Hot Springs or Busk

HSoB: Dawg Dayz

Ronnie Hays, a man whose summer spirit animal was likely a slightly singed tumbleweed, had come to the nation’s capital with the best of intentions. The Hot Springs or Busk tour, a grand delusion hatched during a particularly brutal February, was predicated on the simple, Nietzschean idea that purposeful suffering builds character. Having already suffered enough, Ronnie decided to route his nation-wide tour to stay in climate zones ranging from fifty-five to eighty-five degrees, the sweet spot of human endurance, the crucible of the soul! He’d envisioned himself a Thoreauvian guitar hero, strumming universal chords amidst humanity’s waxing and waning.

Bullshit. Pure, unadulterated, desert-baked bullshit.

The “Heat Dome,” as the local news charmingly called it, wasn’t a dome at all. It was more like being trapped inside a giant, sweaty armpit, the kind belonging to a long-haul trucker who’d mainlined lukewarm coffee for three days straight. The air in Ronnie’s trusty Sprinter van, Rocinante, felt thick enough to chew. He’d envisioned festive busking celebrations, though getting him no closer to Saturday Night Live, would render enough spare coin to grab a meal at the local sandwich shop. Instead, he found himself sweating under a near ineffectual ceiling fan, each morning waking up feeling like a poorly wrung dishcloth.

So, the busking gear gathered dust. The call of the troubadour was drowned out by the siren song of the mall food court’s air conditioning. After a productive shift dodging rogue toddlers and the whispered anxieties of the internet-addicted masses at the public library, Ronnie would retreat to this muzak-infused oasis. There, amidst the clatter of plastic cutlery and the pervasive aroma of lukewarm orange chicken, he’d tap tap tap away on his tablet, crafting ironic insights (or at least, moderately coherent sentences). Roughing it, his ass. This was more like politely surrendering to the crushing reality of climate change and a distinct lack of masochistic tendencies.

He pictured himself now, a bumbling, modern-day Don Quixote, sweat beading on his five-o-clock shadow. His armor traded in for a Hawaiian shirt that clung to him like a damp second skin. On his head, not a gleaming helmet, but a decidedly un-gleaming bucket hat, perpetually askew. His trusty spear replaced by a backpack, its hydration bladder more vital than any lance against the oppressive thermal foe. Rocinante, the wheezing van, stood sentinel in the D.C. Metro Branch Avenue parking lot… a tin can beast of burden in this concrete desert. In the hazy distance, a monstrous broadcast tower pulsed with invisible signals, a modern-day malevolent windmill against a humidity-choked sky, a reminder of the information war that had lured him to the proud highway in the first place.

He’d braved the sweltering streets of D.C., a city buzzing with a nervous energy thicker than the humidity. The political air crackled with a pre-apocalyptic fervor, the news a constant barrage of impending crisis. A grumpy waiter here, a train car full of faces etched with worry there. And then, the memes. Oh, the memes. Those digital harbingers of discontent, the unfunny, menacing pronouncements hinting at a redux of some long-ago, blood-soaked uncivil conflict. Ronnie, with his comfortable former life in the ivory towers of academia, knew he was on the wrong side of that particular partisan divide, labeled with that delightfully reductive term: “woke.”

He’d spent hours wandering around the fenced-off National Mall, the intended epicenter of his social exploration just out of reach. Denied entry to the Pride Fest because of his backpack – a water bottle deemed a potential weapon, for Christ’s sake – he felt like a character in some absurdist Kafka adaptation. The irony wasn’t lost on him: all this purposeful social exploring he’d signed up for, only to be thwarted by something as mundane as a plastic water bottle and transparent back-pack.

He thought of Churchill, of course. That eternal optimist (or perhaps just a bloke with a stiff upper lip and a fondness for the drink). “Americans can be counted on to do the right thing once they’ve tried everything else.” Ronnie clung to that like a life raft in a sea of digital vitriol and oppressive heat. This flirtation with the dark side, this collective descent into the fever swamp of ethnonationalism – it was just a phase, right? A particularly sweaty, anxiety-inducing phase. Eventually, the fever would break, and they’d stumble back towards something resembling pluralistic sanity.

He hoped.

The Metro ride back to Rocinante was a sweaty, sullen affair. The promise of the night in a tin can under a sky slow to cool was less than appealing. Just weeks ago, he’d been shivering in that damned mummy bag, wishing for a single degree of warmth. Now, the thought of trying to sleep in a pervasive coating of sweat felt like a prelude to spontaneous combustion.

He’d had enough. This noble experiment in “Hot Springs or Busk” had devolved into a sweaty, keyboard-tapping surrender in a mall food court. Protest season in D.C.? They could have it. The call of the open road, the beckoning of cooler climes further north… that was the only pursuit that held any appeal now. Time to point Rocinante toward the hazy promise of something less… apocalyptic. All that said, and with all the hassle of dodging heat stroke, he’d still take these dog dayz over winter frostbite and existential dread any damn day of the week. Over and out, he muttered to himself, the glow of the tablet screen reflecting in his weary eyes. Over and out. Time to get back to the original plan. Time to head NORTH. And for the love of all that is holy, someone please convince the powers that be we REALLY don’t want to turn Earth into another Venus. Can we please get back to that Post WWII spirit of sacrifice in the face of collective crisis? Can we, PLEASE, start prioritizing a life-friendly climate over billionaires’ bank accounts?

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

This Land: Florida (part II)

Ok… confession time...

Ronnie thought, since we were pressed for time, we could get by with only one Florida post. So we took a shortcut, leaning on Ronnie’s memories of Florida. A bit dusty, those memories, like faded postcards from a bygone era. Back when Daytona Beach was the epicenter of spring break bacchanalia, before the revelers migrated to Panama City, seeking new shores for their timeless rituals.

But then, waking from an overnight stay in Tallahassee enroute to Mobile, AL, Ronnie opened his news feed to reports of Ol’ Man Winter reaching tentacles into his Midwest stomping grounds. This awakened a realization. Specifically, the point of this tour was to avoid any and all extreme weather, a comfort priority for van-life vagabonds.

Ah, but there’s the rub. In this digital age, consistency is king. To vanish for weeks is to be forgotten, swallowed by the insatiable maw of the internet. So, we stay. Florida, it seems, is too vast to be consumed in a single bite. There’s plenty to see, do, and write about as Ronnie has no plans for leaving till it warms up a bit up North.

Nope
Double Nope!

Now, for geography-minded loopers, Tallahassee is in the panhandle, East of St. Augustine, our first Florida stop. Well, that’s in the North, and we needed to be heading South, waaayyy south, in order to avoid all hints of Ol’ Man Winter. So… yea… we had to backtrack a bit, but now heading in the right direction. Spring Hill was the first stop enroute to Key West, all the while hoping for the best for our friends and family up North.

Anyway, it turns out, Ronnie’s plan to visit all 48 contiguous US states in a rolling studio apartment christened “Rocinante” has been done (and published to some acclaim), more than once. The Steinbeck version literally featured a tricked out pickup truck named… Rocinante. Now, more confessions. Ronnie was not aware of Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charlie” before 2024. And Heat-Moon’s “Blue Highways” was only a back-of-the-mind inspiration for Ronnie’s 5th music album of the same name. Truth told, he had not read Heat-Moon’s volume till hitting the road on our Hot Springs or Busk tour.

Rohlfie’s favorite library!
Winter Redoubt

Actually, the inspiration for naming our van Rocinante came from the Netflix series, “The Expanse“. A multi-season series that delves into a rich tapestry of philosophical themes. Just a few examples would include social inequality, with vast disparities between the “Inner Planets” (Earth and Mars), the “Kuiper Belt,” and the outer colonies. Inequality that fuels conflict and raises questions about resource distribution, social justice, and the exploitation of marginalized groups. Sound familiar? Another theme explored by the series is the nature of humanity. The Expanse explores what it fundamentally means to be human. It questions whether our nature is inherently good or evil, and how we might evolve or adapt in the face of the unknown.

These are just a couple of the many themes explored by the series. Ronnie has seen the whole thing twice, he’ll probably watch it again cursing the numbskulls who canceled it. This is not to downplay the influences of Heat-Moon or Steinbeck’s road trip meditations. Both are masterful explorations of the hopes, dreams, and unique character of the people encountered off the “beaten paths” as it were. Heat-Moon called those back roads “Blue Highways” because of how they appeared in road atlas’ of the day. In Travels with Charlie, Nobel laureate, John Steinbeck makes a point of staying off the busiest highways in order to get the raw scoop from the people inhabiting the countryside. Both works chocked full of detailed dialog sequences from those encounters in diners and rest stops.

Ronnie, in contrast, is coming from a different angle. More an inner exploration, sharing windshield time with audio versions of Steinbeck, Camus, Dostoevsky, and Dickens’ takes on these universal themes with showers, meals, and sleep cycles provided by Cracker Barrel, and Planet Fitness.

And what does any of this have to do with Florida…? For those attuned to current events, these human challenges are alive and well here, as they are nation wide, but with Florida, the examples are much louder and prouder (think “Florida Man“). For example, Florida faces significant environmental threats, including rising sea levels, increasingly severe hurricanes, and the degradation of crucial ecosystems. These issues are exacerbated by rapid development and a history of prioritizing short-term economic gains over long-term sustainability. Environmental issues often become politicized, with disagreements over the role of government regulation and the balance between economic development and environmental protection.

As for Tribalism and Prejudice, Florida, like many places, grapples with historical and ongoing issues of racism, discrimination, and social inequality. These issues often manifest in disparities in education, healthcare, and economic opportunity. Sad but true, minority communities often face systemic barriers, and tensions with law enforcement. They also face incidents of racial profiling and police brutality which contribute to mistrust. Political rhetoric and divisive language and policies can aggravate existing divisions… and these days, politicians are saying the quiet parts out loud and proud.

And Florida’s leadership has a mixed record on these issues. While some initiatives promote environmental protection and social justice, others have been criticized for intensifying existing problems.

Yea… challenges… but until Greenland melts, Florida has some of the most bodacious beaches in the world. Come see it while you can. We’ll be here at least till Ol’ Man Winter retreats back to where he belongs.

Onward through the fog… RH

From Saint Auggy……
To Tallahassee…
You’ll see the fire ants..
Prolificacy…
And like the bears in…
Yellowstone grassy…
Don’t look FL Man in the eye.

This Land: Idaho

The Great “Hot Springs or Busk” Tour Rolls Back Downhill (Dispatch from Pocatello, Idaho):
So, like a clown car perpetually overflowing with misfortune, here we are again, loopers. Remember that meticulously crafted itinerary, the one that promised a triumphant northward march to the Canadian border? Yeah, about that. Turns out, fate – that sadistic ringmaster with a penchant for rusty hubcaps – had other plans. Rocinante, our trusty (usually) mount, coughed up a lung full of power-pack trouble, forcing a U-turn south towards Wayfarer Central in Colorado Springs. Parts, bless their slow-moseyin’ selves, would not arrive for a fortnight, so we chose to spend the downtime at homebase, Hays, KS where we could also get Rocinante’s windshield replaced and a running board added.

But hey, a scenic detour is a scenic detour, right? We shivered through a one-night stand in Bismarck after a stunning sunset stretch through South and North Dakota’s rolling countryside. Then Billings Montana offered a brief respite before hightailing it through Bozeman, then Cody Wyoming. Cody, bless its remote tourist-trap hide, is where we met up with some excellent friends who steered us towards Thermopolis – a haven of hot springs so numerous they’d make Bacchus proud.

Then, Idaho Falls, a land in need of some highway adopters, became our next pitstop. After that, Pocatello, where we nestled in the bosom of a decent public library contemplating the next leg – Salt Lake City, a place that holds… hmmm… let’s just say Ronnie Hays has some “post-9/11 baggage” with SLC (stay tuned for the glorious details).

But the real star of this show, loopers, was the stretch between Cody, WY and Idaho Falls. Yellowstone National Park, in all its technicolor glory, unfolded before our bleary eyes. Mountains that scraped the underbelly of heaven, meadows bursting with wildflowers, switchbacks that would make a pretzel shout in pain. Mammoth Hot Springs, a geological freak show that would make P.T. Barnum envious. And the wildlife, oh the wildlife! Foxes with mischievous glints in their eyes, Elk foraging with enormous racks, bison as big and grumpy as your grunting uncle Melvin, and bears – enough bears to staff a Russian circus. The only downside? No dang AT&T service. Talk about being stranded in the technological dark ages!

Speaking of stranded, it was right here, in the middle of Mother Nature’s art gallery, that Rocinante decided to shed a hubcap like a bad habit. Thousands of miles under our belts, and this is when she decides to play Hide the hubcap? Believe you me, loopers, we were sweating harder than a sinner in church. But fear not! Rocinante, bless her engine that could, soldiered on through the park, hubcap-less but unbowed.

So, Idaho, the state with the motto that sounds like a drunken Latin scholar’s mumbling (Esto Perpetua, for the curious). Rough translation, “It shall be perpetual”. And what have we learned? Well, for starters, hot springs are a national treasure here. And speaking of Hot Springs, Idaho covers the gamut, from redneck mud baths to swanky spas… a soak for every soul. And though the higher-ed scene may not be ivy, these universities offer a decent education without the heart attack-inducing price tag. And who knew Idaho was such a literary hotspot? Shakespeare under the stars, Hemingway’s ghost haunting cafes – it’s enough to make a bibliophile sue for custody.

The Idahoan Identity? Self-reliant, community-driven, with a healthy dose of fresh air and a side of “get off my lawn” thrown in for good measure. And nature’s playground? Yup! From the Sawtooth Mountains that could pierce the heavens to Yellowstone’s geothermal freak-out, Idaho’s got scenery that’ll knock your socks off (assuming you’re wearing any). And they have grown some famous loopers, from Aaron Paul (aka “Yo! Mr. White… Science!”), Papa Hemingway himself, and the silver screen siren Lana Turner. Not a bad lineup, eh?

The Bread and Butter, agriculture, tourism, and the service industry keep Idaho humming along. Relatively affordable housing, decent wages – what’s not to love? Plus, there’s always a mountain to climb or a river to raft, so you won’t get bored.

A land of contradictions. A double-edged sword. There’s a fierce sense of community, a rugged self-reliance, and a love for the great outdoors that would make John Muir weep with joy. On the other hand, there’s a whiff of insularity, a resistance to change that’s about as flexible as a petrified log, and pockets of militant social conservatism that could curdle milk at fifty paces.

But hey, that’s the beauty of this crazy mixed-up country, right? From the boiling cauldrons of Yellowstone to the necessary return to Wayfarer Central, it’s a never-ending carnival of delights and disasters. Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of Rocinante’s hubcap shedding saga!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

And now… another apology to Woody:

For fields of tubers…
And chaos preppers…
Idaho… spicy as a pepper…
You got your Shakespeare…
Pound and Hemmingway…
Esto … it will be … Perpetua!

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XIII (onward through the fog)

Well, here we are, loopers, finally underway, like Jake & Ellwood with their 1/2 pack of cigarettes, sunglasses, and tankful of gas. But before i could even dream of hitting the road, i had a laundry list of tasks longer than a pandering politician’s promises.

First off, there was the Great Migration of my earthly belongings from the cozy country-club apartment to a cramped storage space, a maneuver tighter than a Jenga tournament. Then came the bureaucratic hoopla of establishing a P.O. box, a venture that revealed the sad truth: in the eyes of finance overlords and drivers license examiners, a P.O. box is about as trustworthy as a reality TV production plan.

But let’s not forget about Rocinante, my trusty companion on this wild ride across the Divided States of America. She needed a check-up. Tires rotated, engine tuned – check, check, and double-check.

Now, packing for this journey was like playing a twisted game of Tetris, trying to fit essentials like clothes, towels, and emergency toilet into Rocinante’s belly without causing a gearvalanch.

And speaking of gear, from the humble street busking rig to the JBL behemoth that could wake the dead, to my ambisonic stereo field-recording setup, which i swear intimidates interviewees more than a priest in a confessional booth, it’s all here, a place for everything, everything in its place.

And just when i thought i was ready to hit the road and begin the search for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, fate had other plans. That Rugged & Ready basecamp trailer of mine, designed for extreme-sport mountaineers and built tougher than a marine’s resolve, proved as popular as a skunk at a perfume party. No bites in Kansas, no nibbles in Georgia. So, like a gambler chasing a losing streak, i hauled that trailer from one end of the Colorado front range to the other, hoping for a miracle. But alas, no takers.

Now, desperate times call for desperate measures, they say. So, like a quarterback executing a 2:00 minute “Hail Mary,” i made a detour to Oshkosh, Nebraska, where kinfolk offered sanctuary to my wayward basecamp… great day in the morning!

And so, with the “Hot Springs or Busk” tour officially underway, i’ve got interviews from Kansas, to Missouri, to Colorado, with Nebraska and South Dakota next on the list. It’s a journey as predictable as a heavy-weight boxer’s battle plan, but by the fiery breath of Helios in July, i wouldn’t have it any other way. I told myself after the great recession cratered my IT career, i would retire early and either live on a boat at sea, or get a motor home and sail the waving prairie. And since the idea of open ocean sailing after a lifetime on the flatlands is patently absurd, Rocinante is the manifestation of that vision, and despite the occasional detours and Hail Marys (“Everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.” ~ Iron Mike), i am loving every minute of it.

They say life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. Well, my plans may have gone up in smoke more than once, but what rises from the ashes is a tale worth telling, a journey worth living. So strap in, loopers, because this road trip is just getting started, and who knows what madness lies around the next bend.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

This Land: Colorado

So, we hit the dusty trail for the Centennial State, land of legendary proportions (according to the brochures at least). “Nil Sine Numine” their damn motto brags – that’s Latin for “Nothing without Providence” to the fancy, “Nothing without God or Jesus” to the Latin-challenged loopers, and “Nothing without a decent hot spring” to yours truly. Speaking of which, the pickings between Colorado Springs and Fort Collins are about as slim as a supermodel’s patience at a buffet. But hey, that’s a story for another sleep-deprived rant.

The High Life (and Cost): Denver’s got colleges galore, from fancy-pants Metropolitan State to the University of Colorado Denver. But who needs fancy degrees when you’ve got mountains to climb and brews to guzzle? Speaking of brews, Denver may not be a literary hotspot (no Hemingway haunts here), but the Tattered Cover bookstore keeps those bookworms in hard-cover contraband.

Now, let’s talk about the locals (they can be a smug lot): All Lululemon and kale smoothies, bragging about their 14ers (mountains, you squares) and epic hikes. Hitting those trail heads, however, can be like trying to score tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, only sweatier and with less glitter.

Famous Loopers and Fickle Weather: Colorado has produced its share of famous people. Buzz Aldrin moonwalked on the damn thing! Tim Allen makes us laugh (sometimes). Wes Anderson… well, he makes movies that look like paintings. But don’t forget Molly Brown, the “Unsinkable” one, who chilled at the Brown Palace Hotel after surviving the Titanic (spoiler alert: the hotel wasn’t named after her).

The weather here’s a crapshoot. Tourists love the sunshine, but locals know it can turn on a dime, throwing a May blizzard or a windstorm your way faster than you can say “Rocky Mountain High.”

The “Green Solution” (and Everything Else): Tourism’s a big deal here, along with Maryjane, aerospace, and energy (both the fossil fuel kind and the new-fangled renewable stuff). It’s a land of opportunity for upwardly mobile yuppies: beautiful scenery, killer jobs, and a chance to wear yoga pants every damn day. Just be prepared to shell out some serious bucks for that privilege. Living here costs more than a Kanye West rant.

The Beer Olympics (and Ronnie’s Redemption): Now, Ronnie Hays, bless his hop-soaked heart, could deal with all the downsides because of one glorious event: The Great American Beer Fest. One day a year, he’d adorn himself with a pretzel necklace the size of a Texas T-bone and sample the finest craft brews the nation had to offer. It was a communion of hops and happiness, a bacchanal of barley, a… well, you get the picture.

The Vox Populi That Fizzled: We tried, folks, we really did, to get the lowdown on Colorado’s state motto from the local loopers themselves. But alas, the Fort Collins library was more interested in actual library things than our “vanity project.” We did finally confab with some born-again loopers offering “free bible lessons” on a park bench. Maybe it’s a sign, huh? Maybe Colorado leans more “God-fearing” than Ronnie initially thought.

This whole experience, though, was a lesson. It turns out preconceived notions can be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a sauna bath. We met some lovely loopers (bless you, Larry and Jan Johnson!), but mostly, well, let’s just say these Colorado transplants aren’t exactly into non-mission-critical chatter.

The Ballad of Ronnie Hays and the Silent Transplants: So, here’s the takeaway: this little odyssey, fueled by personal experience, questionable research, and a handful of, uh, colorful encounters, has brought forth a new verse for Woody Guthrie’s classic:

In Colorado…
You might come empty…
When seeking confab…
With the local gentry…
You have to dig in…
The nooks and crannies…
Transplants…
Are freakin’ everywhere.

Stay tuned, folks, for the next stop on the H.S.O.B. (Hot Springs or Busk) Tour! We’re heading out with a renewed sense of wonder and a thirst for… well, you can probably guess. Next stop: Nebraska!

Onward through the fog… R.H.