Adrift

The moon and the sun are eternal travelers. Even the years wander on. A lifetime adrift in a boat, or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.

- Matsuo Bashō, “Narrow Road to the Interior,” 1692

Elkins, West Virginia

Our tent is set up in a verdant field on my Uncle Jimmy’s farm, his white barn-turned-to-house in the background. Just three days ago, Dale, Banzai, and I packed up all of our belongings and left our little house in Black Mountain, N.C. for a summer on the road, living in a tent. Our plan is to eventually finish in Fairbanks, Alaska, where we’ll stay for a few years.

Knowing we were leaving the East, we drove north to West Virginia. A goodbye was needed. Like always, West Virginia welcomed us with an endless, drizzling rain and fog hanging low on the spring green mountains. Although I’ll miss this place when I’m gone, I’m happy to go.

the oldest mountains
where The New and Gauley meet
and my roots dig deep

Chautauqua, New York

We arrived at the small farm Dale grew up on and Banzai ran circles around us out of joy, excited to be back. It has been cold and dreary for our entire stay, except for yesterday. The clouds dissipated and the sun was bright in the crisp, blue sky, offering warmth. Judge Fischer came to the farm and married me and Dale in front of a big black locust tree (Robinia pseudoacacia). This is ironic. The first major disagreement between us was about a black locust tree. We were on a hike, somewhere in West Virginia (or maybe Tennessee?) and Dale mentioned that he loved the bark of the black locust, pointing to a tree. The bark was dark and furrowed like an old, heavy brow. I firmly told him that the tree to which he was pointing was not a black locust. It was winter, and there were no leaves to help us come to a conclusion. In the end, Dale was right. Now every time we see a black locust, he points to it and asks me what kind of tree it is.

Six people were there to watch me smile, cheeks aching. Banzai also sat and watched. It looked like he, too, was smiling. After the judge left, we sat on beaver and mink fur blankets laid out in the grass and drank champagne.

spring grass plush and green
flowers blooming all around
yellow, violet, pink, and white

When the champagne was gone, Dale climbed around in the barn and swung on a rope hanging from the ceiling, ridden with holes. I shouted at him to be careful and got chicken lice all over my legs and dress. We left the barn and went fishing in the pond.

The Badlands, South Dakota

I am in love with the Badlands. They are reminiscent of the American Southwest, with the barren orange and yellow rock that is slowly eroding. I can hear canyons of the west whispering my name because they know I am coming.

Today we awoke at 5:45 am, the sun illuminating our tent, Banzai curled up in the middle. After an oatmeal breakfast, we hiked up Saddle Pass. The pass was steep and slippery, disintegrating beneath our feet through natural, shallow crevices of the Badlands’ plant-less formations. Walking through the cracks of the Badlands is how I imagine Mars. Except with more gravity.

eroded buttes fade
colors crumble into sand
fine chalk smooth like silk

Black Hills National Forest, South Dakota

There is a scenic byway that winds through the Black Hills National Forest on the border of South Dakota and Wyoming. Driving through we saw sheer cliff walls topped with a never-ending expanse of tall Ponderosa Pines (Pinus ponderosa). Waterfalls cascaded from the cliff tops down, forming clear mountain streams and lakes that appeared to glow. What we didn’t see was any sign of walking or hiking trails. How can you begin to comprehend a landscape you don’t ever set foot into? Cars don’t count—you cannot understand a landscape from the window of your car.

abandon your car
if only for an hour’s time –
or a day. And walk.

We drove about four miles down a dirt road. When we could drive no more, we walked. Two miles up a slight incline through dry, grassy understory, still with those Pinus ponderosa trees towering over our heads, Banzai leading the way. On the top of the hill was a Fire Lookout tower, perched all alone. A job with a view. We laid our jackets on the ground, sat on them, ate sandwiches, and watched the clouds float above our heads.

the needles rustle
Pinus ponderosa sway
the air smells of sap

Devil’s Tower, Wyoming

The campground here is nearly empty. Except there’s this giant RV towing a massive trailer, which is housing two all-terrain vehicles, and accompanied by two large, shiny pickup trucks. Earlier, their ATVs were roaring in my ear. Now, their RV’s generator is whining in the distance. Here in the darkness, I can see the glow of a television screen coming through their window, with the silhouette of a small dog perched, staring out, longingly. Would it kill them to live without electricity for one night? What’s the point of camping if you’re going to bring your air conditioner, television with cable satellite, flush toilets, KFC take-out, computers, ATVs, and all other owned motor vehicles with you?

At least we have an unimpeded, gorgeous view.

Oh, towering teat
glowing pink in summer’s eve -
you deserve better.

Cañon City, Colorado

Been here a few weeks now, river guiding, and my skin is darkening (despite all the sun block), my hands are like sandpaper, and my feet are cracked—I’ve had to superglue them back together. Still, there’s nothing I’d rather do than be on the river every day, even if my mind begins to tick as my customers ask Do we finish at the same place we started? To which the answer is a firm “no.”

High water on the Arkansas River peaked just above 4,000 cubic feet per second today. So much water in such a small gorge—it is raging, rushing, swirling in a tumultuous manner. All us river rats went on a play trip after work today, down the Bighorn Sheep Canyon. Banzai didn’t join us this time—the water is too high. Dale and I took our 10.5’ fire engine red raft, Hot Tamale. She is a small boat for big water, which made for great fun.

Everyone eddied out near Bootlegger’s Gulch and we hiked up to the old abandoned cabin. The chinked, one room log cabin was still in fairly good condition, considering the fire it survived. In this incredibly dry climate, wood can take lifetimes to decompose. I enjoyed finding the rusted tins from the bootlegger’s food supply strewn about the hillside.

bootlegger’s cabin
an old still dried up of drink
burned black and rusted

Moab, Utah area

Yesterday we left Colorado and drove toward Utah. Mid-afternoon we pulled over along the Colorado River to find a shady spot where we could eat snacks and bathe. When I’m river guiding, customers always ask me what my favorite river is. I tell them I don’t quite have one—but this is a lie. The Colorado is my favorite. I am grateful for this reunion.

The water is much warmer here than through the Grand Canyon, being that we are above that damned dam (Glen Canyon Dam). The air is hot. Very hot. You can almost feel the dry August heat singeing tissues in your lungs.

Our tent is now set up along the river at Lower Drink. Last night in the twilight hours I read aloud from Barry Lopez’s Desert Notes. I had trouble sleeping, lots of strange dreams, thinking of a Lopez passage. He said to stay awake all night to listen to the boulders dream. It seemed as if the boulders were dreaming so loud I could hear them through my sleep and they seeped into my dreams.

the boulders dream loud
soft but deep hums through the night
desert melodies

This morning, Dale and I woke with the sun at 6:00am, although the sun had not yet risen above the canyon walls. We lay in the soft sand close to the shore of the Colorado, listening to the river pass by, staring up at the walls, watching them change from a pale purple to orange as the sun slowly crept in. I want to remember that moment, those sounds, the wall changing colors, forever.

~

Hiked to Corona Arch, and we were, surprisingly, alone. The sun rose still higher above the walls, continuing to brighten the oranges and reds of canyon country. We lay on the exposed rock beneath the arch, still cool from the night before, and stared at the blue sky. I’ve decided that the sky is more blue here than other places; not the kind of robin’s egg blue the sky usually is, but a blue hue of sapphire that glows with the radiance of raw turquoise rock.

~

Arches National Park was not what I anticipated. Indolent Americans in their over-sized RVs driving on the perfectly paved roads taking photographs from their rolled-up windows. Edward Abbey would weep, as I myself almost did. Instead, we left. Dogs aren’t allowed on trails in the U.S. National Parks anyways, and what good is a hike without the company of your best friend?

Instead of battling the overwhelming crowds of Arches, we hiked into Grandstaff Canyon, which offered a clashing of cactus ridden, desolate, dry, red sandstone walls with the lush, green shores of a small desert creek. The canyon led to Morning Glory Bridge, a massive, overhead arch-like formation. Water came from a small crack between two giant rocks. From where though? A spring? Does the creek continue above?

the canyons whisper
the cacti refuse to speak
desert mysteries

We are still camped along the Colorado River. In the morning, I know I’ll have to bid farewell.

Caribou-Targhee National Forest, Idaho

a winding dirt road
finding solitude in space
here, we are alone.

What a stark contrast from one night to the next. Two nights ago, in Utah, the temperature barely dropped below 95 degrees. I tossed and turned, sweating. The ground radiated heat that permeated through my sleep like the boulders’ dreams the night before. Last night, we shivered in our tent and awoke to frost. I wonder if we have left the warmer temperatures behind us until next summer?

Big Sky, Montana

Old river friends of ours welcomed us to their cozy cabin in Big Sky, Montana. We are enjoying luxuries such as a shower and a real bed. I hadn’t thought about it until last night: we haven’t slept in a real bed for more than three months. I guess our sleeping mats on the ground are fine, if neither of us were pining—dreaming—for a mattress. But one night on a mattress is enough to break the spell, allow temptation to creep in.

What would a visit to old river friends be without a trip down a river? Big Sky is home to the Gallatin, so we unpacked Hot Tamale and went on an adventure. The water was low, with exposed rocks and boulders pin-balling our tiny boat around. If you could ever close your eyes and imagine what a trout’s heaven might be like—the Gallatin River is it: shockingly cold, translucent water swirling over and around rocks, forming small, calm eddies every which way.

dry alpine landscape
jagged against the soft sky
a river carves through

Northern Montana

Yesterday we had a late start. At dusk, we finally arrived at some tracts of National Forest with designated camping areas, all of which were full. Where are we and who are all of these people?

Dusk turned to darkness and everywhere continued to be full. I slowed down for a deer crossing the road, but that deer had a very long tail and in fact was no deer at all.

Cougar in the night
stopping to stare then vanish
eyes glowing with fire

A few miles later, we pulled off a forest service road looking for a place to camp but were stopped by a metal gate. The road was closed to “Protect Grizzly Habitat.” Onward we continued for a few more miles, until finding another forest service dirt road where we settled on camping. It was 10:30 pm and the darkness was not comforting. Banzai sensed my uneasiness, shadowing my every footstep, attempting to protect me. Or be protected by me. I had trouble sleeping.

Kootenay National Park of Canada

The entrance to Kootenay began with slick, sheer rock walls, wet with moisture, towering on either side of the road, rushing turquoise rivers, giant spruce, voluptuous green and yellow mosses covering every surface, and Rockies rising higher than any I’d ever seen, blanketed with layers of fog. If the desert holds all of the mysteries of the world, this place holds all of the magic. Mysteries are secrets with answers to be found. Magic has no answers.

We camped at McLeoud Meadows, where thick moss covered the ground, spruce forests immediately surrounded us, and then colossal mountains surrounded those forests. Our tent was almost directly on the Kootenay River, so we went for a hike along the bank.

alpenglow mountains
milky turquoise water flows
spruce scatter the shores

Along the Liard River, Canada

Liard Hot Springs was boiling-lava-hot, but relaxing. Although the springs were not crowded, the campground was. Dale, frustrated by the humming of RVs’ generators, declared we leave. “We’re not like these people” (the RV kind of people). He was right, so we left in search of a dirt road. And now here we are, camping directly on the sandy banks of the large Liard River, clouded with glacial silt, encircled only by mountains and trees. We walked around and set the tent up in nothing but our Chaco sandals.

pure, naked freedom.
leaving RVs in the dust
middle fingers up.

Soon, the mosquitos were out, heading straight for our bare skin, and being clothesless didn’t feel as freeing.

Like always, we went for a hike along the shore of the river. The water was low, and we followed the exposed slanted and smooth grey rocks to a place where many trees were lying like beached whales.

~

campfire cooking
a motorcycle engine–
the sound grows nearer

His name was Cailin, from Vancouver Island. He was finishing a two-month long motorcycle trip, exploring the Yukon Territories and Alaska. Just a-ways down the river he’d set up camp for the night but was soon run out by two curious black bears. Did we mind if he joined us?

Together, we drank wine and sat in the sand along the riverbank by the fire Dale built, watching the late arctic sunset, exchanging travel stories and places to visit. In the morning, we cooked him hot cereal and coffee before hugging and goodbyes. I find it so satisfying to unexpectedly meet such a lovely person in such a lovely place.

Teslin Lake, Canada

Fall has begun—aspens are yellowing and the evening is brisk. At a gas station in Watson Lake, we bought some Kokanee, Canada’s cheap beer of choice. The beer is actually very good, much more flavorful than any cheap American beer. Banzai ran back and forth along the beach, sniffing excitedly, while Dale and I watched the sun hang low over the lake. When I started to read, Banzai came and crawled into my lap.

arctic sun setting
colors shine into trees’ leaves
summer’s soft goodbye

The Canadian Alaskan Border

Tonight, for once, we cheat.

All the campsites we visited in Kluane Park and Preserve were closed due to grizzly activity. It’s berry season, and the bears are being aggressive. We rented a $50 cabin at a vacant bed and breakfast on the border of the Preserve from a French-Canadian couple. The cabin doesn’t appear to have been updated—or possibly slept in—since the 1970s.

wooden paneled walls
carpet deep orange and brown
hot running water

We drink wine, we shower, we watch a TV movie, and we sleep in a bed. This summer, we chose to live without common luxuries. Now, we have forgotten they’re commonplace and are reminded of their luxuriance.

Fairbanks, Alaska

Our last two nights of what you might call freedom. We arrived in Fairbanks to a cabin that’s not ready and an apologetic landlord. I don’t think either of us much minded having two more nights in our tent (Banzai included) before moving into a cabin where we plan on staying put for three years. So, we set our tent up once more, this time in the city of Fairbanks in a campground alongside the Chena River. We can hear cars whizzing by on four-lane roads and smell their exhausts. The campground is littered with broken glass, used condoms, and crushed, rusty beer cans. The campground is also home to several people who live in tents not by choice, but out of necessity. Tonight, there seems to be a problem with a group of these tent inhabitants and the police.

Homelessness is a relative, and loaded, term. Some would say Dale, Banzai, and I have been homeless because we did not have an address, a true home, a place to put our things other than the car. I would argue not—a tent makes a fine home when it is chosen as such. Our tent has brought me the warm feeling of comfort a home brings to many. But tonight, for the first time, as I lie here listening to people argue and cars clunking by, in a place that doesn’t seem to speak to me like many have along this journey, I feel homeless. And although I referenced maps and chose the roads to lead me here, I feel lost.

the journey is home
for eternal travelers
until a journey ends.