To Zion

A pile of rubble from a rockslide blocks the road through Zion National Park.  All the parking lots are full so I turn around and find a spot near a Subway restaurant a short walk from the park’s entrance.  You can only drive past the checkpoint beyond the parking lots if you are staying at the hotel, which I am not.  I hop on a shuttle bus that takes me along the Zion Canyon Scenic Drive. 

After driving for nearly three weeks, I initially object to giving up my independence behind the wheel, but eventually I relish the break from constantly putting my foot on the gas, as my cruise control is broken.  Then it dawns on me that a virtually car-less national park is a wonderful idea.  This means more park and fewer parking lots.  Not to mention that I can gaze out at the cliffs without the risk of driving off the road or hitting an animal.

I made a vow to see as much as possible on this road trip by choosing one hike that captured the essence of each national park I visit.  Angel’s Landing is perhaps one of the most well-known hikes in the country and certainly would have made for a more thrilling story because the hiker must balance on a thin sliver of rock overlooking the canyon floor thousands of feet below. From my vantage point on the bus, the chalky clifftops are dotted with ponderosa pines, and the splotches of blood-orange on the cliff walls remind me of a poison ivy rash on pale skin.

I hear the bus driver’s voice through the speakers.  She is pointing out hikers on the ridge and climbers halfway to their destination.  I can see a smidge of contrast from the climber’s shirt, and I can see the hikers’ silhouettes against the sunny sky.  It took me a while to spot the people, and I only managed this because a couple in front of me pointed and expressed amazement that somebody would be crazy to put themselves in a such a position, but this is exactly where people go to do just that.  Those specks were summiting Angel’s Landing.

 

As much as I would have loved to be one of those specks that bus-riders point at with bewilderment, I was one of the bus-riders. I thought I was already putting myself at risk by driving across the country into very remote areas by myself.  I kept in touch with Erin every day, but sometimes I drove into dead spots and I couldn’t reach her for a day or two. Before I went for a hike I texted her where I was going and mentioned the trail name, but I didn’t think hiking alone on a narrow ledge near a Looney-Tunes-esque plummet was such a bright idea.  Instead, I choose to hike into the Narrows and slosh through the Virgin River that cut through the rock to create Zion.

I get off the bus at the Temple of Sinawava and walk along the riverside path amidst a sizeable crowd of hikers of all ages.  The heat of the sun is intense.  I see men walking in the opposite direction.  Their shorts are wet at the knees, and their footprints leave watery traces on the dusty ground.  The silty river is a mere trickle as it gargles through the desert swamp.  I follow the path to the point where the walls close in so tightly that the river becomes the path, and I can’t walk without getting wet. 

On the stony embankment, hikers take off their shoes and set them down on the ground and start wading into the ankle-high river.  They trust the shoes will be there when they return, and I don’t blame them because this place isn’t exactly a hotbed for criminal activity. I step into the cool water of the Virgin River as it winds serpentine-like around bend after bend.  Sunlight slants into the canyon and makes the slick walls glisten.  If the angle is just right, the sun strikes the underhang and makes the walls glow an iridescent orange.  In the shade, the green leaves of the pinon trees contrasts against the charcoal cliffs.

I am struck with an urge to keep going and to see what is around the next corner.  Waterfalls on steep slopes add to the growing stream which is up to my knees.  I see the shadow of a man against the white water and take his picture with my iPhone. 

This is exactly the kind of image I’ve been searching for:  a person dwarfed by the immensity of this wilderness and amazed by a beauty that can turn deadly.  The river is getting faster now.  If there were to be some faraway storm that raised the river only by a few feet the water would rage inside these walls and crush us against the stray boulders and trees ripped from their roots causing us to drown in a violent torrent, but there is no threat of that today.

The water’s depth is uneven.  A line of hikers choose the easiest path through the shallows, and I venture to the opposite side and sink up to my stomach.  There’s a reason everyone else is using that particular lane.  I join the line and trip over a submerged rock.  A woman returning to the parking lot offers me her walking stick. She says she doesn’t need it anymore but it’ll be a huge help, so I thank her and take the stick. I grow impatient with the traffic because I want to take photographs unhindered by human presence, but I’ll have to go farther to achieve this. 

An hour goes by, and my progress is slow because I have to move tactfully to avoid the rocks, the rapids, and the deep end.  The frigid water combined with the shade is starting to make my feet feel numb.  I feel assured that soon I will be able to touch both walls simultaneously and I’ll find solitude.  But I never reach that point.  Each time I round the next bend I expect to be alone.  Surely, I think, nobody else will have gone this far, but someone already has.

I shouldn’t be surprised that so many people ventured this far.  Like me, their curiosity led them farther than it does on an average hike.  Each stretch of the river promises new contrasts of shimmering water against the red cliffs and another opportunity to photograph the peek-a-boo fashion of the light filtering into the slot from a sky that seems engulfed by this rocky fortress.

I keep hearing people say, I want to keep going and going.  I see an old man with white hair under his ball cap walking next to someone who could be his son.  I pass a German man holding the hand of his young daughter who could be no older than five.  The water is so deep at certain places she could dive for quarters, but here she is walking in the shallows of this cold river and not making a fuss.

God's Country

The ancient ones believed the Grand Canyon was the womb of the Earth from which people emerged. I refer to the Ancestral Pueblos, an ancient culture of Native Americans who settled in the American Southwest around 1,400 years ago. Ranging from the canyonlands of Arizona and Utah over the Rocky Mountains to the Colorado Plateau, these groups thrived in demanding environments by building their houses inside the cliff walls, strategically chosen to take advantage of the winter sun and summer shade.

Inside the cliff dwellings, the Ancestral Pueblos built houses six to eight feet high off of level ground.  They also dug a kiva, essentially a circular basement used for ceremonial get-togethers. The kivas often had roofs, and ladders were used to descend into the underground chamber.  Inside, they lit fires, and the smoke would filter through ventilation in the ceiling.  Kivas undoubtedly had practical purposes like staying warm during the winter and staying cool during the summer, but the kivas were also symbolic. A sipapu, a hole much like a belly-button on the floor, represented a portal to the underworld.  The Grand Canyon, then, could be interpreted as the kiva of the Earth.

The Ancestral Pueblos left no written record, so it is only possible to catch glimpses of their lives through archaeological finds.  Little is known of their religion except through comparisons with the Ancestral Pueblos’ modern counterparts.  Pueblos pray to kachinas, spirits in charge of nature’s forces, and their beliefs are centered on harmony between humankind and the health of the Earth.

For an American living in a predominately Christian nation, it is common to label an awe-inspiring, vast land as “God’s country.”  When I hike into the Grand Canyon, however, I see the absence of God.  Instead, I see a different kind of faith.

I don’t know much about geology, so I have to believe the experts. Over a billion years ago, volcanic islands collided with the North American continent, and magma seeped through the cracks of the Earth’s crust.  This process formed the base layer of the canyon——a pinkish granite. Then a shallow and muddy sea filled North America from western Montana to the Great Lakes, and a green layer of shale was formed.  Around 280 million years ago came the sandstone enriched with iron, which gives the land a red hue. The Colorado River weaseled its way through the cliffs and eroded the rocks during an ongoing process that began a few million years ago.

If the ages of these rocks are believed to be true, the Bible’s estimation of the world’s birthday is refuted. I don’t believe in the Bible or in any god, but I don’t think that challenging a sacred tradition should be taboo. I recognize that I am uninformed, both in geology and spirituality, but I have a choice as to whom I believe:  a priest or an archaeologist.  I have no way of fully understanding how geologists can pinpoint dates of rock formations and trace their evolution through continental and tectonic changes unless I become an expert.  Until then, belief in their findings remains a faith.

 

If the oldest rock in the Grand Canyon is over a billion years old and the Bible claims that God created the world six thousand years ago, it is a contradiction to say that the Grand Canyon is God’s country. How you wrestle with that conundrum is an internal debate, but I am more concerned with another matter. Many Native American religions pay deep homage to the natural world.  Natives worshiped the sun and danced for rain.  On the other hand, the dominant Christian image has little to do with Earth but mostly of heaven.  In comparison to Native American beliefs, Christianity makes Earth seem like an afterthought. 

I was raised as a Catholic, but, like most Americans, I watched football more frequently than I attended church. Religion was never thoroughly discussed at family get-togethers; it was only a tradition of beliefs that were never stated and never questioned.  Every few weekends my mother would take me and my brothers to church, and I would bring my Gameboy and play Pokemon while the priest delivered his sermon. I don’t remember any of the sermons, only the constant exercise of standing and getting down on my knees.  My family, like most in America I would assume, half-assed churchgoing so that we could cover our asses during the final day of judgment.

This acceptance of infrequency sparked me to abandon my religion. I saw my immediate relatives using religion in two ways: when it was convenient for them to ease pain or to incite fear.  And all of it dealt with the admission into heaven and the avoidance of hell.  If someone died, they consoled themselves with the belief that they’re “in a better place,” namely, heaven, which is a much less depressing notion than to believe that the dead are conscienceless worm-food decomposing in expensive boxes under the soil.

 

In order to reach this executive suite in some obscure location I assumed to be beyond the clouds, a dutiful Catholic was expected to follow a set of rules:  pledge allegiance to Jesus, don’t cheat on your wife or borrow your neighbor’s lawn mower without returning it.  Any alternative would result in burning in an eternal fire.  I could hardly stand taking showers with sunburned skin, so, of course, I wanted to avoid that horrific future.  With these rules, however, there is a catch:  if you break one, you can still get into heaven if you confess your sins.

 

This loophole shredded any credibility I held in what I already believed to be a fallible institution.  The role of my behavior seem less significant than the thoughts in my head. Should a well-behaved atheist be denied admission before a murderous believer who said he was sorry?  There is so much focus on how to conduct myself strictly for the afterlife, but what about my current life, the only one I know with certainty exists?  And what about my relation to the planet and my devotion to the betterment of my species?

I’m not saying there is no god, but the one I’ve been presented with surely prefers his own paradise over the sphere of rock upon which he claims the ground is cursed.  In Genesis, the earth is associated with submitting to sinful behavior compared to the Ancestral Pueblos’ beliefs that the earth is sacred and nature is benevolent. So then, how does one rectify the disparity between these connotations?  And how does one deal with the understandings of the natural world and a religion with histories and dates that contradict modern discoveries? 

Is it possible to convince oneself of separate, competing beliefs?  Can one believe in plate tectonics, erosion, and the metamorphosis of rocks and still leave room for a credible god?  Or must one believe that all those things are god:  that god is not a man with a conscience who created the canyon but god is a creating force?  In other words, god would be the faceless and formless force behind continents colliding and rivers eroding the cliffs.  That seems less of a Christian god and more of a Native American spirit. 

  

When you gape at the enormity of the Grand Canyon and proclaim it as God’s country, consider how convoluted that thought is. One could interpret that statement in several ways that don't necessarily mesh. Ancestral Pueblos believed this to be a sacred place, the Earth’s kiva, while Christians may believe this to be a wonder of god’s creation.  Others, including myself, believe in the age of the rocks and a billion year process that is ongoing.  All of these beliefs attempt to fill a void in a past that, in the present moment, can only be imagined.

The Passenger Seat is Empty

For the last three thousand miles Erin was my copilot. I won’t lie and say this was the most romantic getaway.  We learned things about each other we didn’t like.  We both made selfish decisions and let the resentment build with the silence. But we co-designed this trip and made every decision together. We took turns driving, and we split the costs of gas and food. I went to a winery, even though I had no interest, because I knew she would enjoy it. Undoubtedly, she entertained a fancy of mine even though she didn’t fancy it herself. We did what every couple should do if they want to succeed:  we compromised.

I resisted the urge to play country music because I know she hates it.  I wanted to navigate exclusively with maps.  During previous outings she grew impatient with me when I overlooked a faster route, so I used the GPS.  She usually got tired before me, so I volunteered to drive at night, on rough terrain, in heavy traffic, or during inclement weather. I wanted to lighten her load and take care of her.  All the while, I wanted to take risks and experience a true adventure.

My ideals have always been romantic and a tad melodramatic.  When I was a kid, I wanted to run away with a girl I was in love with.  Alone, excitement has a threshold. There is a certain feeling of euphoria that can only be experienced when two people meet at a farfetched destination they never expected to reach. Our futures feature multiple avenues, most of them elusive and ephemeral, and every once in a while we follow a road we know not where it leads. I wanted to go into this uncertainty with someone, and we could find the answers together.

A few weeks ago, I stood outside the gates of Fort Clatsop, Oregon, the site where Lewis and Clark wintered near the southern banks of the Columbia River after their transcontinental expedition. I was full of envy of my predecessors for their chances to venture out into unmapped territory. Before me lay a forest blotted out by the night. A cold wind blew and shook the tree branches. My meager headlamp pierced a minuscule crack in the darkness, and I asked Erin to hop the fence with me. This was the adventure I was looking for, but I never stopped to ask myself:  What was I hoping to stumble upon?

I always thought I could defy the ultimate compromise we all end up making when we choose whether to settle down or to live without structure. This trip was my testing ground.  I wanted to believe I could make a nest, and then take it on the road with me. I wanted to convince myself I could be a caretaker and a wanderer, living both on the edge and somehow with responsibility. I was determined to complete the journey from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Maybe Erin was, too, but she decided to fly home to be with her family and to set her professional life in motion. I understand her decision and don’t blame her for it, but, selfishly, I wanted her to stay.

In the parking lot outside the mob museum in Las Vegas, Erin arranged her suitcases in the trunk while I sat next to her holding a turkey and cheese sandwich. I hadn’t eaten in hours, and I was starving, but I couldn’t stomach a single bite. She was overcome with a sadness that surprised me.  Usually I am the softy holding back tears and asking for another hug.  All day long she had been exceptionally affectionate——clingy, even, which I welcomed. Nonetheless, I built up walls inside of me to prepare myself for the separation.  We had spent the previous 110 days together at work, at home, in the car.

 

Now, at the airport in Vegas, we embrace, and she turns toward the doors.  The wheels of her suitcase roll away from me.  She swivels on her feet, faces me once more and waves. I smile and retain the image of her in my mind.  While she opens the doors and moves toward the ticket counter and out of my sight, I wrestle with our memories, which have now become both painful and pleasant to conjure up. These memories mock me in my isolation, but they, too, provide comfort.

 

The passenger seat is empty, and the course of my future ruptures. I grew accustomed to the frequency of her presence like an addict, and now I have to learn to live with her shrinking role. The doses will become smaller and smaller as the relationship fades from the collision of skin to faceless phone calls that are further reduced to a name on a screen and words typed by thumbs and then long stretches of sightlessness and silence.

Under the harsh light of a gas station outside of Vegas, I dump out the water from the cooler and buy a new bag of ice and stick the cooler next to my jug of water and my bag of snacks sitting on the passenger seat. Now that Erin is gone, I need my supplies to be within reach. I’ll cover less ground and try to avoid driving at night. I try to make a set of rules for myself, but now that I’m alone I can break my own promises.

I yearn to establish a new routine and console myself with sites yet to be seen and trails yet to be hiked. I follow the highway signs beyond the Hoover Dam and into Arizona toward the Grand Canyon. I stop at a Walmart in Kingsman after midnight and curl up in the backseat. I have more space to sprawl out and stretch my legs, but I would rather be squished than to carry on a solo journey. Before I fall asleep, I try to embrace my new solitude despite my desire to be reunited with Erin. I wonder if it is possible to have both love and freedom. Or is there only room enough for one?

In Between Dreams

I see zebras and humpbacks along the coastal highway toward Big Sur. The zebras are leftovers from newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearst’s zoo in the backyard of his castle in San Simeon.  The striped horses are trotting through fields of lifeless grasses dried brown under a relentless sun.  The pod of whales is splashing waves with their tailfins and shooting geysers of seawater through their blowholes.

 

California is in another drought.  This means that you have to bear the stench of a Porta Potty to relieve yourself at a museum, or otherwise hold your bladder until you can find a convenience store or a convenient set of bushes that provides ample camouflage.  Americans flocked to the Golden State because they wanted the sunshine, but now there’s too much of it.  I am only passing through, but I don’t understand why people like it here so much.  Gas is expensive.  Grocery stores charge you for plastic bags.  It’s dreadfully hot and overly crowded.  Yet there’s a specific brand of dreams solely fixed on Californian imaginings.  A California dream is a subdivision of the American Dream, but the two could be synonymous.

I never understood the allure of moving to a place you’ve never visited, but we’ve all been exposed to advertisements inviting us to California.  Hollywood is an omniscient force invading nearly every American home.  Super Bowl teams go to Disneyland after their victory.  Nobody mentions a trip to a mid-sized city in Missouri where people can earn decent incomes, drive a reasonable commute to the office, root for a baseball team with a history of consistent success, and have a big backyard.  We are engineered to think that a move to Missouri is settling, so we shoot for the stars and head to California.

The same drought that made water bills soar also made a trip to Yosemite less eventful.  There is no water left to fall in places where it is normally gushing.  A sign that indicates the position of Yosemite Falls looks like a mislabeled exhibit.  The Tuolumne Meadows are not luscious with wildflowers but mostly a barren field with few survivors.  My timing is off, so I decide to head for the eastern exit.  Darkness falls, so I car-camp at nine thousand feet in a parking lot before a campsite that is under construction.  The temperature drops into the thirties, so I bundle up beneath the covers.  In the morning, there is frost on my windshield that melts on the way to the desert.

The car plunges into a sweltering furnace where I’m surrounded by sand.  A coyote pants under the shade of a creosote bush; the animal’s tongue dangles from its mouth like a strand of over-chewed bubblegum.  I have heard about dry heat, and I’m not sweating, but I feel as though someone is forcing me to breathe through a hair dryer while someone vacuums the insides of my lungs. 

Death Valley is the hottest place on Earth, and today’s forecast calls for 113 degrees Fahrenheit.  The temperature gauge on my car surges toward the red, and I wonder if this twenty-year-old machine will break down in one of the most dangerous places to be stranded.  I have a gallon of water, two bottles of sunscreen, and a fold-up bike in the trunk in case all goes wrong.

A sign warns me to turn off my air conditioner to avoid overheating, but my air conditioner doesn’t work.  I have the windows down, and the heat is on full blast and directed toward my shins.  I read in the Chevy manual that you can pull heat from the engine this way.  My shins are burning as the car chugs its way up the slope.  Any minute the engine could die, so I ease forward gently until I can pull over to the side of the road on flat ground.

 

I lift the hood to let the engine breathe the scant desert breezes, and I recline the driver’s seat and try to read a book that fails to engross me.  Every minute or so I check the temperature gauge to see if it is falling.  I know I will have to descend even further below sea level.  Today will be a true test to see if the car can survive a coast-to-coast journey from California to Florida.  Anything beyond Texas will surpass my expectations.

I wait a half an hour before revving the engine again.  The gauge is on the halfway point, so I press onward.  After stopping and resting another three times, I finally reach Stovepipe Wells where I eat a pint of ice cream in the shade and race the declining sun before my dessert melts.  Even in the shade, I feel desiccated from inside-out. Instead of removing layers, I don a thin hoody that covers my arms and neck.  The Bedouins know how to survive these climes, so I emulate their strategy. 

The crusty salt flats at Badwater Basin, the lowest land elevation on Earth, indicate a lake that dried up.  Somehow, in all of California, there is a puddle of water here.  I wonder what the night sky would look like from Death Valley, but I can’t stick around to find out.  Behind me to the west lay the Alabama Hills, a popular backdrop for Hollywood cowboys to ride off into the sunset.  As I cross the Nevada border with the sun at my back I can see the light pollution from Vegas.  In between dreams lay a harsh, but beautiful desert and an overheated car that thought it could but barely did.

The Memory of a Bridge

The rolling hills of San Francisco make driving a nuisance, or a thrill if the ubiquitous threat of a fender-bender is your idea of fun.  With my trunk pointed downhill at a red light, I keep my left foot on the brake and accelerate simultaneously so my bulky car won’t smash the one behind me.  I am heading toward a picturesque angle of the Golden Gate Bridge.  Once I saw the red, symmetrical architecture from Fort Baker I realized the view on the opposite side of the bay wouldn’t change much, but I went to Presidio anyways. 

I get out of the car with Erin, and we stare at the bridge.  She takes photos on her camera while I do my best with my iPhone.  I don’t even know why the Golden Gate Bridge is famous, and I’m not even that fascinated by impressive feats of modern civil engineering.  But here I am. 

This is another one of those checked-off items I can use to compare my wanderings to other travelers.  Traveling to iconic destinations has more to do than bragging rights alone.  There may be an innate desire for each individual to build his own empire:  to roam from his doorstep and stake claim to a faraway land, however minuscule that claim may be.  We’ve come from chimpanzees who drive away neighboring communities for control of resources like nuts or fruit-bearing trees.  Dictators and imperialists have invaded other countries to expand the nation’s boundaries, and now the average person explores the previously-explored not for resources or political prestige but for knowledge, self-worth, and memory.

             

Objectively, the bridge is worth little more to me than a pretty picture.  Seeing the bridge is symbolic, instead, because of I can measure the passage of time from a memory that stands out.  The end of a country and the beginning of the Pacific Ocean is a way to mark progress for someone who was born in the east. I can begin sentences with:  “Ever since I returned from the West…”  And this could prove useful.  At the same time, however, merely laying eyes on this structure doesn’t qualify me for anything.  For some, the bridge represents a commute for which a driver has to pay a toll.  I never got a bill.

After we have taken all the pictures we deem necessary, Erin and I retreat from the windy outcroppings and meet up with a family friend who happens to be an interior decorator, the perfect tour guide for one of the most expensive cities in America.  During a tour of the city, he tells us that if you think driving up these hills is a difficult task, then we should try pushing a refrigerator on a dolly up these steep slopes.  I decide that it’s not only the outrageous rent that is preventing me from moving here. 

The decorator is staying at a client’s apartment for the time being, and he make our way there.  We turn past one of those gas stations you can tell by looking at that they don’t have a bathroom, or if they do you have to ask for a key and walk behind the store to find it.  Construction rages in a narrow alleyway littered with questionable looking apartments with dumpy facades.  The occasional porch light next to a grand door suggests what lies behind is a different world from the empty garbage cans and stray cats that live in the street. We pull into a garage that is large enough to fit two Range Rovers with two inches of space remaining.

The apartment is immaculate and excessive.  There are fuzzy sofas and statement pieces that serve no purpose other than warranting questions such as:  “What’s this thing for?” and nothing more.  The stairs look as though they are floating.  The walls in the bedrooms are full of pictures that belong in medium-sized city art museums.

  

Altogether, the space is roughly the same size as the two-and-a-half bedroom house I rented in Pittsburgh.  The Pittsburgh house cost $1,200 per month for three people, one of whom volunteered to live in a space more suitable to be a closet.  That was the nicest house on the block in a sketchy neighborhood where occasional gunshots weren't strangers.  

The San Francisco apartment in which I currently stand has those same qualifications but is worth over a million dollars.  If I had a million dollars, I don’t know how I would spend it exactly, but I wouldn’t live near one of those gas stations that people only stop at reluctantly because they’ve run out of gas.

Music from a decade in which I wasn’t yet alive is playing from speakers that I cannot locate.  They are probably built into the walls, and I don’t have the WiFi password to shut off the music.  I manage to find a volume knob and mute the incessant thumping.  I pour a glass of faucet water and sit on the bar stool and consider limitations I would impose when buying furniture.  The dining room table looks more artistic than functional.  I would hesitate to eat my cereal there in the morning in case I spilled any milk.  I feel uncomfortable surrounded by such unnecessary wealth and yearn for the warmth of my wood-burning stove inside the cabin in Wyoming.

Finally, we leave and head toward AT&T Park.  I am taking Erin to her first baseball game:  the San Francisco Giants against the Cincinnati Reds.  The match-up has extra sentimental value because the Reds and Erin are from the same city.  I could not have planned for a better coincidence.  The night before I bought six dollar tickets on StubHub, but the next day we negate that frugality with a ten dollar cup of foamy beer and a seven dollar soft pretzel.  We climb endless stairs to the nosebleeds where we have a view of the bay blackened by night and a roof to keep us out of the cold summer rain.  The game below is background noise.  I don’t remember who won the game, but I remember the company.

Driving the Getaway Car

The Red Hot Chili Peppers are playing on my iPod when we cross the California border into the darkened redwood forest.  This is no accident.  I like my arrivals to have kitschy musical accompaniments.  Erin is maneuvering the top-heavy car down extremely winding roads with unpredictable curves.  Having grown up in the flatlands, curves are not her strong suit, but the course is admittedly the most difficult we’ve encountered yet.  After an alert bout of night-driving, we pull into state park campsite two miles off Highway 1 and find a vacant spot under the awning of the giant trees.

The Redwoods are not like most national parks I have visited.  They are scattered pockets of protected lands, both state and federal, throughout northern California.  There is no entry fee to use the coastal highway or to visit the park.  However, you do have to pay sixteen dollars a night for a campsite, but I cannot justify putting exact cash into an envelope inside a wooden collection box so that I can park my car overnight in the forest.

 

National parks are federal lands that citizens pay for with their taxes, and usually they pay additional fees to enter parks such as Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon.  On top of that, the parks charge you for camping, and some will even charge you two dollars for an individual shower lasting eight minutes.  I bought a park pass for eighty dollars that gets me into any park presided over by the National Park Service for a year, but I refuse to pay for campsites.  I drive into the campground after the workers have clocked out for the day and the toll is vacant.  I back into an inconspicuous spot far away from the camp host but close enough to the exit in case I need to flee.  This is exactly what I do in the Redwoods.

Before dawn, I divvy up my supply of quarters between Erin and me to activate the hot water.  The air inside the bathroom is chilly, and the concrete floor vacuums the heat from my body.  I shove the quarters through the slot, and they rattle inside a silver cage.  A weak stream falls from a puny nozzle.  I race through the procedure because the sun is rising soon, which means the rangers will take their posts.  Then I pack up the car while waiting for Erin to finish, and we soon hit the road.

 

I creep up to the gate slowly and peek inside the window without coming to a complete stop.  At first glance I see no one seated until I press the gas and see a female ranger leaning forward, staring so intently at her computer screen that she doesn’t notice me driving by.  I accelerate to get some distance between myself and the toll booth.  In my rearview mirror, I see the ranger run out of her office and wave her arms to signal for my attention.

“Should I stop?” I ask Erin.

“We can’t go back now,” she says.  “What are they going to do?”

My heart beats faster, the way it did when I knew shame was awaiting me in principal’s office in seventh grade.  I imagine the female ranger is radioing her partner on the highway, and he will be waiting to catch us, like a grizzly bear standing in the river before a salmon run.  I think it’s a minor possibility we will be caught before we reach the highway, and I am ready to plead ignorance.  At the same time I am thrilled to do something slap-on-the-wrist illegal.  Pretending to be an outlaw is as close as I will ever get to notoriety, and I can live with that.

We reach the highway and head south.  I feign paranoia that we are being followed and that a high-speed chase will ensue, but it seems we have made a clean get-away.       

An Unfamiliar Place

I wake up in the back seat of my car and open the door with my toes.  I’m brushing my teeth in a rest stop parking lot in Astoria, Oregon when I see an otter bob and then disappear into the water.  I eat a granola bar for breakfast, and then Erin and I backtrack to Fort Clatsop so I can satisfy my desire to visit the western terminus of Lewis and Clark’s voyage beyond the newly purchased Louisiana Territory.  Meriwether Lewis began his journey on the Ohio River in Pittsburgh before venturing into unknown lands in which Thomas Jefferson believed there would be dinosaurs.

 

I envy historical figures for their opportunities to make new discoveries, for there were many more blank spaces to be filled back then.  People my age have to get creative to be the first person to document a new area without having to operate a rocket ship or a submarine or somehow arrange a flight to Antarctica.  After reading a sizeable portion of Undaunted Courage, the story of Lewis and Clarke’s epic canoe trip across a vast empire, I am ashamed to remember all the times I used GoogleMaps to direct me to the nearest grocery store.  I briefly retrace the path of Lewis and Clarke as they dragged their canoes ashore.  If I could only experience the joy the men felt when they first lay eyes on the Pacific Ocean, then I shall have found my calling.  Until then we row on with practiced movements and only a vague idea where we are going.

Onward to a gas station in a suburb of Portland where an attendant with a purple rash that covers his cheeks pumps my gas. I wonder why the state of Oregon doesn’t trust each driver to fill his own tank, a regular procedure I have recently completed in Washington a few days ago.  Then I wonder if I should tip the man, but decide not to.  A few blocks down the road I pull into an apartment complex and circle the lot while Kayla gives me directions where to park.  Kayla and I worked together in a restaurant in Pittsburgh, became close friends, and then moved to opposite sides of the country.

I see a woman I recognize, but her glasses are new and she is thinner than I remember.  I introduce Erin and Kayla, and then we carry our dirty laundry inside the apartment, where Kayla pours us coffee.  I ask her how she is adjusting to her recent move, and she expresses doubt about her decision.  She admits that the Oregonian wilderness is beautiful, but there’s not many jobs in Portland.  She misses her friends in Pittsburgh and all the places that have become familiar.  I have not returned to Pittsburgh in over a year and find myself yearning for sights that became comfortably commonplace:  the view of the skyline from Mount Washington, the Manor Theater in Squirrel Hill, the Cathedral of Learning lit up after a victory.  

Kayla asks me what I would do:  stay here or go back home?  I cannot give her my answer until I have seen the city.  She escorts us onto the train that sends us into Portland, where we peruse Powell’s City of Books, a labyrinth of literature in color-coded rooms.  Then to dinner at Deschutes in the Pearl District.  We part ways and agree to meet at the apartment later while Erin and I navigate our way to Voodoo Donut, where their penis-shaped pastries have gained enough fanfare to land them a spot on TV shows like No Reservations and Man v. Food.

 

I wait in a long line outside the donut shop near a homeless man scratching the sidewalk with fingernails caked in dirt.  A few blocks behind us a community of homeless sleep on patches of grass near the curb.  A shirtless, potbellied man shouts in the street and throws punches at a pregnant woman, but no one intervenes.  A rusted Toyota is parked in front of a brick building painted with the slogan:  KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD.  I suspect oddity will never be an endangered species in this city. 

I enter the store and purchase circular donuts and one shaped like a cock that I choose to cut up with a fork later.  While dining on the patio, Erin and I discuss the depravity of the streets and quickly act on our desire to leave this place.  After a stroll through the Rose Garden, we catch the train back to Kayla’s, but now it is dark and we don’t remember which apartment is hers.  We try to find the right door without help, so I refrain from texting Kayla.  We have only been here once, but that is enough to help us find our way back.  Erin recognizes a grocery store across the street and a shortcut through a dirt patch and a staircase that somehow looks familiar even though we are surrounded by replicas.  I knock on the door and Kayla opens it with a surprised look on her face.

From what I have seen of Portland, I would not live there, but I don’t want to tell Kayla that.  I have moved four times, and I did not immediately like my new home at first.  I adjusted out of necessity, but I still complained about what the place lacked.  We seem hardwired to reject an unfamiliar environment until we learn it so well that we find it painful to leave.  Of course Portland is dirty, somewhat scary, and rampant with hipsters wearing cut-off jean shorts, plaid shirts, and handle-bar mustaches.  But the city has beautiful roses, too.

Back in the apartment, Kayla offers us tea.  I search through her cupboard for honey when I find a bottle of olive oil from Giant Eagle Market District, a Pennsylvanian grocery store.  

I can’t believe you brought this all the way out here, I say.  

On the living room floor we drink tea and laugh about the people we knew when our lives intersected on a frequent basis.  We wonder where everyone has scattered.  A mutual friend has gone to China.  He never thought he would leave this tiny restaurant in a mid-sized American city, let alone leave the country. 

I feel like I’m always searching for the next great adventure, Kayla says, but what if the great adventure is already behind me?  What if I was living the great adventure and didn’t realize it?

You already know what to expect from Pittsburgh, I say.  Staying here is a risk, but what if the risk is worth it?    

  

We used to complain about our old routines, and now I find myself being nostalgic for them.  I think of running through my favorite neighborhoods, and I recall conversations with friends I grew very fond of.  But nostalgia rarely leaves room for discomfort.  Before I moved, I didn’t know my way around the city, and there was a time when all my friends were strangers.