the road, the sweat from a poor night's sleep, the circles of makeup smudged on my face from tossing and turning... everything came out clean and I was ready to tackle the day.

I finished rinsing off and turned around to shut off the water. I almost bumped my face on the cheap, rusty shower caddy hanging from the shower head. I looked up and nearly yelped.  And there it was - the showstopper, the shocker, the record screeching to a halt - just lying there innocently, staring me in the eyes: someone's used, bloody tampon three inches from my nose.

Suddenly my delightful shower went from refreshing to absolutely disgusting. Aaaannnnnd, that's my exit cue, I thought. I mean, who does that? Really? Who the hell does that? Showering barefoot was my least concern at this point.  I digress.

I dried off and hit the road. It was a lovely, hot, bright day in Indiana. I cruised through the interstate, passing through Illinois as well.

'Twas a lovely day. At first. 

As I entered Iowa, I realized that unknowingly I'd made it over a thousand miles. Cruising 75 mph down the interstate, watching the landscape change, music blasting, it was just a great fresh start on the trip. Then it happened. Something flickered in my left periphery. I looked down and saw what may as well have been the end of the world: the check engine light had come on.

I completely panicked for two reasons. One, I had only just begun this trip. Two, I was quite literally a thousand miles from home. I scoured the dash for signs of trouble. Tachometer was fine, engine temperature fine, gas - wait, was the gas gauge needle visibly moving? Now, when I drove a 1988 Firebird in high school, if you braked or accelerated too quickly you would definitely see the needle move, and it's just a necessary evil that you'd better get used to in that sort of car. Toyota Corolla? Not so much. That thing got amazing gas mileage, especially because it was a stick shift.

Of course I was five miles from the nearest exit. Of course I was in the middle of absolutely nowhere rural Iowa. Last but not least, of course it was a Sunday, so everything would be closed even if I did make it to a stop. I finally found an exit and rolled to a gas station. With a heavy heart I went inside and asked the attendant for a phone book and explained my plight, including the fact that I honestly had no idea where I was. The girl behind the counter told me there were some auto parts shops in the nearest town, and they could read my error message.

I walked outside, worried, and sat down on the curb next to the car. I had opened the hood and checked the fluids, which were all fine. I rested my head on my hands and thought back to the conversation I'd had with my father before I left.

Flashback!

I sat on a plastic patio chair under the carport. He sat on the steps of the back porch. I sipped on a beer, the bottle frosty cold in the summer heat.

"You know I worry about you out there, honey. Last time you took a big trip it was a newer car. Now, it's ten years old and it's got a lot of miles on it. It's banged up a little, and to be honest, if something bad happens to it, it won't be worth the money to bring it home."

He puffed on his cowboy killer quietly. The cicadas were buzzing a loud symphony above us in the ancient oak trees. "I know dad, but it's a sound car. It's in good shape, and I've done all the routine maintenance on it just like I was supposed to. I'm not going to ask you to bring it home if it can't be fixed."

He proceeded to run down all the routine maintenance services and quiz me on when I last had them done. He's the type of person who washes the car every Sunday, never gets a scratch on the car in ten years of driving it, and can fix anything. "Honey, you have one headlight that's all foggy. You're missing a hubcap. You can't be driving a car that looks all shabby, and that headlight can't be safe."

He then proceeded to painstakingly track down matching hubcaps, lecture me on not fixing the scratches because they will eventually rust, and replace the headlight for me. I was definitely grateful, but didn't feel like it was the top of my priority list. He made me change the oil (again) before I left.

-----------------------------------------

Well, there I sat, on the curb head in hands in Iowa. Not only may my trip be over, but I may have to leave my car in Iowa. Further, how would I get home? My engine was in trouble, but by god, thank the lord I have four fucking matching hubcaps!

Two young guys approached me as they exited their work truck. I told them what was going on; that my car was acting fine but the light was on. One suggested after a smartphone search that the most common issue in a situation like mine is the O2 sensor going bad. Optimistic, I headed to town. I found an O'Reilly's and had the guy read the error. The long and short of it was that it may have been the catalytic converter going out. Well, isn't that lovely. The guy told me that, basically, the code he was getting was a vague one, and I may have an issue with exhaust system not working properly, or that the cat was going bad (which means eventually it will have to be changed, but not with urgency), or it could mean it is about to clog, which is a large deal on a road trip. If that were the case, I would need to replace it, lest I start getting about 5 miles to the gallon. [Disclaimer: I am not a mechanic, and neither was this guy. He just worked at an auto parts store, so he was perfectly honest that he could be telling me something less than accurate.] Since the car seemed to be running fine, the only option for me was to keep driving. I was very far from any city that might have a mechanic open on a Sunday.

So, I hit the road once more. It was a somber drive through the state. I remember when I was much younger listening to the band Slipknot (you know, back in my angry angsty stage in high school). One of their biggest albums was titled simply "Iowa," after their home state. I thought to myself back then, "why are those guys so angry about Iowa?" Well, I felt the irony in the car as I drove, because now I understood. I sat in that seat driving down the highway at some even split between horribly scared and filled with unbridled rage.

I looked at the GPS. I was getting close to Fort Dodge by this point, and that was the only city in any drivable vicinity for quite a long amount of time. It was mid afternoon, which meant I would have to stop early and stay the night so I could have a mechanic look at the car first thing.

I had an unusual stop to make in a town called West Bend, so I couldn't keep going, as I was committed to seeing this place. I made it to Fort Dodge and drove around downtown. The city was average sized - but then again, I realize I have no concept of city sizes, either. I'm from a town that has 5,000 people in it, but the first big city I ever visited was Tokyo. Needless to say, every other place I visit just falls into the in-between "medium/average" size category.

This city was rather sad looking. A big city with what seemed to be a dwindling population. A lot of the businesses were run down. There looked to be nobody on the road on this Sunday afternoon. It almost looked like a ghost town.

I rounded the downtown area and saw a sign sticking off the corner of a building with an "open" sign. JoJo's Tavern. The place was very small. I had my wallet, my keys, and my camera in hand as I slipped through the walkway and climbed onto a bar stool. The place had a strange decor to it. Something that, as a southerner, I was unaccustomed to. For every kitschy "country decor" piece you've ever seen - and you know you've seen them - this place had the wild west equivalent. In a lot of southern homes, you see tacky wooden plaques with quaint sayings on them, twig wreaths with cloth bows on them, apples painted on everything, and so on. I'll see that and raise you kitschy, quaint plaques wrapped in barbed wire. Photos of old timey cowboys and cowgirls with lasso ropes as the frames. Cow skulls on the wall with barbed wire wrapped around the horns.

There happened to be a musician there playing cover songs. He was from Canada, but enjoyed traveling and singing wherever he ended up. I ordered a beer and listened to him sing. The clientele in this bar were mostly middle aged and older, the ladies predominantly sporting short, big hair and shiny belts. The men were clad in plaid shirts and Lee jeans.

"Hey, trouble," the bartender said over my shoulder. In walked a guy wearing cargo shorts and a camouflage tee shirt. His hair was cropped short and his hands were cracked and dirty with callouses on them. He sat two stools down from me and almost immediately struck up a conversation. It was difficult to hear him. A young woman came in and sat beside him. She was thin and looked out of sorts. She began rummaging through her large purse and shortly thereafter stormed out of the bar abruptly.

He resumed chatting me up. He was renovating the business front across the street to turn it into a fitness and self defense resource for ids in the area so that they would have something to occupy their time. He explained how meth was a huge problem in the area and there was scarcely a family he knew that wasn't affected. Now, I don't know if he was shining me on or not, but it seemed legit at the time. He was friendly without being forward, and we were having a decent conversation. "Yeah, that girl that just left? She's my cousin. She's a meth head; I have no idea where she just left to go to, probably to go to the laundromat and try to find lost change because she's spent all her money on drugs." I nodded and didn't respond formally because, what does one say to that? "Sorry your cousin's all methed out?"

"Yeah, they call Fort Dodge 'Little Chicago' because Al Capone would come down here when he needed to hide out from the cops for a while. You can look it up if you don't believe me, there's even a house here where he used to live at part time when he needed to." I looked around and wondered why in the world Al Capone would ever want to come to Iowa, let alone Fort Dodge, but I didn't question it.

He asked me where I was from. When I told him North Carolina, he said, "Oh wow, so you're a real Southern Belle!" I laughed directly in his face unintentionally. I assured him that I may be southern, but not by any stretch of the imagination could I be considered a belle. That didn't stop him from dubbing me as Belle for the rest of the evening.

Shortly after, another local and regular stopped in. His name was Geoffrey. He was tall and lean with tan skin and a very bright smile. The three of us kicked it at JoJo's for a while. Geoff was likewise a very nice guy; the proud father of two kids and a hard working fella. We stood outside JoJo's smoking a cigarette and one of them commented on my knife. I joked that I had blades everywhere. In reality, I wasn't kidding.

Flashback!

"Honey, I really think you ought to consider getting a concealed carry permit for this trip. I'll buy you the gun if it's reasonably priced," my father said, nursing his coffee. Smoke gently rose out of the ashtray and coiled as it dissipated into the air.

"Dad, I'm not getting a concealed carry anything. Why would I want to carry a weapon that I'm not confident enough to use?"

"Well, there's a lot of weirdos and freaks out there. If you have a gun, you'll be able to defend yourself."

"Yeah? Well, I'd be so scared of going to prison for shooting someone that I'd be afraid to use it, and any weapon that you have is a weapon that can be turned against you," I fired back. "I'm perfectly content to carry my knife; you know I'm always packing a blade, which is sufficient."

This is not a new conversation. We have had it several times. As much as I love to shoot guns, I'm not ready to assume responsibility for one. I'm actually a pretty damned good shot, especially with a handgun. I tried explaining that concealed carry licenses don't transfer from state to state, so I could get arrested. "You can't even carry a disassembled handgun through Illinois. The only way you can have a gun there is if it's a hunting rifle and it must be disassembled into pieces, unloaded, in a locked box with ammo locked in a separate box, and you must have a valid Illinois hunting license on your person. Otherwise, it's jail time."

"Well go around Illinois, then," he responded. I'm pretty sure he hadn't looked at a map recently when he suggested that. "What if somebody comes up to you and tries to kidnap you? You could be minding your business unloading your car and wind up stuffed in your own trunk."

"Oh my GOD, Dad, nobody is going to put me in my trunk! What am I, five years old? Besides, there's a rescue handle in there! What is wrong with you?!"

The conversation was resolved for the time being. Later that evening I was cleaning out my trunk to accommodate my luggage and in the cool, black night air, I stopped and looked around into the darkness. I thought about how desolate it is out there on the road. My god. What if someone actually did kidnap me? What if someone robbed me? I'm not a very strong woman. I would be easy to overpower.

I looked around, angry that my father's paranoia was seemingly contagious, even if only temporarily. I decided to utilize my trunk as a safety stash spot. I took an old film canister and put $200 cash in it and duct taped it up under the lip of the trunk where only I could find it. I also decided to mount a throwing knife back there inside the trunk just in case somebody snuck up on me while my back was turned. I didn't have a sheath for it so I fashioned one out of paper towels and carefully duct taped it in place. A small bit of the paper towel brushed up against the light in the trunk. Hmmm, I wonder if that little light goes off when you close it. If it doesn't, I bet it gets pretty hot - it would be just my luck that it would catch the damn car on fire, I thought. I eased the trunk lid down as close as it would go and tried to peek and see if it shut off, but to no avail. Nevermind the fact that I'm duct taping knives in my trunk in case I get kidnapped or mugged, let's worry about there being some trunk fire instead.

Maybe I'd better check it out to be safe, I thought. So, I sat on the bumper and looked around to make sure my dad was nowhere to be seen. I crawled completely in and shut the lid. Wouldn't you know it, the light turned off. I saw the release handle glowing in the dark and opened the trunk, pulling myself out.

I can't believe I just did that,  I thought. Of course, the only reason I did it was to be sure that light would go off for safety. Yeah. That's totally the reason. Yep.

....but if I DID get kidnapped, I'm totally prepared to leap out of my own vehicle with a throwing knife in hand. I imagined myself screaming," SUCKA FOOLS! You don't know who you're messing with!"

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Anyway, I had the throwing knife, two pocket knives, a dagger, and a hand-forged katana that my cousin Hunter made for me. I didn't put the sword in there for the trip, it just sort of never made its way out of my vehicle after he gave it to me.

The guys wanted to see it, so in the parking lot with our beers, I pull it out. Immediately they transformed into pseudo-Samurai, throwing things at each other and swinging wildly to try and hit anything they could. We were undoubtedly a comical trio as the elder patrons smoked quietly and watched us giggling like kids trying to slice beer cans in half mid-air with a dull and heavy katana.

Dusk was falling so we elected to relocate. We went down the street to a place called O'Goodie's. It was your typical Irish-"ish" pub, covered with tin advertisements, shamrocks, and Christmas lights. The only actual Irish beers they carried were the ever original Guinness and Smithwick's. I'm not complaining, I just always find America's portrayal of foreign culture to be comical.

It got late and I began discussing accommodations. "Oh, you wanna go to the Starlight Motel. It's a good place." In almost the next sentence, he added, "well I'm not on that couchsurf website, but you can crash my place if you want to. I live pretty close by." I thought about it. It was risky. I didn't know this guy. I felt pretty confident that he was a decent guy - at least, decent enough that I wasn't going to end up on the evening news. Still, it was breaking another major travel rule: never leave a public place with a stranger.

He advised me to swing by his brother in law's auto shop in the morning, and he would be able to give me a more reliable diagnosis regarding the check engine light. This is good, I thought to myself.

We went to leave and I decided I was going to take him up on his offer. I think my choice was largely due to the nagging fear that I would have to spend a lot of money on an expensive vehicle part or repair. Geoff bid us farewell and we split up. "Yeah, you didn't want to stay with him, he's into that meth, too," Dan said under his breath before he even made it fully across the street. I was beginning to be thoroughly sketched out by Ford Dodge.

"He doesn't seem like he's into drugs to me; he was really chill, nice, and clean cut."

"You can never tell with these folks around here," he replied. I began to wonder if he was making up all this meth business just to mess with me because I was a tourist. We drove to his place and walked into the small house on a quiet street. It was a bachelor's home, for sure. The house was a complete disaster. Shoes were necessary. The walls were barren, the floors were filthy, empty beer cans littered every flat surface, and the place smelled stale.

"Hey, man! You up? Check this shit out! I got us a real life Southern Belle! Come in the kitchen and take a shot!"

We walked into the kitchen. It was grimy, the sink overflowing with soiled dishes, the counters covered with food and liquor splatter in a sticky film. The linoleum was marked from countless cigarette burns. His roommate entered and lipped a swig of whiskey straight out of the bottle. Dan poured himself a double and threw it back. I was becoming legitimately concerned about the situation I had gotten myself into as I stood there. His roommate was disturbingly disheveled, and not in a "I'm tired/hungover/worked a long shift" way, more in a "I haven't left this drug/alcohol-fueled stupor long enough in the past week to even wash my visibly soiled face" kind of way.

"Here's a shot for the Belle of the ball," he said. I held the small glass he had poured for me, tipping it back uneasily. He excused himself to the restroom. I should have made my exit then, but I thought he would return in less than a minute. I was nervous. Up until now, I was there of my own volition, and hadn't tried to leave. If I tried to leave and there was any interference with that action, I knew I was going to become extremely panicked and things had the possibility of escalating in a bad way. I tried to make small talk with the roommate. He was completely unenthused with my presence, and seemed to be so disoriented that conversation just wasn't possible. I shifted my weight uneasily. There wasn't a clean seat to be had. Dan returned, leaning heavily on the door frame. He was a bit buzzed as we were driving to his house, but at this point, he'd become quite visibly drunk. "You ready to get some sleep?"

You know that feeling when you've landed yourself in a bad situation? The knot you feel in your belly where things tighten up into a hard pit in your core, such as when you see a cop's lights flash behind you on the highway, or when you know you're about to be in big trouble for something? Yeah. That's where I was emotionally as he tells me, "Oh, by the way, we don't have a spare room, so you can crash in my bed."

I looked into his bedroom from the hallway. No overhead light. No shelves, furniture, or decor. Nothing but a grody, unmade mattress on the floor and a mountain of dirty clothes and trash dominating the rest of the room. None of the carpet in the room was even visible for all the garbage and crumpled garments. What is this, a fucking squat-house? All that talk about meth, and he's the one who looks like he lives in a drug den! I began to get angry. I think it was a coping mechanism to get past the fear that was rising up in my throat slowly. It felt like a piece of dry bread that was swallowed too quickly, crawling up my gullet.

I sat down on the corner of the bed. I wasn't necessarily afraid for my physical health. I really think I was more alarmed at my poor decision making skills. I didn't think this guy was violent, but I also didn't really care to find out. I was more upset at the fact that my skills in "travel savvy" were clearly rusty, because the first real night out in a non-campsite stop, I broke a cardinal rule. Choices like this are how women end up shoved onto a mattress against their will, or unconscious somewhere and unable to say "no," or stuffed into their own trunk, or a million other things that are awful. I thought back to my father's irrational fears and realized that he knew how dumb and trusting I am, and in that moment, I realized his fears were very real and very feasible if I could make such a stupid decision as going home to stay with a sketchy person in a sketchy house in a sketchy meth town. My god, how fucking stupid could I be? Was it the beer on board that made it seem like a good idea? Was it my financial concerns?

I was having a very intense inner dialogue with myself. None of those things matter, I thought angrily, interrupting myself. You are in a stranger's house a thousand miles from home! It won't matter how much money you saved by not renting a hotel room if you're dead, you fucking idiot! 

He lay down and muttered some drunken gibberish. I looked around trying to focus on anything in the room to distract myself from the dumb situation I had put myself in. He sat up and said, "You know, I've always heard that southern girls were known to be very kind." I raised an eyebrow. Before I could say a word, out of nowhere, he grabbed my head and laid one on me, shoving his tongue in my mouth. Aaaannnnnnd, my concerns are now validated, I thought.

I quelled the urge to do some combination of biting his tongue off/vomiting/shitting myself out of fear and said simply, "I have to pee." You would have thought my legs were spring loaded if you had seen the quickness with which I leapt off that mattress and flew down the hall. I locked the door and looked around the disgusting room. I wondered if all the other people I met today were just nice, regular folks and he was the real meth addict. The more I thought about it, the more spooked I got. It was time to go.

I let ten minutes go by and figured that, considering how drunk/high he was, he had probably fallen asleep. My suspicions were correct as I peered silently into the room. I snuck in, grabbed my bag quietly, and booked it out of the house. I sat in my car with the engine running as I booted up the GPS. My hands were on the steering wheel, blankly staring at the speedometer. I was so angry at myself. I reflected on the day. What had begun as a silly, fun, carefree day with some locals had been ruined as time went on and the night bore upon us. I had allowed a memory to be ruined because I didn't know when to be sensible and walk away. I thought about one of my favorite movies, Fried Green Tomatoes. There's a line in it where Sipsey says, "You know, Mrs. Ruth was a lady, and a lady always knows when to leave." In my moment of defeat, recalling this line made my heart sink. I wasn't a lady. Not even close. At the rate I was going, I probably never would be. Looking back, the first two hours of my time in Fort Dodge were delightful. This event served as another reminder as to why you never stay out past dark when road tripping solo, and you never allow yourself to drink unless you're already at your destination or in the company of friends you trust.

I drove across town to the Starlight Motel. It had this great retro sign with stars and a delicate 50's era font on it. As I got closer, I saw a handful of people crowded around outside. Who hangs out at a hotel at 2:00 a.m.? At that moment it dawned on me that this place was a "no-tell motel." Everything about this scene seemed to be the final cherry on top of a sketchy day. What those folks were doing in a huddled circle of smoke in the yellow street light in front of the hotel, I will never know. I kept right on driving and checked in to a Comfort Inn, cost be damned. Apparently, you can put a price on cleanliness and safety, and at the Comfort Inn in Fort Dodge, it was $89.99.

I wish I could wax poetic here like I have in the past entries, but there's really no thoughtful denouement to close with at the end of this post. This was quite possibly the most stressful and concerning day of the trip. The moral, if I had to give you one, would be that while one can usually trust their instincts, there is no excuse to be reckless or disregard common safety. While nothing bad happened to me at Dan's house, the situation could have been a very different one, and I would have knowingly put myself there. Make yourself some rules of the road and stick to them. Nobody wants to look back on a trip that should have made them proud and realize that it instead made them a statistic.