To Big Bend (Days 6, 7, 8, 9)

After the existential hiccup of New Orleans, it felt good to be back on the road, riding along Louisiana's southern brim toward the Texas border. The marshes of Louisiana are like nothing I'd seen before, a place where the land just disintegrates into the sleeping sea, an endless void on the horizon.

A strong sustained gust coming off the Gulf forced me to remain leaning left, for hours on end, lest I be blown into the road's shoulder. I recognized, however, that were this wind to give out, my bike would do the same, toppling under the force of my lean before I had the ability to react.

Fortunately, that wind dragged on across the entirety of the state, allowing me to arrive in west Louisiana, unscathed, by nightfall. Surrounded by marshland and mosquitoes, I found myself unable to locate a suitable place to camp, and so despite my preference to stay off the road after dusk, I soldiered on, hoping to ride the interstate to Houston before calling it a night.

Initially, I made some good progress toward this goal, turning northward from the bayous to the bend and rocketing down the highway alongside a procession of truckers extending for miles. I felt energized, enthused, excited to be so close to Texas so early into my trip. I flew by small towns and rest stops and gas stations without a care, propelled forward by the vision of Houston's city lights shimmering in the distance.

Then, sooner than I expected, I came over a hill and saw it, a sign welcoming me to the great state of Texas and kindly requesting that I drive safely, the Texas way. Accompanying that welcome, ten feet into the state, was a splat of rain and a powerful burst of wind that nearly knocked me onto the asphalt, enough of a shock to prompt a short break at an upcoming Waffle House.

As I scarfed down a massive plate of hashbrowns and reassessed my distance to Houston, the thought of another two hours on the road grew increasingly unfavorable, my enthusiasm from just minutes earlier quickly evaporating. Instead, I figured, I could simply find a secluded patch of grass in this very town. Leaving Waffle House, I came across just such a place: a tiny public park bordered by homes, churches, and roads thirty feet in any direction. Though it lacked the privacy I'd hoped for, I understood that, well, drifters can't be choosers, and I quickly pitched and climbed into my tent for a night's rest.

Roughly an hour later, I was awakened by tremendous gusts of wind howling about my tent with worrying ferocity. Too loud to allow for sleep, I sat up and began to read, waiting for the winds to pass. They did not. Rather, they intensified, bringing with them the beginnings of an angry thunderstorm. Pebbles of hail rained down on my tent, lightning flashed in the distance, and thunder cracked and bellowed from above, and with each passing minute, the lightning flashed brighter, the thunder grew louder, the severity of my predicament worsened.

At this point, I was stuck, stranded in my tent, the situation outside too dramatic for a safe sprint to the nearest motel. And so I sat. Listening. Waiting.

A short while later, I shifted in my tent, pushing myself over with one hand and being surprised to find at least two inches of water beneath it. Into the water my hand sunk, like a waterbed, and around the counter of my fingers water seeped in through the membrane, the pressure I was putting on the tent floor too much for its thin fabric. Around me, under me, under my pack, I noticed more water, lots more, forcing its way into my dry asylum. I had to evacuate the tent.

Hastily, I gathered anything laying about, slung my pack over my shoulder, and unzipped the tent door. What I saw outside was unbelievable: the entire park had become a lake, a reservoir, and there I was, right in the middle of it, feeling as though I had just stepped into a Jules Verne novel or an apocalyptic thriller. The sky was a strobe light, the winds no calmer than they were an hour earlier, lightning streaks cracking dangerously overhead.

I had to move, fast. I hopped out of the tent, first resolving to leave it there until morning, then discovering that all its stakes had floated away and that, were I to leave it in its state, it would blow away in minutes without my weight holding it down. So I picked it up, the whole thing, and just began to run with it, out from the lake, toward higher ground, but the winds picked up and I found myself being pulled in another direction, the tent transforming into a sail, and so I was forced to stop, to stop and to take apart this tent, shin-deep in water, rain and wind and lightning doing whatever they could to distract me. With speedy movements, I got to work disassembling, first yanking off the rain fly and then pulling out the pole, detaching it from the tent and holding it up to disconnect it at each joint.

At about this time, I became acutely aware of precisely what I was doing: standing in a body of water, holding a six-foot metal pole to the sky with streaks of lightning dancing above me. Not exactly eager to try my hand at surviving a lightning strike, I determined my work thus far was good enough, grabbed the various parts of tent and cradled them against my chest, then made a run toward the narrow pavilion of a nearby church. Safely out of the flood, I stood, watching and waiting for the storm to pass from that moderately safer vantage point.

The hours ticked by, from midnight to one to two, and still the rain did not let up. My knees shook from cold and exhaustion, my body a prune from hours of standing in wet clothes. Finally, I stepped out into the storm, too tired and too wet to care about a little more moisture, and marched toward my bike. Still trembling, I mounted, started the engine, and rode off, slowly, back onto the highway, crawling along the shoulder against an impossible sheet of rain, spotting neon in the distance and drifting toward it like a moth, pulling into a motel parking-lot-turned-wave-pool, knocking impatiently at the check-in window and being told the rooms were $10 more than advertised "on account of the weather," not caring enough to argue, and then, at long last, collapsing onto a musty comforter in room 126, too relieved to mind the large roach poking his head out from the bathroom to see who had the nerve to disturb his sanctuary at this late hour.

At last, I slept.

I awoke late the next day, changed into whatever article of clothing was driest, and took off once again for Houston, which I'd really just be passing through en route to Austin, but was once again driven to a halt by more stormy weather. Once again, I was soaked, once again, I took shelter in a Waffle House, and once again, I watched patiently as the sky waged war on the earth around me. Hours later, the skies began to clear, and the cautious warnings of my fellow refugees, all driven to that Waffle House as the only shelter for miles, I resumed my drive.

The weather cleared as I drove, and by the outskirts of Houston, the Texas sun had toasted me dry. Eager to get to Austin before dark, which was quickly approaching, I decided to stay on the highway and drive straight through Houston, which is probably just as well, because any city with an eighteen-lane highway running through it is likely not a city I would enjoy.

I made it to Austin about two hours later, though not without one final showdown against that dreaded storm system, which caught me at the city limits and nearly blasted me into oncoming traffic. Cold, wet, I slowed to a stop outside the home of Kevin, a friend of a friend who had so generously agreed to show me around and give me a place to stay during my time in town. Earlier that day, Kevin and I had planned to meet Beth, a mutual friend from DC who had moved to Austin only months earlier, and so once I had dried from saturated to merely damp, we took off for a pub where Beth was gathering with a few friends.

After a great night of conversation and craft beer, Kevin and I returned to his place for some much-needed rest; the next day, we brunched over breakfast tacos and rendezvoused with Beth at Barton Springs, a massive swimming hole and park area in which, it seems, the whole of Austin was in attendance. From there, Kevin and I tagged along with Beth to a friend's crawfish boil, a backyard gathering with as many good-hearted Texans as there were boiled crawfish. Afterward, I rode about Austin managing a few errands, and then to round out such a wonderful day, we all met up one more time for drinks on Rainey Street, a formerly residential block turned into a truly stellar collection of large, open-air bars and lounges.

That night, I said goodbye to Beth, and the next morning to my kind, magnificent host Kevin. Then I set off through Texas.

John Steinbeck, in reflecting on his own travels through the Lone Star state, writes "Once you are in Texas it seems to take forever to get out, and some people never make it." I found my own experiences with this great state to be rather different. Yes, Texas is large, and yes, its scenery largely unchanging, but I found peace in the tedium of the drive, comfort in the infinite horizon of the landscape, its gentle rolling hills of sand and shrub soothing against tired eyes.

Rather than drive the interstate through Texas, and here I'll agree with Steinbeck and quote him in full ...

"These great roads are wonderful for moving goods but not for inspection of a countryside. You are bound to the wheel and your eyes to the car ahead and to the rear-view mirror for the car behind and the side mirror for the car or truck about to pass, and at the same time you must read all the signs for fear you may miss some instructions or orders. No roadside stands selling squash juice, no antique stores, no farm products or factory outlets. When we get these thruways across the whole country, as we will and must, it will be possible to drive from New York to California without seeing a single thing."

... Yes, rather than drive the interstate through Texas, I opted for a southern route, winding through hill country from Austin to the town of Del Rio, which kisses the Rio Grande, and then up above it, just miles from Mexico to the state's western parts, its big bend. During the drive, I was halted by not one or two, but a full six border inspection checkpoints, which at first bemused me because, well, I hadn't crossed over any borders. My first instinct was to say, slyly, "Gentlemen, you do realize that the border is actually way over there, yes?", cocking my head  to the side and smiling while I said it, but I thought better of it, and instead pulled to a stop, flicked up my visor, and casually greeted the armed officer to my left.

"United States citizen?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied, ready to dismount and pull out my passport.

"Go on ahead," he said, apparently happy to take my word for it. And just like that, with one simple syllable, I had proven my legal status in this country and was free to roam about its parts, no questions asked. I shrugged and drove off.

Between the third and fourth checkpoints, I passed a border patrol truck heading south, the bed of its truck boxed in with a series of vented windows. Incidentally, I had seen the same truck model, with the same vented windows, just several miles earlier, stamped with the words "Texas Game Warden" on its sides. It only took a few moments for me to realize that Texas was using the very same make of vehicles to trap and transport humans as it was animals, and this, I'm afraid, is the one sore remark I have to make of my drive through Texas.

Otherwise, however, I found the state's eighty-mile stretches of lifeless nothingness mystifying, as though this land had never before been explored. When these expanses were punctuated, it was by towns so small they could hardly be called towns, simply gas stations and convenience stores emerging from the intersection of any two roads that met, of which there were few. At one such junction, a gas station so old it measured the price of gas on dials, I stopped to track my whereabouts on my map, and staring intently at its etchings, I noticed something at the corner of my eye, something moving, something right behind the pump. Scaly legs, a deep green, nearly seven feet long, from what I captured in that first instant.

Startled, I stumbled back, nearly tripping over my bike. It wasn't until I took a few steps back that I realized that this creature wasn't a crocodile, as I had thought, or a dinosaur, as I had, to be honest, originally thought, but instead a peacock, green covering feathers of cerulean and lavender and crimson, prancing about without a care to my presence.

"Oh, don't worry," the friendly station owner called from a nearby window, "that's just Big Boy, he don't bite."

Yes, I liked Texas quite a bit.

When I did eventually make it to Texas's big bend, a dip toward Mexico at its westernmost point, I veered south for a pleasant drive to the bend's Big Bend National Park. Here, Texas's modest hills began to transform, grow, mutate, losing their rounded slopes and become sharper, harder, more imposing. Canyon country.

It was breathtaking. From the dry earth, towers of sandstone shot into the sky, rippled red walls snaking into the distance. The setting sun to my left cast a sensual glow on the canyons' rims, on the buttes and bluffs rising to my right. They all looked like they were on fire, or as though they were glowing from a natural luminescence in the stone. Never in my life had I seen such beauty, such natural splendor. With each bend in the road, the scenery performed more dramatically, demanded more attention, and I could not help but stare, transfixed, at the structures before me. I smiled, tears welling up in my eyes, so happy to be there, so happy to have the privilege to be among such greatness. This, I knew, is what I had really been driving toward all week, but even more, at the time, I felt as though it was what I'd been driving toward my whole life. I felt home.

This euphoric joyride continued for some time, another twenty, thirty miles, each unbelievably capable, once I thought the landscape could be no more powerful, of topping the last. Finally I arrived at the end of the road, a sprawling campsite just a few hundred yards from the Rio Grande. I pitched my tent among the RVs and trailers and other campers and, after a long day's trek, settled in for sleep with visions of fiery canyons dancing around in my head.

To New Orleans (Days 3, 4, 5)

After the poor weather of the first few days on the road, I was glateful to be greeted by clear skies and warm sun on the third episode of my cross-country adventure. Just an hour after leaving Margaret and Blake behind in Asheville, I was climbing into the Great Smoky Mountains, towards the peaks, towards Tennessee, towards the sun. The Smokies were delightful, and the narrow curving road that brought me over the foothills and through their towering passes equally so. More diverse than the Shenandoah, this range included heavily wooded valleys of emerald forest, small meadows teeming with aviary wildlife, and a grey haze, a smoke from where the Great Smokies get their name, that gives the appearance of a forest ablaze.

Midway through the mountains, I crossed from North Carolina to Tennessee and stopped at an overlook for a quick stretch and a glance at the breathtaking view thousands of feet below. Behind me, a troupe of bikers, straddling Harleys and choppers of varying size and grandeur, pulled into the pass. Engines roaring, they parked in quick, seemingly choreographed succession, until a biker about halfway in to the pack of thirty hit a curb and flipped up onto it, landing amongst a pile of dust and fiberglass and alloy with a metallic crash. Riders at his rear skirted around him, brakes screeching, to avoid a catastrophic pileup and, when all came to a halt, friends and strangers rushed to his side with worry.

He lay on the ground, barely moving, for an eternity, then stirred slowly, propping himself on his elbows, gripping and massaging his left leg, which he'd come down on in the spill. He was okay, fortunately, although in this case okay was a relative term. His shin was injured, maybe broken, and less importantly, his bike was a wreck, but in navigating such a winding set of mountains, his small error in judgment could have resulted in far more fatal consequences. Confident he was in good hands amongst his several dozen fellow riders and the throng of onlookers, I retreated from the circle of concern, carefully boarded my own bike, and cautiously, very cautiously, descended the Tennessee side of the range with a renewed sense of just how fragile the human body is while on a two-wheeled vehicle capable of such great speed and power.

The Tennessee side of the Great Smokies is even more majestic than the North Carolina parts. Really, all of Tennessee is a pleasure to drive through, the next hour or two to Knoxville passing by in a breeze. I arrived to Knoxville in the early afternoon, and found myself impressed by just how lovely, green, and cultured of a town it was. Union Square, its main plaza, was alive with activity, on a Monday no less, with street performers singing, art galleries bustling, and locals catching up over beer and coffee at the half-dozen patio pubs lining the square.

Having located a well-reviewed eatery offering what turned out to be a superb tofu sandwich, I sat by the front window and watched the people go by as I ate. From my left came a band of protesters, dreadlocks billowing in the wind, with signs favoring "TRANSPORTATION" but without enough context clues, for an outsider like me, to understand what that meant. From my right came a pair of dogs, each collared and leashed but leashes dragging on the ground as the dogs' guardian stood nearby, with the smaller of the two biting the leash of the larger one, actually trying to pull its heavier companion along in the most comical of ways. And so this continued throughout my lunch, entertaining little spectacles of originality and humor that one would not, if one had been influenced by the pervasive stereotype, expect to find in a state like Tennessee.

Before leaving town, I asked a passing police officer what the one thing was, if a traveler were only passing through town, that they should absolutely see before leaving Knoxville, a prompt I've repeated in nearly every town I've been to since. The officer, in almost an instant, responded confidently with a recommendation to the East Tennessee Historical Society & Museum, which isn't something I'd have stopped in on my own, but who was I, I thought, to question the judgment of this Knoxville native, and so I went, $5 admission ticket and all, into the museum, and truthfully, I was duly impressed by the quality and value of this small treasure.

In my short time there, I learned of the bitter struggle between East Tennesseans and their westernmore statesmen, the former opposing secession and the latter supporting it, and the resulting bloodshed and distrust bred by a civil war within a Civil War. I learned of Tennesseans' acute awareness of the Appalachian stereotype, of their portrayal as uneducated mountainfolk for the better part of a century, of their comfort with turning that undeserved stereotype into a tourism industry and souvenir powerhouse. I learned of a state in which, I realized, I knew nearly nothing about, and I left Knoxville feeling better for it.

My next stop was Nashville, an uneventful three-hour ride west, which brought me to the home of Ben, a friend and colleague, and his wonderful wife Kate. Over dinner, after catching up on life, I barraged Ben, a public policy nerd like myself, and Kate, a teacher with great insights into Tennessee's education challenges, with questions about Nashville's culture and history and politics, questions which the two of them so generously and thoughtfully answered. Afterwards, feeling as though had a good idea of what Nashville was all about, we drove about the city for a tour of some of Nashville's more famous sites, then headed to a filling station, a unique establishment in which one brings a jug into what is essentially a to-go bar with dozens of local brews on tap, and we brought ample quantities of microbrew back to Ben and Kate's for some more friendly conversation before drifting off to sleep.

The next morning, I ran a few errands about town and before departing the city, I visited Nashville's Parthenon, a full-size replica of the Athenian monument with a towering statue of Athena inside, which, as it turns out, is the largest indoor statue anywhere in the world. Then, having sufficiently quenched my thirst for a novel tourist destination, I steered south, ambling onto the Natchez Trace Parkway somewhere outside of town.

The Natchez Trace Parkway is something of an environmental wonder. Stretching for nearly five hundred miles from Nashville to the small town of Natchez in southwest Mississippi, the Parkway follows an old Native American hunting route, and has been preserved by the National Park Service as one of the country's most pristine and uninterrupted stretches of asphalt. Were one to pack enough gas and food for the full length of the Trace, one could drive an entire day without ever seeing a gas station, a fast food stop, a billboard, or really, any other sign of development beyond a few scattered rest stops, picnic areas, and campgrounds alongside the road. The Trace, to be fair, falls short of the exhilarating splendor of better known scenic drives, for it lacks the imposing mountains or ever-expansive overlooks of more adrenaline-inducing terrain. If anything, one could say the Trace is boring, for its five hundred miles, spare a few punctuating meadows, all look the same: gentle rolling hills, pine forests, black meandering road.

But if the Trace is boring, it is the very best kind of boring. Its scenery is meditative, subtle enough that it allows the driver to engage in autopilot, to let the land's natural curves lead the way, without the screaming distractions, or the high speeds, of the interstate. For the speed limit of the Trace is also fifty miles per hour, certainly not the most expeditious way to jump state lines, but undoubtedly one of the most relaxing.

By dusk, I'd made it three hundred miles south of Nashville, and satisfied with my progress for the day, I stopped at the next campsite along the Trace. Here, I mingled with a few fellow travelers, set up camp and started a small fire of dampened, smoky wood, and slept early and soundly. By 6AM, I was back on the road, in Jackson by late morning. I then switched to Highway 61, a historic route along the Mississippi River memorialized in song by the likes of Bob Dylan. The hype, though, proved greater than the reality, and I found myself quickly yearning for the Natchez Trace over the droll, straight roads of 61. And so the next time the paths intersected, I jumped courses once again, finishing the Trace in the town of Natchez, getting my first true glimpse of the Mississippi River, and then, after a short break, setting a southeast route toward New Orleans.

I arrived outside of New Orleans at the height of rush hour, an unpleasant place to be on a scooter amongst a stampede of two-ton cars. Slowly, I worked my way into the city, quickly finding a stylish hostel, colored with the decor of all of India, a few miles outside the French Quarter. I took a moment here to relax, drop my pack, and make a few phone calls, then I hopped a streetcar into the Quarter to see what all the fuss was about.

Note: Things get a little weird here (this is, after all, New Orleans). I gave thought to keeping this a journal-only entry, but in the interest of making this blog the most honest account of a journey of this sort, the good and the bad, transparency won out, even if the below section is very poorly articulated. So, of course, feel free to skip the remainder of this entry if you're uncomfortable with this sort of thing, which upon first glance is about strip clubs but is, really, perhaps controversially, about the counterintuitive gender relations that occur inside such establishments. 

The fuss was, indeed, about something. The French Quarter, early on a Wednesday night, was a sea of bodies, some drunken and clothed, others naked and painted in metallic silver and moving in robotic rhythms in exchange for monetary donations. Live music beckoned from every open door, and aggressive men stood outside each demanding that you enter now because his venue charges no cover and is clearly the most happening place on the strip. All around, liquor flowed, open containers making their way from venue to venue with hosts in tow. Laughter, screams, catcalls. Scantily clad women, of which there were many, standing provocatively outside of strip clubs, of which there were many.

Overwhelmed by the sheer sensory input of it all, I ducked into a corner bar with a full crowd and a decent band and ordered a beer. Moments later, I was approached by a trolling brunette bartender in a black tanktop with a large glow-in-the-dark sticker reading "$3" stamped atop it. She asked if I wanted a shot, from a test tube, from a rack of test tubes she was carrying, to which I politely smiled and declined. Grimacing with a look of hurt of questionable sincerity, she upped her offer, proposing that maybe instead, I buy us both a shot. This proposal was no more enticing, but recognizing that it would be the speediest of ways to conclude this transaction, I obliged, shelling over a fistful of dollars. She squealed with delight, placed the bottom end of the test tube in her mouth, and then signaled that the way I was supposed to consume this small gulp of alcohol was through some Lady and the Tramp-style maneuver that it's better I don't fully explain. Afterwards, she signaled she was ready for her shot, which I was to administer through this same process.

To clarify, it's not that this traveling bartender wasn't a lovely, attractive young woman. She was. Friendly too. My cynicism throughout this transaction, rather, was that it was just that: transactional. It lacked the originality and sincerity of any real engagement; her lines felt too practiced, too rehearsed, as though they had been used on scores of this Wednesday night crowd for all the Wednesday nights of history. The follow-up conversation, which consisted of where I was from, what I was doing in New Orleans, and whether I thought I maybe wanted another shot in a few minutes was no less contrived, and fearing that I'd shown weakness by giving in so easily and that my hopes of a quiet night of watching not-so-quiet music were now dashed, I excused myself, pushing through the crowd back into the damp air of Bourbon Street.

The night, as I'm sure is true of many men's nights on Bourbon Street, got no gentler from here. Roaming the blocks looking for something of a more innocent nature, which I learned only after leaving New Orleans was to be found on the nearby Frenchmen Street, I felt overwhelmed by the clamor and self-indulgence around me. Resigning myself to the realization that Bourbon Street by night, perhaps, was not my scene, I opted instead to turn this expedition into an anthropological study, an immersion, however uncomfortable, into American culture, which was, I remembered, one of the key aims of this whole silly journey. And that it was brought me to the strip club.

Incidentally, I'd never been to a strip club before. I never found them to be particularly appealing places, nor did I expect any establishment on Bourbon Street would be an exception, but, I told myself, strip clubs are undeniably a piece of the American fabric, and if I were to truly experience America, if I were to really make an effort to embed myself in the lives of those whom I do not know or understand, then somewhere along the way, a visit to such a club was in order.

My task, then, was to determine precisely where to go, at which of the many gentlemen's venues along this strip to enter. Immediately, I was repelled by the larger establishments, the Hustler Clubs and the neon megaplazas that promised "World Famous Girls," whatever that might mean. No, if I was to do this, I would do it local, and so I wandered into a more mellow mom-and-pop venue with handprinted signs and a friendly bespectacled girl out front who smiled gingerly, sincerely, as I made my way in, and asked where I'd like to sit, and I said toward the back was fine, and that was that.

Or so I thought. Within moments, I was greeted by a young woman of limited clothedness who sat next to me and asked where I was from and what I was up to and if I knew that there was an upstairs where things get even more fun, and in case I didn't know what that meant, she confirmed her euphemism with a wandering, uninvited hand. I shifted, thanked her for the offer and told her I'd think about it, but not right now, and after a few minutes, she wandered over to a poor old chap at a nearby table for a similar routine.

Having labeled myself as whatever one gets labeled when they don't want to go upstairs, I was left alone for the next fifteen minutes, during which I studied, with genuine intellectual curiosity, the interactions between those beautiful, confident women and those awkward, self-conscious, timid men, and found myself growing increasingly troubled. It's difficult to say what I found so troubling, even now, but I'll do my best to explain.

Upon entering the club, I'd expected to feel sorry for the women who worked there, to feel sorry for their need to disrobe for cash, to be mistreated and objectified by disrespectful, misogynistic men. And though I seek to make no generalizations about strip clubs in general, as I'm sure the Hustler Club across the street catered much more to that clientele, that was not what I saw where I was. What I saw, instead, was the opposite. I didn't feel sorry for the women; they looked comfortable, happy, in their element. They didn't appear to be stripping out of dire necessity, but rather because it was good, easy money. They seemed to enjoy the attention, enjoy the flattery enjoy, dare I say, the thrill of the hunt. They were, in other words, the predator.

What I saw in those men, on the other hand, was prey. Objectification. I saw the sadness of a hundred men in each one of them, the despair of a thousand rejections, the scars of a humiliating breakup or a difficult adolescence. Men don't come to strip clubs to see naked women, I realized, they come to these places because they are the only places where they can be respected, admired, complimented. They're not paying for flesh. They're paying for companionship.

And whether its a gentlemen's club where all is bared or a live music bar where a woman trades conversation for weak shots from a test tube, the question I found following me out of New Orleans is whether it's acceptable, responsible, appropriate for women to sell feigned attraction. I wondered if these men were in denial about this deception, whether they viewed the kind words and provocative hints as honest she-must-really-like-me truisms, or if they're also in on the act, game for the charade, an actor in the performance. And if the former be the case, which, if men are really looking for companionship, would be my hypothesis, then I struggled, deeply, with the morality of such grave deception. Is it okay, I wondered, if the customer is duped but leaves satisfied, never any the wiser? To give a more concrete parallel, is it justifiable for a shady jeweler to sell a fake diamond if the buyer never finds out it isn't real? And why, then, do we view the men who visit strip clubs as oppressors, when they may very well be the victims?

I left the club with these thoughts swirling in my head, and left New Orleans the next morning feeling lonely and despondent for the first time on my journey. Though I had originally intended to stay another day in the Big Easy, being among so many people, but not really being among them at all, seeing a side of humanity I simply didn't like or couldn't understand, feeling smothered by self-indulgence, it left me feeling homesick, confused, desperate for some familiar, wholesome interaction, desperate for a reprieve from the drunkenness and debauchery around me. The notions of being alone and being lonely began to diverge in my head; though I was perfectly comfortable being alone, climbing a remote mountain or rolling down an empty road with only my thoughts for company, to be in a city such as this, in which I was surrounded by thousands but lacked the courage to attempt to connect with any of them, or more likely the confidence that any such connection could be forged, was pushing me into a very negative, lonely place.

What I needed, I knew, was an absence of bodies, a lowered ratio of people to people I couldn't relate to. I needed to go, to be alone, to drive myself into the distance, into the wild, away from the city, away from it all. And so I went, the next morning, to the west, to something different. To the bayou.

Update: I realize in my haste that this post reads as though the strip club was my primary impetus for leaving New Orleans so quickly. It wasn't. I should also note that despite my seemingly prudish existential meltdown on Bourbon Street, I really did enjoy many aspects of the city: its architecture, its slow pace, its friendly people. The above incident, in retrospect, had more to do with being alone in a city for the first time on this trip and should not be a reflection of the particular city, but rather my internal state of mind. Also, this rut, remember, was many days ago, and I'm feeling much better about this whole humanity thing now.

To Asheville (Days 1, 2)

Before leaving on my trip, I promised blog posts and details and tales from the road, and yesterday, I promised more details on what I've been up to very soon. Having a bit of technical difficulties early on in the journey, I've only had the opportunity to start journaling just a few days ago, but here you are: a recollection of my first two days on the road. I'll like be posting stories like this over the next few weeks and months, but as a warning, they'll largely be excerpted from my journal entries, which means long, tedious, and lacking in visual detail. And because I've had little time to write, there will generally be a lag (as of right now, 13 days). So I'm not like, still in Ashville, NC (but rather Boulder, CO); this is merely the first time I've had an opportunity to reflect on Asheville, NC. Anyway, disclaimers and warnings out of the way, enjoy.

The trip began without any great moment of liberation, without the stark sense of breaking through some great barrier into some higher sense of freedom. As I crossed from the District to Virginia and snaked along the Potomac River toward the great Shenandoah, I felt not like I had just embarked on an epic adventure, but that I had, instead, simply fancied a morning drive to the countryside. Even as I reached Skyline Drive, a narrow, winding road that guides the driver from the valley of the Shenandoah to its mountainous peaks, my path thus far still felt more scenic day drive than cross-country summer road trip.

That is not to say that the Shenandoah was not a remarkable sight on that cool spring day. Indeed, it had been months since I'd last gazed at a proper mountain, and pulling to my first overlook, elevation 3,200 feet, I was taken aback by the beauty of the gentle peaks in the distance and the serene valley below me, dotted by quaint little towns from another time. Having left home almost three hours earlier, I had grown hungry, and amply sore, and decided to savor this vista for a few extra minutes with a small picnic of almonds and snack bars.

And then I was back on my feet, back on my seat, and back on the road, meandering southward toward ever-climbing mountains, flanked by bearded bikers who navigated the road's twists and turns with such speed and grace that I began to doubt my own abilities, to worry about my clumsy maneuvering, to feel shame each time I gripped the handbrake as I angled in on a tight curve, to wonder if I was indeed ready for a drive of this magnitude.

To steer a motorbike is to become one with a motorbike, to abandon deliberate thought and cede control to one's cerebellum, to not think about which way to turn or how much to lean or when to stop leaning but to simply let one's natural sense of balance protect him or her from catastrophe. Thus, the worst thing one could do would be to doubt, to try, to think, and here I was, just hours into my journey, with years of two-wheeled transit under my belt, doubting my senses, trying to drive, thinking about when and where and how to steer what is, essentially, a self-steering vehicle.

Driving difficulties aside, which gradually subsided over the initial few days, that first Saturday afternoon brought me through the Shenandoah and onto the Blue Ridge Parkway, a magnificent five-hundred-mile stretch of road that would take me through Appalachia, over the tallest peaks in the East, and, I hoped, to my first true stop in Asheville, North Carolina. But that was tomorrow's destination. For that first night, I merely aimed to get as far south as possible, and as far south as possible, it turned out, was somewhere in southwestern Virginia about three hundred miles outside of Asheville. And so, as dusk approached, I veered off the ridge toward what a sign told me would be a campsite, and I was sufficiently dismayed to find, upon arriving at said campsite, that the grounds were closed for the season.

With darkness quickly swallowing the surrounding forest, I reluctantly decided to forego the luxuries of level ground and firepits, so appealing just beyond the fence, and instead trek into a nearby swath of trees for my first foray into backcountry camping of the journey. Backcountry camping without a permit, I knew, was illegal on National Park lands, and so, eager to avoid a scolding or worse from a particularly vigilant park ranger on my very first night, I retreated far into the forest, at least a half mile from the nearest road. Here, in the dark of night, I set down my bag and made quick work of pitching my tent, a lovely little cave for one that is erected with just a single tentpole and could be fully set up, by a hasty camper, in under a minute.

Satisfied with my work, and recognizing that a fire was out of the question in my state of hiding, not to mention the densely packed and very dry vegetation around me, I set about stringing a rope up in a tree, one hundred feet from my humble campsite, from which I'd dangle my small sack of food, non-odorous as it was, so as to keep bears from poking around my tent in the middle of the night. Actually stringing said rope on a tall enough tree was a surprisingly challenging task, which involved a fair amount of swearing and the tying of one end of rope to a broken branch and the hurling of that branch up into the air, aimlessly, with the hopes of it catching something, anything, up in a tree.

After a dozen failed attempts came one successful one, and, buoyed by my sense of newfound victory and the hubris of rugged masculinity, I retreated to my tent for a celebratory dinner, meager as it may have been, of more almonds, an apple, and a particularly delicious cupcake that had been given to me by a friend as a parting gift, which had come to be reduced to mush in my pack, but was no less scrumptious in its reduced state. I also enjoyed a hearty shot of bourbon in the hopes of dulling the cold, which, I should mention, there was much of. That first day had been crisp but enjoyable under that early May sun, but without those warming rays, the forest had turned into a frigid, inhospitable place, and even in my multiple layers of clothing and my sleeping bag, in which I had nestled myself like a caterpillar in its cocoon, my teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Sleep came to me, slowly, hesitantly, and never for very long, until, in the early hours of the morning, I gave up on the pursuit altogether, flashed on my headlamp, packed away my tent, acquired the rope  which I had been too cold to actually tie any food to the night before, and, with dawn still slumbering soundly, I stumbled from the forest into the warmth of a small, dimly lit restroom. Here, I examined myself in the mirror: bloodshot eyes, smears of dirt, already looking a bit like a vagabond, and then proceeded to brush my teeth and, leaning against a sink, for I had nowhere else to go, ate a breakfast of a few clementines.

I passed the time, another hour, maybe two, reading from a National Park guidebook I had brought along, with occasional peeks out from the restroom door to determine if the sun had yet risen. When, finally, the black of night began to fade to a deep blue, I bid farewell to my temporary shelter and headed out toward my scooter, eager to get back on the road, back on the southward trail toward warmer latitudes. I rode alone, for nearly a hundred miles, without seeing another soul, and by 8AM, when the golden sun had finally pulled itself fully over the Appalachian peaks, my extremities were frozen in the worst of ways. With little feeling in the fingers of my left hand, I could hardly brake when needed, which was often on these winding, sloping hills. Eager for a touch of warmth, I pulled up to a small restaurant, where I was greeted with a smile and a "You poor thing, you must be freezing!" from the matronly hostess at the entrance.

I greedily ordered everything on the menu that I could eat, which, by consequence of my vegan diet, was little more than a side of toast and preserves, along with what must have been the most soothing cup of Earl Grey tea that I had ever tasted. In the course of my meal, I struck up a conversation with a pleasant elderly couple at the table next to me, who, eyeing my helmet and gloves, were curious where I was coming from. When I told them I had ridden down from DC, they seemed surprised, impressed, and I beamed proudly at having made it far enough from home to warrant such a reaction.

Before leaving, the kind man and woman wished me safe travels, and the latter, as an afterthought, alerted me that she heard bad weather was approaching later in the day. I thanked her, arrogantly explained that I was heading south and thus expected to evade any systems moving in toward this area, and prepared to leave myself, hoping the mountains had warmed a little with the rising sun.

They hadn't. Within minutes of getting back on the Ridge, I was just as cold as when I had first stopped at the restaurant, fingers, knees, and toes all begging for another reprieve from the biting wind. But I had places to go, miles to cover, and daylight on my side, so I persevered, climbing ever higher into Appalachia. The views grew increasingly spectacular, the peaks increasingly taller, but it proved too cold, too windy, for a full stop of admiration. Rather, when coming upon a scenic overlook, I'd pull in, slow to ten, maybe fifteen miles per hour, and rotate my neck, wheels still turning, to take in the view. Then off I'd go, feet never touching the ground, back onto the Ridge, accelerating up and away.

Around noon, the blue sky turned white, then grey, and the fog closed in around me. Spring comes to the mountains not all at once, but at a rate of one hundred feet per day, meaning that the trees around me, at 4,500 feet, had none of the lush promise of life I'd seen in their blooming relatives down below. These lifeless giants, arms curled and fingers gnarled grabbing wildly over my head, coupled with the void that the fog had created around me, left the road feeling not just otherworldly, but dangerous. Ten feet beyond my helmet, I could see nothing: not a road sign, not a turn, not another vehicle, just white. Consuming, infinite, blinding white.

Disappointed, frustrated, I surrendered to taking a lower, less scenic route the rest of the way to Asheville. At the next turn off the Ridge, I exited, careening down the side of the mountain to the nearest small town. Here, I expected to be greeted by clearer, if not wholly bluer skies, and was bewildered, angered, to find that the situation in these parts were worse than on the mountain! Sure enough, within moments of setting my alternate course toward my destination, the clouds gave out, spilling their entrails in torrents to the earth below.

Driving the remaining 130 miles to Asheville, through the rain and wind and cold, was likely the most physically and mentally demanding challenge I'd ever faced. Gusts of wind, bouts of hail, splashes from cars speeding by, and my own chilled fatigue all conspired to knock me from my scooter, to lay me out along the highway as a warning to any other bikers naive enough to confront such a storm head-on. For hours, I gripped the handlebars, gripped them so tight I lost feeling in both arms. I braked around each corner, each turn, slowed to a crawl at points and waved impatient drivers on past me. I counted down the miles, counted down the tenths of each mile, rejoicing at the fact that Asheville was no longer, say, 58.7 miles away, but now just 58.4 miles, 58.3, 57.9.

Along the way, I stopped at any gas station I passed, where I would refuel my body and my scooter with hot tea and petroleum, respectively, and pace about the small convenience store, shaking, dripping, eliciting angry looks of suspicion from the store's steward. Each time, I considered giving up, considered just burrowing into a little hole in the corner of the little shop and waiting for the storm to pass, but the truth was that I was as uncomfortable and cold and wet inside as I was on the open road. In Asheville, I knew, there was a good friend and a hot shower and a warm house. In Asheville, I knew, I could rest. And so I kept moving.

Finally, after what seemed like days, weeks, a green road sign welcomed me to Asheville, North Carolina, and almost on cue, the skies cleared, the rain stopped, the sun peeked out from behind the retreating clouds. I scooted about the streets and boulevards of the small city and soon arrived at Margaret's, a friend from back in the District who had moved south a few months earlier. Parking the bike, clambering off my seat, walking to and knocking on Margaret's door, I was greeted by a kind, friendly, familiar smile, and for the first time in hours, I felt myself relax, my muscles unclench, my lungs fully exhale. Margaret had a few friends over, whom I did my best to greet without shivering midway through, and sensing my near-hypothermic state, she disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing only moments later, like an angel, with a steaming cup of herbal tea.

I appreciatively accepted the mug and gripped it tightly, spreading my fingers fully around its contours to best capture its radiant heat. Its contents were far too hot to drink, so Instead I raised the cup to my lips and simply inhaled, savoring the aroma and warmth of the steam against my nose, my cheeks, my face. Meanwhile, Margaret, Blake, and Cody conversed jovially, laughed and joked in their t-shirts and shorts, and hard as I tried, I found my mind foggy, drifting in and out of lucidity, unable to focus on the words I was hearing or, really, to command my body to stop trembling. I excused myself to take a shower, delicately stripping away, or rather peeling off, the layers of wet clothing that had adhered like a wetsuit to my skin.

That shower was a magical, euphoric experience, six-and-a-half minutes of sheer glory before the hot water ran out and I resumed my shaking, shaking that continued even after I'd dried off, even after I'd dressed in new, drier clothes, even after I'd returned to the kitchen and gulped a full cup of tea, shaking that didn't wear off, not fully, until nearly an hour later. But when it finally did, when I finally felt some normalcy return to my disturbed homeostasis, Margaret and Blake and I, Cody having left, headed downtown for a lovely dinner of vegan pizza and jalapeño beers and delightful conversation of our fondest respective adventures in the great outdoors.

I left early the next morning, rejuvenated both physically and mentally, heartened by Blake's climbing tales of the West and by getting the opportunity to spend some time with Margaret. Bidding them goodbye, I headed westward, out toward the Great Smoky Mountains, out toward Knoxville and Nashvile, out toward many more days of trying, grueling, exhausting driving, but at the same time toward many more days of rewarding, liberating, enlightening adventure.

Alive and well (and in Denver!)

It has been nearly two weeks since I set out on my journey to see North America up close and personal, by scooter and tent and foot, and while I've been doing the best I can to keep my whereabouts updated by GPS and Twitter, I recognize I've been neglecting the blog this past fortnight.

So, here it is, a brief check-in to say that I'm alive and well (very well, actually), having one hell of a time seeing some pretty amazing things. Here's a runthrough of my stops to date:

• Shenandoah National Park, VA
• Asheville, NC
• Great Smoky Mountains National Park, TN
• Knoxville, TN
• Nashville, TN
• Natchez Trace, MS
• New Orleans, LA
• Austin, TX
• Big Bend National Park, TX
• Marfa, TX
• Carlsbad Caverns National Park, NM
• El Paso, TX
• Ciudad Juarez, Mexico
• White Sands National Monument, NM
• Albuquerque, NM
• Santa Fe, NM
• Taos, NM
• Great Sand Dunes National Park, CO
• Denver, CO

My data connection has been spotty while on the road, and my free time (whatever that means) in short supply, but more details (many more) to come soon (very soon), I promise.

Oh, about that tiny house: Build update

"Once I was a carpenter, man my hands were calloused,
I could swing a metal mallet sure and straight.
But I took to the highway, a poet young and hungry,
And I left the timbers rotting where they lay."
— The Avett Brothers, "The Once and Future Carpenter"

In preparation for a summer on the road—a summer away from the Matchbox—I spent the last few pre-departure weeks, with the invaluable help of Tony, tying up loose ends around the tiny house. And while Tony will keep trucking along in my absence, building furniture and a bathroom and a utilities infrastructure, this will likely be my last Matchbox post for quite some time. So here goes: a photo tour of recent developments in and around the tiny house.

Porch and gutter system

Since my last post, the porch has gotten some improvements: real decking, trim, and rocking chairs. The facade is now also sporting a new cedar gutter and two shiny new rain chains—minimalist, Japanese-inspired inside-out downspouts that guide rainwater, through the magic of gravity and, like, molecular bonds, from the gutter to a set of small herb planters at the base of the porch, and further down beneath the trailer where the water is then pumped to a storage tank at the back of the house to be used for sink and shower water.

Siding complete!

I'm happy to report that all four sides of the house are now fully clad with beautiful charred cedar. So long, Tyvek: you shant be missed.

Inside decor

Not much has changed inside, but the walls are looking a bit more domestic with photographs and some wonderful jar racks Tony built. The kitchen is also rocking a makeshift plywood countertop until I can track down some beech butcher block, and the sink is now, like, quasi-operational, with a super-smooth foot-operated pedal inspired by Brian's Minim house.

And so ...

And so, pictures below, I think (this is a mobile post, so apologies if formatting is a little off). And so, now the blog will be completing its turn toward posts from the road, which may or may not be your thing, but in the event it's not your thing, I'll certainly be blogging up a storm upon my return to Boneyard Studios later this summer, at which point the Matchbox will likely be fully or nearly complete and at which point there will, as such, be loads to write about.

:)

Away we go

"I knew that ten or twelve thousand miles driving ... alone and unattended, over every kind of road, would be hard work, but to me it represented the antidote for the poison of the professional sick man. And in my own life I am not willing to trade quality for quantity. If this projected journey should prove too much then it was time to go anyway. I see too many men delay their exits with a sickly, slow reluctance to leave the stage. It’s bad theater as well as bad living." — Steinbeck, Travels

Friends,

As I board my bike, start my engine, and drive down 395, across the 14th Street Bridge, and away from the District of Columbia—my home, my community, my family for these past four years—I want to take a moment to thank you.

This blog has been, more often than not, about me: about my tiny house, about my scooter trip, about my upcoming Camino, about the life and times and adventures of Jay Austin. But the truth is,  really, it's about you.

I am the sum of the people I've met, the product of the friends and acquaintances and loved ones with whom I've shared experiences and conversations and life. Without the continued, impassioned, limitless support and advice and help and love and care and encouragement of each of you during my time, well, on this Earth, I'm certain that I wouldn't now have the tremendous privilege and honor and luxury of embarking on this journey, nor the courage and fortitude to follow through with it. Truly, sincerely, these adventures have been made possible by you caring—coming out to frame up a house in the sweltering August sun, lending some old road maps from your own cross-country travels of yesteryear, listening to my crazy schemes and philosophies with an honest ear and not a judgmental stare, just being a friend, an inspiration, a reminder that there's good and beauty and compassion in humanity.

This journey will undoubtedly be a lonely one, littered with stretches of solitude and seclusion, anxiety and apprehension, but that loneliness and that fear will be a little less so with the memories of good friends and good times tucked away with my cargo. I'm going to miss you dearly.

Thank you for everything.

With love always,
Jay

Tracking the journey (by satellite!)

As I scramble to get things ready for Saturday morning's departure, I'll keep this one short: I just added a new gadget to the blog's sidebar (pan left, unless you're reading this through a feed aggregator, in which case click here) that will (or should) update with my location at some unknown but fairly frequent interval throughout the entirety of the trip, courtesy of Google and satellite magic.

See below for a larger version. This thing should start crawling southward in t-minus 48 hours.



---

"For weeks I had studied maps, large-scale and small, but maps are not reality at all—they can be tyrants. I know people who are so immersed in road maps that they never see the countryside they pass through, and others who, having traced a route, are held to it as though held by flanged wheels to rails." — Steinbeck, Travels

10,000 miles, 10,000 pages: Scooter Diaries reading list

As I begin actual packing for my trip, which commences in a dizzyingly short number of days (ten)—including the downloading/uploading of some excellent playlists to listen to while on the road (thanks, friends; please keep 'em comin')—I've also begun to electronically pack away a small library of books to read during my many hours of relaxation by the campfire or café.

Below is a nearly complete list of what I'll be reading on my journey: some specifically chosen for this particular adventure (On the Road, for example), others works I've been meaning to get to for ages but regrettably have not found the time.

I offer this list to fellow travelers seeking a good read (to be fair, I haven't actually read any most of these just yet, so they could all be atrocious selections) while on the road—and as always, to solicit any recommendations that are an absolute must-read for the active transient.

Travel
On the Road, Jack Kerouac
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values, Robert Pirsig
Blue Highways: A Journey Into America, William Least Heat Moon
Wanderlust: A History of Walking, Rebecca Solnit
Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer
The Wild Trees, Richard Preston
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, Hunter Thompson

Philosophy and such
Small is Beautiful: Economics As If People Mattered, EF Schumacher
Thus Spake Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche
The Happiness of Pursuit: What Neuroscience Can Teach Us About the Good Life, Shimon Edelman
The Man Who Quit Money, Mark Sundeen
In Search of Time: The History, Physics, and Philosophy of Time, Dan Falk
The Singing Neanderthals: The Origins of Music, Language, Mind, and Body, Steven Mithen

Novels, letters, and poetry
The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt, Albert Camus
The Plague, Albert Camus
The First Man, Albert Camus
The Stranger, Albert Camus
A Happy Death, Albert Camus
Democracy in America, Alexis de Tocqueville
East of Eden, John Steinbeck
The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck
The Death of Ivan Ilyich, Lev Tolstoy
Don Quixote, Miguel de Cervantes
Ulysses, James Joyce
The Fifty Greatest Love Letters of All Time, David Lowenherz
Love and Other Difficulties, Rainer Maria Rilke
Poetry of the Taliban, Columbia University Press
Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

(Physical) packlist coming soon.

---

"It will be said that, while a little leisure is pleasant, men would not know how to fill their days if they had only four hours of work out of the twenty-four. In so far as this is true in the modern world, it is a condemnation of our civilization; it would not have been true at any earlier period. There was formerly a capacity for light-heartedness and play which has been to some extent inhibited by the cult of efficiency. The modern man thinks that everything ought to be done for the sake of something else, and never for its own sake." — Betrand Russell, "In Praise of Idleness"

Two weeks until departure: anxiety and audio in the age of Twitter

"In long-range planning for a trip, I think there is a private conviction that it won’t happen. As the day approached, my warm bed and comfortable house grew increasingly desirable and my dear wife incalculably precious. To give these up for three months for the terrors of the uncomfortable and unknown seemed crazy. I didn’t want to go. Something had to happen to forbid my going, but it didn’t." — John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley in Search of America

Six months ago, when I first committed to taking a cross-country scooter trip sometime in the distant future (May 2013, back then, felt like just that), I don't know if I ever really expected the trip to happen. At the time, frolicking about in the backcountry of the nation's most inhospitable wilderness seemed something of a fanciful notion—something I wanted to do, sure—but something that I'd probably end up kicking along like a rock down the road of life without ever really saddling up and hitting the road. But now, In just under 400 hours, I'm set to depart. And the truth is, it's really, really terrifying.

More than 10,000 miles of driving is scary enough, with all of the battling-against-awful-drivers-on-cell-phones-and-trying-not-to-get-run-over entailed, as is the whole backpacking-in-the-wilderness-and-doing-lots-of-intense-hikes-and-climbing-lots-of-tall-mountains. But perhaps what I find myself most anxious about is the simple act of not knowing: not really knowing where I'm going, or how to get there, or what I'm going to find if and when I do get there. Sure, I have an itinerary, and a super-fancy smartphone to navigate me from point to point, but I'm used to planning, researching, preparing, knowing my destination before I set off into new terrain, and based on the sheer magnitude of this trip, that's just not possible (though it certainly doesn't stop me from trying to, well, research the fear away anyway).

And so, as I check the final few boxes off my things-to-do-before-I-leave checklist, and accept the realization that in just two weeks I'll be leaving the comfort and security and familiarity of my friends, my community, and my home for the unforgiving lands of the great unknown, I have just one favor to ask to smooth that transition: playlists.

Yes, playlists. I'm going to be doing a lot of driving, walking, hiking, running, and if I don't have something to fill the silence every now and then, I'm afraid within a few weeks I might just go all Castaway on my helmet and begin treating it (and talking to it) like a dear friend. So please, send 'em over. I'm not picky—if it's good enough for you to recommend, it's good enough for me to give a listen to—and I'll take not just music, but killer podcasts and other forms of auditory entertainment as well. I'm on Spotify at jayaustn (preferred means of receiving stuff), but I'll also take emailed MP3s or just straight-up hey-you-should-check-out-this-band recommendations. My last few days will probably be a frantic scrambling to get things in order, so the sooner, the better.

While I'm on the subject of getting ready to leave, I should also note that I—hesitantly, begrudgingly—got a Twitter. Though I am something of a social media hermit who bristles at the thought of things like Facebook and Instagram and, yes, Twitter, something tells me the latter will come in handy on my journey: whether to share an occasional photograph of some beautiful landscape, to let folks know where I'm going before I disconnect and head into the backcountry of Utah, or to quickly get in touch with friends in cities I'll be soon entering. I'll definitely still be blogging here throughout the trip, but for more frequent updates, they'll be on Twitter.

All that said, I'll definitely be publishing a final post before departure (including a pack list), but until then: yes, please, playlists. The more, the merrier. Thanks, friend.

"I believe that nearly all our griefs are moments of suspense, which we experience as paralysis, because we can no longer hear our estranged feelings living. Because we are alone with that foreign thing, which has entered into us; because everything in which we have confidence and to which we are accustomed is for a moment taken away from us; because we are in the midst of a state of transition, in which we cannot remain. The grief, too, passes. The new thing in us, that which has been added to us, has entered into our heart and penetrated to its innermost chamber, and is no longer there even—it is already in our blood." — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Build update: Siding, trim, porch

With just thirty days remaining before I depart for my cross-country scooter journey, Matchbox building has kicked back into high gear. When I last updated in late February, the tiny home had just gotten plaster walls, kitchen cabinets, floors, and a touch of siding, so during the past month, attention turned toward finishing up that siding and making further improvements on the interior, such as window trim, door trim, and baseboard.

Siding (Days 34, 35, 36, 37, and 38; 40 hours)

After burning another stack of Grasmick Lumber's fine western red cedar boards (many thanks to Tiffany, Bryan, Cari, Laura, Aldo, Lauren, and a few others for their help on that), we began slapping the charred wood onto the side of the house, starting in the back left and working around to the front. There's still a fair amount of work to be done—a little more charring, lots of oiling, the installation of a gutter above the door, corner trim, and another few days of work finishing up the siding on the north and rear elevations of the house—but the shou sugi ban wood is looking beautiful, and is certainly (even in its unfinished state) a vast improvement over the hideous Tyvek HomeWrap of this winter.

I should also mention—for the sake of those embarking on their own siding and/or sugi projects—that wood has a tendency to contract over time, and if using non-lapped siding, like the Matchbox, it's likely that the bright white Tyvek and accompanying rain screen will shine through the cracks, regardless of how tightly together the boards are initially pressed. A fairly simple—albeit crude—solution to this is simply spraypainting the housewrap before the siding goes up: just a few thin black strips where the boards will meet along the length of the house. As a disclaimer, there's little information on how spraypaint and homewrap get along, but a few anecdotal reports suggest the former won't compromise the latter's water-resistant properties. And by spraypainting thin strips (as opposed to painting the whole thing), breathability shouldn't be too badly affected as well. In any event, the black backdrop does make a difference, compared with the first few boards at the back of the house that aren't backed by some black paint.

Left to right: Lee's Pera House, Elaine's Lusby, my Matchbox (with siding!)

Window trim, door trim, baseboard (Days 39 & 40; 20 hours)

While I kept busy on siding, Tony worked diligently to finish out the windows, door, skylight, and floor with a clean white trim and baseboard. Blurry pictures of progress below:

Porch

You may have noticed the Matchbox's awning has gone missing. After careful thought, I've decided to scrap the quasi-functional rain cover (which, based on height, probably couldn't have protected porch-sitters from too much rain anyway) in favor of a much cleaner-looking porch with just a small gutter above. So down the awning went, and to round out porch renovations and make the space a bit more amenable to a pair of rocking chairs, we took it out another twelve inches for a full four-foot deck.

Speaking of decks, just this morning I received some lovely tongue-and-groove yellow pine—salvaged from an old barn, generously donated by Matthew Compton of Foundry Architects, and kindly picked up and delivered from Baltimore by my good friend Abby—to use for my decking. Expect another post on the porch and gutter (including rain chains!) in the coming weeks.

---

“Human beings are the only animals who have to work, and I think that is the most ridiculous thing in the world. Other animals make their livings by living, but people work like crazy, thinking that they have to in order to stay alive. The bigger the job, the greater the challenge, the more wonderful they think it is. It would be good to give up that way of thinking and live an easy, comfortable life with plenty of free time. I think that the way animals live in the tropics, stepping outside in the morning and evening to see if there is something to eat, and taking a long nap in the afternoon, must be a wonderful life. For human beings, a life of such simplicity would be possible if one worked to produce directly his daily necessities. In such a life, work is not work as people generally think of it, but simply doing what needs to be done.” — Masanobu Fukuoka, The One-Straw Revolution

The Scooter Diaries: full itinerary and departure date

Zion National Park (UT), one of many stops on the journey.

National Park Pass: ordered. Overall route: finalized. Departure date: set.

On Saturday, May 4th, I'll be departing DC for a multi-month road trip across the United States (and Canada!), scootering from city to city and town to town and park to park to see all that the North American landmass has to offer. After several months of planning, countless conversations with friends, and relentless solicitation of recommendations, I'm happy to report that I have a nearly-complete list of destinations I'll be visiting during this summer's Scooter Diaries.

28 national parks. 24 cities. 21 states. 12 UNESCO World Heritage Sites. 10 mountains. 4 towns. 2 countries. 2 national memorials, 1 national forest, and 1 state park. A to-be-determined number of All-American Roads, and a growing count of isolated sites and geographic formations along the way. Updated map below.



Specifically, I'll be visiting the following destinations (in rough chronological order):

Virginia: Shenandoah National Park, Blue Ridge Parkway
North Carolina: Asheville, Mount Cammerer
Tennessee: Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Knoxville, Nashville
Kentucky: Mammoth Cave National Park
Mississippi: Natchez Trace Parkway
Louisiana: New Orleans
Texas: Austin, Hamilton Pool Nature Reserve, Marfa
New Mexico: Carlsbad Caverns National Park, Santa Fe, Chaco Culture National Historical Park, Taos Pueblo
Colorado: Denver, Boulder, Rocky Mountain National Park, Longs Peak, Mount Elbert, Great Sand Dunes National Park, Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, Durango, Mesa Verde National Park
Arizona: Petrified Forest National Park, Flagstaff, Sedona, Grand Canyon National Park, Antelope Canyon, The Wave
Utah: Arches National Park, Canyonlands National Park, Natural Bridges National Monument, Bryce Canyon National Park, Zion National Park
Nevada: Las Vegas, Hoover Dam
California: Joshua Tree National Park, Slab City, San Diego, Los Angeles, Channel Islands National Park,  Big Sur, Mount Whitney, Yosemite National Park, Half Dome, San Francisco, Lassen Volcanic National Park, Mount Shasta, Redwood National Park, Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park,
Oregon: Ashland, Mount Thielsen, Crater Lake National Park, Eugene, Portland
Washington: Mount Rainier National Park, Mount Rainier, Olympic National Park, Seattle, North Cascades National Park
Canada: Vancouver, Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, Waterton Lakes National Park, (and much later) Toronto
Montana: Glacier National Park, Beartooth All-American Road
Wyoming: Yellowstone National Park, Mount Washburn, Grand Teton National Park, Bunsen Peak, Buffalo, Devil's Tower National Monument
South Dakota: Mount Rushmore National Monument, Crazy Horse Memorial, Black Hills National Forest, Badlands National Park
Minnesota: Minneapolis, Duluth
Michigan: Copper Harbor, Marquette, Grand Marais, Sault Ste. Marie
New York: Buffalo
Pennsylvania: Pittsburgh

Though my overall route has been (more or less) finalized, I'm still willing and eager to add other places worth checking out along the way, particularly more state parks, scenic roads, and salt-of-the-earth towns, so if you think there's something I'm missing within a 50-to-100-mile radius of my travels, definitely let me know. And, of course, if there's something I simply can't miss in one of the cities I'll be passing through—a good vegan restaurant, a cool music venue, a great museum or café or market—specific recommendations are greatly appreciated.

Olympic National Park (WA), another planned destination.

I've also had a number of really kind offers to stay with friends, friends' friends, and friends' families at various points along the trip, and while I intend to do a fair amount of camping for most of the journey, I certainly won't turn down a warm bed (and shower) every now and then. So if you (or someone you know) is just itching to host a couch-crasher for a night, do let me know—I will be forever grateful. I also make a mean banana pancake. :)

---

"Men come tamely home at night only from the next field or street, where their household echoes haunt, and their life pines because it breathes its own breath over again; their shadows, morning and evening, reach farther than their daily steps. We should come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience and character." — Henry David Thoreau, Walden; Or, Life in the Woods

Welcoming a new addition to Boneyard Studios

For the past six months, Boneyard Studios has been a community of three under-construction tiny homes: the Matchbox, Minim House, and Pera House. But last week, we welcomed a new addition to our little tribe— the Lusby from our friend Elaine at tinyhousecommunity.com.

Getting Elaine's tiny house on the lot—and moving Brian's house to the right spot—required a bit of reshuffling, resulting in the Lusby, the Matchbox, and Minim House all getting hitched, unhitched, and moved (more than) a couple of times over the course of seven hours. Check out the video below for some clips of the move and, well, footage of a tiny house roaming the streets of DC.



Interested in touring Boneyard Studios? Sign up for our next open house here.