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.

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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.

Day 1: Start Off With a Bang... or a Banging Hangover.

I woke up with the most gut-wrenching hangover that man has ever known. I was queasy and my head felt like someone had put a vice grip on my temples while I was sleeping. I could have stayed a few hours and slept it off, but that would seriously alter my distance capabilities. Not a good way to kick off day one of a road trip.

I geared up and hit the road, saying goodbye to Martha and Nick, thanking them for a wild and wonderful evening. I went the same way out of NC as I did on my first trip, past Pilot Mountain near the town of Mount Airy. My uncle called that mountain "the great nipple in the sky" due to it's unfortunate mesa that jutted sharply out of the peak. For all intents and purposes, it did look like a giant boob, which was comical considering how regal the landscape looked otherwise.

Must be chilly in Mount Airy.

Personally though, I could not possibly care less about that stupid nipple in the sky, because I was so miserable behind the wheel that simply staying in my lane was a challenge. I played music at first. Then I got a harder thumping in my ears, so I turned it off.

There was a lovely landscape through West Virginia. However, the delightful mountain driving made me push back vomit with each lurch to the left and right. I texted Little Bear, "you know you've reached a new low when you barf in a rest stop bathroom."

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to die," he replied. At least I wasn't the only one who was a hot mess.

I got so desperate for a nap that I pulled over in a rural industrial town to nap behind a Shoney's. Yes, they still exist. I needed sleep. However, there was no shade, it was over 96*, and I didn't have a good place to lay out. So, in the heat, I climbed into the back seat and tried to nap. It was the most uncomfortable and sorry attempt at napping I've ever done. Covered in sweat, holding back vomit, I lay in that car for 45 minutes praying to anyone that I would fall asleep. I half-dozed for a while, and in frustration, I gave up. Some very confused locals stopped in their tracks as I tumbled out of the car, barefoot and with no pants on. Whiskey: 1, Jamie: 0.

A slight breeze hit my face. I actually felt better. I looked out over the quaint, hilly town in a beautiful valley. There was a river crawling its way through the middle of the town, and from the far edge, up on a hill, I could see the entire town as if it was in a bowl and I was standing on the rim of it. An arched steel bridge ran over the water, connecting the two sides of the town. The peaks of church steeples stood out among the flat topped warehouses. Before it was an industrial town, I suspect the main profession here was mining.

I felt a bit better and made a graceful exit from the town. Normally, I attempt to take secondary highways on road trips so that I can see the scenic route. Not at this point. This part was just a means to get me west. I'd seen West Virginia before, and while it was lovely, I wanted to fast track to all the states I'd never seen before. I zig-zagged through the horizon of WV and eventually made it to Indiana. I was finally feeling more or less back to normal.

Indiana interstates look much like every other one you've ever crossed a state on; kind of nondescript in a lot of places. The afternoon rolled on and the landscape flattened out. I realized I was getting close to sundown and decided it was time to look into a place to sleep. One of my road rules is never to drive after dark unless absolutely necessary. Nothing good can come from a woman driving alone in an unknown place.

I'm pretty sure 85% of America looks like this from the interstate.

I was approaching Indianapolis as the sun began to swing low in the sky. That signaled to me that I had to stop now. Cities are just no good for car camping, and worse for unaccompanied women. You either have to commit to driving through the city and finding a place on the other side to stay, or you have to stop early. Once, I got caught somewhere between desperation and exhaustion and thus had to spend the night in a Wal-Mart parking lot, which was a harrowing experience.

Flashback, shall we?

On another adventure, I was desperately trying to find a campsite in the deep south after leaving New Orleans and wound up getting impressively off track. Each campsite we tried to find was either locked down for the night with gates shut, or it no longer existed. My GPS was a little out of date. To save myself from falling asleep at the wheel, I pulled into an empty shopping center for a power nap.

I barely had time to get my pillow out of the trunk when two patrol cars arrived, lights flashing. Our out of state tags were apparently very disconcerting to them, and we "looked mischievous," so we had two strikes against us besides the obvious trespassing issue. After a lengthy conversation, a dual interrogation for Lex and myself (to make sure our stories matched up on why we were there), and a field sobriety test, they didn't have anything to really hold us on, but were hellbent on finding something to report.

The one cop reached for my pants and slowly pulled my pocketknife out of my jeans. "What does a girl like you need a knife like this for?"

I didn't think "to keep bitches in line" would be a response he found enthusing, so kept silent. I handed him the larger, serrated knife out of my other pocket and he sat them on the hood of his patrol car. After standing on one foot and saying the entire alphabet backwards, walking a straight line, and literally blowing my breath into his face so he could see if I smelled like alcohol, we were again at a standoff about the situation at hand. They asked me about searching my car, but never actually went through with it. They never breathalyzed me either. At that point I realized they were really just two cops looking to get their jollies off by scaring the shit out of us. They didn't make me blow because they didn't want to do the actual paperwork, and they didn't have any intention of searching my car unless I got nervous about it as if I had something to hide. They didn't believe we were lost, they thought we were up to something.

Anyway, I finally asked the officer if I could reach into my car and show him my GPS, to show him that the last five destinations had been campsites, which were to no avail. Finally! They decided we were suddenly just some honest, good-hearted kids that were a little stranded at 3:00 a.m.

"Oh heck yea, you guys can totally sleep here! We will even swing back by and check on you to make sure nobody troubles you if you like!"

Needless to say, we waited about 30 seconds after they pulled out of the parking lot to hightail it towards home. We got an extra three hours of alert driving time from the adrenaline alone.

And this, friends, is why you never road trip after dark unless you absolutely must. 

Needless to say, I had no desire to get into that sort of debacle again. I discovered Lake Haven campground just outside of the city, and paid for a single tent site. There was a winding lane of RVs parked with no signs of life around them, and a loop at the end for tent camping, gracefully nestled beneath a dozen or more weeping willow trees. The campsite was quiet; at least, quieter than I was used to. It was a peaceful scene, with a man made lake next to us with a fountain in the middle, splashing away.

This was my chance to finally use Magic Car Bed. What a delightful invention! It came from Amazon.com. I remember when it arrived. I had painstakingly tracked its shipment all the way from the factory in China where it was made all the way to my door with eager anticipation. I took it out back of the animal hospital and inflated it in the yard, giddy at the thought of a new adventure. It came in a little nylon bag, with red Chinese words printed on the yellow fabric. The instructions were printed in five different Asian languages, so I was on my own for the tutorial. Thank god for diagrams. It had two air chambers: one was the mattress portion which inflated flat, and a second one that went down into the leg wells of the back seat to give you a large, flat sleeping surface so you could use all the available space from back seat to front. It came with a brown faux sherpa mattress cover, a patch kit, and an air pump that plugs into the cigarette lighter. The road was my hotel now. There was no stopping me!

Magical. In theory.

I unpacked the mattress in the Lake Haven campsite and set up to inflate it. The fountain in the lake made a soothing soundtrack paired with the breeze that swayed the fronds of the willow trees around me. A few things came to light during my actual implementation of Magic Car Bed. The first being, no matter how you dress it up, you are still sleeping in the backseat of a fucking car. Second, seats slope. Unknown to me at that point, I would wake up in the middle of the night swallowed in what seemed like a vinyl sauna pit of death. I would later discover that I had to roll up my towels and shove them under the mattress against the back of the seat to make my sleeping surface level. Third, if you are sleeping in a car as opposed to a tent (one of which I also had in the trunk just in case), you are doing so because it's safer than sleeping by yourself with only a swath of nylon between you and potential campsite serial killers, so rolling the windows any bit past a crack defeats the purpose. You will be sleeping in a hot, stagnant vehicle on a rubber bed covered in fur, and you'd better just go on and pretend you paid a lot of money to sleep in an expensive sauna. Your backseat will turn into a sweat-drenched, stinky slip 'n' slide. Believe me when I say it sounds like fun in theory, not so much in real life.

The sun hadn't quite set yet. I walked over to the edge of the lake. There were a few hordes of geese out there swimming around. I wondered how deep the water could be since it was man made. I looked over to the trio of campers' children frolicking in the water at waist-high depth. They were wearing regular clothes, soaking wet, splashing one another happily. The water was probably pretty warm considering the heat. The lake had a sickly kind of hue. It reminded me of a swimming pool that had been left to its own devices; fake blue with a grody green tint to it, which made me uncomfortable as I watched them swim. I looked at the sand under my feet. I then discovered it wasn't actually sand. I was standing on a figurative carpet of goose shit. It blanketed all the ground within twenty feet of the water line. I mean, not just a little poop. Enough to thoroughly gross a veteran medical professional out.  I realized then that the dark silt on the bottom of the lake's rim was just liquefied fecal matter. Oblivious, the children continued to splash and wrestle and play. How disgusting, I thought. How can they not see how filthy that water is?

At that moment I had thoughts of home, and my friend Morgan. She's been my best friend since I was old enough to know what a friend was. She lived in a modest and impeccably stylish house on the creek back home. The house had a lush, green lawn and at the edge was a ring of cypress trees that lipped the murky water's borders. They had a floating dock that boasted two adirondack chairs that her grandfather had made. One night under a beautiful summer moon, we sat out there drinking wine and laughing as we often did back in those days, and I felt so inclined as to take a dip. I pulled my long skirt up and threw it over my shoulder, proceeded to sit on the edge, and lowered myself into the cool, black water.

Now, let me say that I knew beyond a doubt how absolutely nasty that water was. In this stagnant portion of the creek, there's little flow regarding the current. Crawfish built their little castles in the mud. Poisonous cottonmouth snakes were well known to swim through the water looking to snack on frogs. Snapping turtles lived there (I know this to be fact, and this creek was specifically home to a turkey-platter sized one named Turt that I released there... but that's a story for another time), and they can bite off a toe or disfigure you. Lost fishing hooks lay submerged and tangled around branches (again, I know this to be a fact-- what can I say? I'm not real good at fishing). Did I mention that the water is black?

I dangled on the edge of the dock, submerged to just below my bra. Morgan is absolutely not okay with this. "Don't you know how dangerous that water is? There's crabs, snapping turtles, and diseases! Your vagina is probably going to rot from the inside out because of that water! There was an alligator in this creek last year! You're gonna get eaten by a gator!"

I mean, she was right. That didn't matter to me at the moment. I calmly found some footing on a rotten log on the bottom. I didn't see what the big deal was at the time. The water was cool and the mosquitoes stayed away from me - probably because I smelled like death at that point, but whatever. I sipped my wine comfortably and told her to relax. It was nice-- the moon, the bullfrogs singing, my best friend sharing wine with me. The moment was lovely, even if I was going to catch dysentery from that swamp. Eventually, I climbed out and dried off. I lived to see another day. Looking back, I never did contract any diseases from that foul water. My vagina is safe, thank you for your concern.

I thought of all this as I watched those three children, bathed in innocence, as they played in the murky water. The sun was setting and it glistened on the water as their laughter fell pleasantly on my ears. I wasn't so different from them once, and not even that long ago. Sometimes I think about the things that separate adults from children. I don't think it is paying rent or bills or having a car payment. It's not working a stable job or obeying traffic laws. The difference is in how you choose to see the world. Children aren't afraid to dream, or to play, or to enjoy the simplest of pleasures. Adults are too busy worrying about deadlines and time and social ladders to step back and even contemplate dreaming, much less playing.

Maybe it's the difference between seeing that lake as a magical, delightful playground on a hot summer day, or choosing to see it as a stagnant, unnatural pool of filth and disease. I have no doubt that those kids, barefoot and dirty, survived to see another day after their swim in that lake, despite the concerns of a bystanding grown up such as myself. We can all still be a child at heart if we want to. I'm not saying I wanted to plunge into that water, because I understand the basics of infectious disease. C'mon. Still, it's the ability to love the simple moments, to laugh, to dream, to play... those things were lost to me at that point. Maybe that's what I was trying to do on this trip. Trying to revive the Dreamer that I once knew myself to be. Funny the things you think about while you're ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes in a mine field of goose shit.

I returned to my car, prepared my linens, and cracked my windows. I draped a sheet over the front seats to give a little privacy as I slipped my pants off, too hot for any clothing that wasn't absolutely necessary. I opened my water bottle and dug out a Benadryl - the only way I was going to be able to sleep in this heat - and shut my doors. Here we go, I thought. First night on the road. It was hot, but I slept soundly, thinking about the little girl I used to be, wondering how to get her back as the fountain in the lake sang me to sleep.

My shoes? Yeah, they slept outside that night.

Wayfarer: More Than Just Sunglasses

Wayfarer: [noun] 1: A traveler, especially on foot  2: A person who goes on a journey

At this point in my life, I'm definitely not a stranger to travel. I've been a lot of places, met a lot of people, and put a lot of miles behind me. I've driven up mountains, been the sole moving object on an eternally blank landscape, and visited foreign continents. I've watched the sun rise and set thousands of miles from the people I know and love. I've also slept in WalMart parking lots, plowed through 300 miles of bleak interstate outrunning twisters in Tornado Alley, ran at full tilt towards the refuge of my car after nearly being accosted, and prepared for certain death by bedbug attack. I've felt that gut-wrenching, sinking feeling as the check engine light comes on 1000 miles from home. I've also laughed as tears of happiness stained my cheeks in one of those rare moments of clarity we all seek. My feet aching, my car moaning a fatigued hum, my eyes shadowed in dark circles of exhaustion, no clue where I'll rest my head once my energy gives out... and with a road-weary grin, I think, now this? This is really living.

Travelers of this type are a completely different breed. The thrill we seek, and even the way we perceive the journey gives a unique sense of gratification. The experience in and of itself is a sensory delight. One becomes hyper aware of their surroundings. The terrain below your feet feels foreign. The birds tickle your ears with unfamiliar melodies. The horizon appears mysterious, as if you've landed on a new and unexplored planet. The local food awakens your taste buds to flavors you've never experienced (whether or not your stomach regrets this later is a total crapshoot). Even the smells of the earth, flora, and nearby inhabitants are completely new. In moments like that, you are both evolved to a heightened sense of self-awareness, and simultaneously reduced to primitive man, relying solely on your most rudimentary sensory capabilities. It's an interesting sensation to feel so feral and so enlightened at the same time. 

A different breed of thrill seeker, indeed. I came to this realization as I stood atop a mountain pass, my feet so close to the edge that a light nudge would send me over. I contemplated stepping forward. I stood atop Going to the Sun Road in Glacier National Park in August of 2013. I looked out over the widest expanse of landscape I'd ever set eyes on and inhaled the brisk air. Fifty-seven degrees in August. I clutched my shirt across my chest and hastily rolled the sleeves of the cotton top down to my wrists. My father had given it to me two weeks before I left as we sorted through old clothes to go to Goodwill. It was a men's cotton shirt, its blue, red, and mustard-yellow plaid design proudly displaying its late 1970's heritage. It was the warmest thing I'd brought on this trip. At the elevation I was at, the valley became an optical illusion. If I squinted hard enough, it looked like a lawn of lush, vibrant grass with piles of gravel scattered here and there. It reminded me of our first days in the house I grew up in, when we had rocks delivered to lay the driveway with. They unceremoniously dumped two piles of gravel on the lawn and left. The reality was that the lawn before me was a forest of coniferous trees; an entire ecosystem was nestled between two giant mountain peaks, safely protected by a moat of undescendable rock. There could be deer, elk, even a buffalo down there and I wouldn't be able to see them without a decent set of binoculars. 

I dug my toe into the gravel on the shoulder of the road. There wasn't a guardrail, only suitcase-sized rectangular rocks every five feet or so as a partition. I wonder if that would actually keep my car from plummeting over, I thought. Some parts of the park had railings, but not this area. Gravel sprung from my dusty flip flop and barreled down the side of the mountain. Several years ago, I used to live in a small college town in North Carolina named Elon. A railroad track ran through the main thoroughfare, and was used both for the eternally long, slow moving freight trains as well as the high speed, nonstop Amtrak line. I lived just adjacent to it, and every day I would walk across the unfenced track to my second job, where I slung sandwiches and lattes at the Acorn Cafe. No fences, only an elevated pair of rails. Those trains lulled me to sleep quite often. One summer night while walking to the pub, I heard the rails tremble and saw the headlamp of the Amtrak. The year before, a boy killed himself on that very spot. He stood in the middle of the track with his back to the train, and just before the train hit him, he turned to face it head on. As it approached, I wondered if it was the same engine-- do they get rid of a train after something like that, or simply rinse off the blood and resume the daily route? I decided not to try and beat the locomotive; one misstep up the rocky mound could send me tumbling into the boy's same fate. 

As it flew past, unfaltering at 60 m.p.h., I watched. It's a train, it can't leap out and hurt you, I thought. I inched closer and closer until I was four feet away from it. Four feet from churning, crushing wheels and unyielding metal, four feet from certain death. Like a caged tiger, though, I knew four feet ensured my safety. I took another step in. I wanted to reach out, to touch this great steel beast. I knew I was safe where I stood, but my heart pounded as the siren blasted and my hair whipped violently. Geez, are you CRAZY? I asked myself. I drew back my hand as the street lamps shone on my face, the last car flown past in a whirlwind of leaves and dust. I didn't even realize I had begun to stick my arm towards the train. I shivered abruptly, confused at why I would do such a thing. For the sheer excitement of being so close to something that could undeniably kill me, I supposed. I crossed the track and thought little more about the event, ordering a cheap beer in a run-down college bar in a run-down college town. 

The memory of the Amtrak came rushing back as I watched the pebble careen down the mountain. There was absolutely zero percent chance of making it out alive from where I stood on this mountain pass, should I stumble over the edge. Scarier still, it wasn't an abrupt cliff wall. There was neither ledge nor railing. There was road, then shoulder, and at some hairpin, invisible border was the point where one more step put you into a rock slide down an impossibly steep mountain face. Yet there I was, standing at it, heart racing, seriously contemplating taking a step forward. I was literally one step away from death. The breeze kissed my face and the deafening silence began to push on my eardrums. Geez, what are you doing? Are you CRAZY?  I thought again for the second time in my life. 

I took one step back. My senses, awakened by adrenaline, took it all in. My eyes stretched over the expanse and greeted an endless span of hunter green, earthen gray, and the deep shades of navy in the waterfalls that pooled and cascaded down the mountain. There was a distinct absence of sound (which was louder than anything else, honestly), occasionally interrupted by the sound of a breeze whistling in my ears. My skin quivered as goosebumps crawled up my arms, chilled both from excitement and from the small, frayed hole in my father's shirt. My toes clenched into the craggy rocks below me, my shoes discarded beside me. I smelled crisp, unadulterated air that was chilly in my nostrils. My mouth was dry and tasted stale, now thirsty after the climb. 

I sat down on the rocky slope and crossed my ankles in front of me. I stared at my dirty feet, their sea foam green polish chipped from a week of barefoot abuse on the road. The fluffy cotton clouds parted and the sun peered through, its rays almost tangible. I was so near death, and in that moment, instead of being reminded of my own mortality, brought back to thoughts borne of fear, I drew a long, slow breath and reveled in the delight of my own existence. I'm not crazy. I'm a wanderer, a dreamer, and an adventurer. I'm the mortal enemy of a life mundane. I seek the thrill of standing on the edge at the thin line between "regulated" and "risky" because it brings undeniable clarity. When you're at the edge, you're not worried about bills, work, in-laws, or the daily stresses that cloud our minds constantly; you're in the most primal of states, your only concern in that moment being to stay alive. It's like an eraser on a whiteboard, clearing everything away and allowing you to focus on whatever you want, even if just for a little while, until the daily worries start crowding their way back in. I felt so alive. So free. In that moment, I remembered why I made this journey to begin with. Something as small as a footstep could take everything away, and so often we forget that. One footstep. I decided it was best to get to living while my footing is still sure.