road trip

This Land: Washington State

So, here we are, in the belly of the beast, Spokane… a place where the laundry machines are more demanding than a Vegas blackjack dealer. We’re talking seven bucks a load, for Christ’s sake! It’s like these machines have a larcenist spirit of their own, demanding tribute before they’ll let your clothes see the light of day.

But let’s keep it real: Washington State holds a special place in Ronnie’s heart as he spent many a week in Spokane and Seattle either learning about the institutional food service business (four lifetimes ago) or tending to the computer networking needs of a western-region architecture/engineering firm (two lifetimes ago). And so we were able to reconnect with old friends we hadn’t seen for at least 14 years. They have a million-dollar house now, a place that’s as surreal as an acid flashback. You’d think the directions would be easy, but no. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, only the haystack was a Mad Max wasteland.

Their house? It’s a paragon of contemporary home comforts, but from the outside, it looks like it’s been through a hurricane, a zombie apocalypse, and a few acid trips. We sent a picture (via DM) to confirm, then, gathered our courage and ventured into the heart of darkness.

Inside, it’s a different world. Their kids are grown, tall like the trees at Audubon Park, and their house is like a spaceship landed in the middle of the woods. Our visit covered the gamut, from the latest doings of mutual acquaintances, to the lifestyle of a professional golfer (her current vocation), to the latest in Silicon Valley thinking (his vocation), and Ronnie swears, some of the tech talk was like listening to a Martian explain quantum physics.

But let’s not forget the real reason we’re here: Hot Springs or Busk! Imagine soaking in a mineral bath, surrounded by nature, feeling the warm water on your skin, and realizing you’re the only one wearing clothes. It’s like a scene straight out of a Beat road trip novel, without the drugs or psychotic breakdowns.

And if you’re looking for higher education in a more intimate setting, Washington has you covered. Think small classes, friendly professors, and a campus that feels like a cozy living room.

Regarding culture, Washington is a state where art and literature thrive. Jack Kerouac wrote about the experience in Dharma Bums. And if you’re into glass art, the Museum of Glass in Tacoma is a feast for the eyes.

As for the residents, they’re a hardy bunch who love the great outdoors. Imagine hiking through ancient forests, kayaking on calm lakes, or simply staring up at the towering mountains. It’s a paradise for nature lovers.

But let’s not sugarcoat it. Washington also has its downsides. The weather, for one, can be as unpredictable as a squirrel cage match. It’s often cloudy and rainy, and the winters can be downright dreary. And then there’s the cost of living. Major cities like Seattle can be as expensive as a designer handbag.

Still, despite the challenges, Washington offers a unique and unforgettable experience. It’s a state where you can find both the sublime beauty of nature and the gritty reality of everyday life. So, if you’re looking for a place that’s as colorful as a tie-dye t-shirt and as thought-provoking as a Dostoevsky story, Washington State is the perfect destination. So, grab your notebook, your camera, and your sense of humor, and get ready to experience the extreme Northwest of This Land.

From the streets of Spokane…
To the Grand Coulee Dam…
You’ll see beauty…
In the state of Washington…
They came for timber…
They built the PC boom…
Washington… the final MicroBoss.

This Land: Illinois

So there we were, adrift in the Chicagoland archipelago, courtesy of Ronnie’s infallible sense of direction (or lack thereof). The Democratic National Convention was in full swing, a throbbing neon beast pulsating in the Windy City’s belly. Visions of ’68 danced in Ronnie’s head – anti-war protestors clashing with Chicago’s finest in a ballet of tear gas and billy clubs. A chance, he thought, to relive a sliver of history, that bygone era immortalized in grainy documentaries,

But alas, the cruel hand of fate, or perhaps… synchronicity, had placed us in Aurora, Illinois. Yes, THAT Aurora (party time… excellent). Here, amidst the beige strip malls and flickering neon signs, Ronnie embarked on a quest for the holy grail of his salad days – Stan Mikita’s Donut Shop, a shrine to the hockey legend and glazed pastries. But like a mirage in the desert, the shop remained stubbornly elusive, a figment of faded memory or perhaps a cruel hoax perpetrated by Saturday Night Live.

Undeterred, Ronnie retreated to the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Aurora Public Library, a monument to quiet nerdiness if ever there was one. Here, he became a voyeur to the DNC extravaganza, consuming news reports like a fragrant, steaming bowl of Pho. NPR’s police beat reporter, Martin Kaste, droned on in a podcast, his voice a steady counterpoint to the city’s distant sirens. WGN chimed in with a video report, a kaleidoscope of protestors and fence-busting partisans. In the end, thankfully bloodless. The anti-war protesters did persist, and they made their points, but the event planners and the Chicago authorities were able to keep things from spiraling out of control. Go here for a thoughtful compare/contrast.

Illinois itself, this “Land of Lincoln,” struck a dissonant chord. A state where prestigious universities rub shoulders with wallet-crushing property taxes, where the “Second City’s” sports teams inspire religious devotion amidst a backdrop of political chicanery. The summers, we’re told, are steam baths, the winters cryogenic chambers – a climate that could curdle a monk’s disposition.

Yet, there are glimmers of hope. Starved Rock State Park, a Xanadu of waterfalls and canyons, promise respite from the urban sprawl. The state boasts a pantheon of American icons – Honest Abe Lincoln, of course, but also Carl Sandburg, the bard of Spoon River, and Michelle Obama, a beacon of grace and intelligence. Even Michael Jordan, the basketball demigod (and Bugs Bunny’s unlikely sidekick), hails from these plains.

The engine of Illinois’ economy hums with a complex symphony – finance titans clinking glasses in Chicago’s skyscrapers, factories spew out automobiles and farm machinery, and fields overflow with corn and soybeans, a testament to the state’s agricultural might. And for the working stiffs, Illinois offers a cornucopia of opportunity – a robust job market, a smorgasbord of educational institutions, and a vibrant cultural scene in Chicago (assuming you can stomach the commute).

Anyway, before we peel out of Chicagoland, heading back through Hays on a pilgrimage to Colorado Springs (the final piece of Rocinante’s solar-powered puzzle, don’t ask), two burning questions gnaw at Ronnie’s soul. Did that Stan Mikita donut shop ever exist, or was it a collective fever dream of his generation? And more importantly, would the DNC erupt into the glorious chaos of ’68, fulfilling his dread of a historical reenactment (tear gas and all)?

After all, “Wayne’s World” was the “American Graffiti” of the 70s, and Ronnie’s dad, a veteran of the Commerce City Police Department, had been sent to Chicago in ’68 for some “Tactics and Control” training dispensed by the Windy City’s finest. In the final frames, will we find history had taught us the right lessons, or are we doomed to repeat the mistakes? And more importantly, can Ronnie score a cruller before we hit the road? Because frankly, at this point, nothing beats a good donut and a hot cuppa joe.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

In Chicago…
You got the pizza wars…
But don’t forget…
The raging culture war…
In Aurora… Wayne and Garth don’t care…
‘Long as they can party on.

This Land: Michigan

Before you ask, Michigan has no natural hot springs. It’s like they forgot to install the geothermal plumbing when they were building the place. But who needs that when you have The Great Lakes, right?

As for higher learning institutions, Michigan offers a diverse range of colleges, from small liberal arts institutions to larger public universities. Some notable smaller options include Kalamazoo College, Hope College, and Albion College.

And though no particular state can claim exclusive dominion over such literary juice as earned by Papa Hemmingway, the Ernest Hemingway House in Oak Park, while technically in Illinois, is a popular destination for fans of Mr. Hemmingway’s distinctive American voice. Other notable literary figures with Michigan ties include Zane Grey and Harriett Beecher Stowe.

Regarding the unique character of its natives, Michiganders often pride themselves on their resilience, hardworking nature, strong sense of community, the fact that they have seasons other than winter, and abundant natural resources foster a love for outdoor activities and a down-to-earth mentality. If you had to drag on Michigan, some feel the state’s reliance on the automotive industry leads to economic instability. And, of course, the long, harsh winters can be a challenge for many, contributing to a sometimes slower pace of life.

Now, none of this does justice to the eye popping, slightly paradoxical, rolling green/crystalline beauty of the Upper Peninsula (UP). This region is often hailed as Michigan’s crown jewel, offering pristine lakes, dense forests, and dramatic cliffs. The Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore is a particular standout. Ronnie is holding his hand up right now because we just drove through the lower part of the UP heading for Traverse City. He has been going on and on about how much of this place looks like those “Garden of Eden” images conjured up in his childhood Sunday School days. This place is straight-up gorgeous, but if you get here via some of what William Least Heat-Moon described as “blue highways”, you will encounter areas that also conjure up mental images left behind by those 1980s slasher movies, “Halloween”, “Friday the 13th”, etc. Ronnie kept remarking how the areas we drove through gave him “Chrystal Lake” vibes. Terrifyingly beautiful, if you will.

Regarding famous Michiganders, the list spans the political spectrum, from Henry Ford, to Rosa Parks. And, of course, Michigan has a strong legacy in music. Think Motown, Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, Four Tops, The Supremes, Smoky Robinson, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight, The Temptations, The Jackson freaking Five, and Stevie Wonder. Then later, you have Madonna and Marshall freakin’ Mathers. Mic drop… top that, anyone?

Now, as Michael Moore, Oscar-winning film maker from Flint, describes in his movies, the automotive industry has been the backbone of Michigan’s economy. Unfortunately, too many eggs were placed in that basket and when the US had to make painful changes in order to compete with the automaking sectors of the rapidly developing world, many… many… were left behind as a consequence.

That said, the state is trying to diversify, with growing sectors in healthcare, technology, and agriculture. Some would say Detroit and Flint still have a long way to go providing opportunities for those left behind. The jury is still out, but in the meantime Michigan offers a relatively affordable cost of living compared to many other states, especially in terms of housing. The state’s strong public education system and evolving job market, particularly in healthcare and technology, are also attractive to workers.

Visitors, often rave about the Great Lakes, especially Lake Michigan, for swimming, boating, and fishing. Again, Ronnie has his hand up, he’s still in awe of the terrifying beauty of Lake Michigan, and Traverse City. Many visitors are drawn to the vibrant college towns like Ann Arbor and East Lansing, offering a lively atmosphere and cultural attractions. As well, Michigan’s literary history can be a draw for some visitors, particularly those interested in Hemingway or the Great Lakes region.

Ok… that does it for now…

Stay safe…
Stay well…
Good luck…
Pay it forward…
And as always…
Onward through the fog.

Cheers… R.H.

In Michigan…
You might go dizzy…
From the rust belt struggle…
To Traverse City…
From the rogue militias…
To Motown dishes…
This state is pure America!

This Land: Phase III (back on the road)

Well, well, well. Look who’s still alive. August, the month of the dog days, has vanished into the ether, leaving behind a trail of dust, diesel fumes, and a smattering of state license plates. Phases I and II of the Hot Springs or Busk (HSoB) tour have been a whirlwind of wonder and wandering, taking us through seventeen states—a whirlwind tour of the American West and Midwest.

Now, granted, this was Ronnie’s stomping ground, so there wasn’t much in the way of culture shock. Yellowstone was a bit of a slog, a veritable gauntlet of switchbacks and disappearing hubcaps, but otherwise, it was smooth sailing.

That said, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Michigan proved to be a delightful surprise. Driving through those lake-dotted forests, those double-canopies of green, was like stepping into a horror movie. We’re talking ‘Friday the 13th’ vibes, with Jason lurking behind every tree, ready to strike. It was terrifyingly beautiful, a paradox that made Ronnie’s skin crawl.

So, we’ve been on the road, living the nomadic life, boondocking in parking lots, and tending necessary tasks in public libraries, laundromats, and grocery stores. We’ve returned to Hays for a brief respite, to tend to mundane matters like tag renewals, vaccinations, and voter registrations. After a couple of weeks, we’re back on the road, heading to Colorado Springs to equip Rocinante with a rooftop solar panel.

From there, it’s on to Phase III of the HSoB tour: the Pacific Northwest. We’ll be cruising down the coastal highway to LA, where Ronnie has friends and family. After that, it’s back to Hays for a month of voting and helping friends move before the snow flies. Then, it’s a family gathering in Kansas, followed by a caravan to Savannah for the winter. We’ll be exploring the deep south coastal states during Phase IV of our whirlwind tour.

Stay tuned…
Much more to come…
Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Indiana

Ok… for Ronnie, Indiana is a couple things on the surface, 1.) it’s home base to one of his favorite authors, Papa Kurt Vonnegut, and 2.) the Indy 500 auto race. Now, these things might date Mr. Ronnie. After all, he can’t remember the last time the Indy 500 was headline news. This may have more to do with the fact that he cut the cord all the way back to y2k, so chances of him stumbling into a cable channel covering the race have been slim to none now going on 25 years. And though Mr. Vonnegut has been gone since 2007, his work is still quite popular with readers around the world… so there’s that.

Now, with all of that said, you would think Ronnie would make a point to visit Mr. Vonnegut’s hometown, Indianapolis, while in the Hoosier state. Alas, he’s still tethered to the technical details of outfitting Rocinante. Case in point, rooftop solar installs are now available at Wayfarer central, and Rocinate has a September 9 appointment… all the way back to Colorado Springs. So, the tentative itinerary is finish the Indiana post in Fort Wayne, head to Cleveland for the Ohio post, then Chicago for Illinois, then back to Hays to catch up on snail mail and Rocinante’s tag renewal, then back to the Springs for the solar install. Form there, it’ll be Hot Springs or Busk, Phase III. By then, we’ll be 17 states into the mission with all of the South and Sun Belt states saved for late fall and winter and nearly eight months to get the balance done.

So… back to Indiana, a state of contradictions. Its people are both fiercely independent and deeply rooted in tradition. They are known for their hospitality, but their conversations tend to revolve around the weather, sports, and the price of corn. There is a certain charm to this simplicity, a refreshing honesty in the lack of pretense. Yet, some would say also a stifling provincialism, a fear of the unknown that limits horizons.

The state boasts a few cultural gems, of course. The Booth Tarkington Civic Theatre, a grand old dame of a building, stands as a testament to a bygone era. And the Eugene V. Debs Foundation keeps alive the memory of a radical socialist labor leader. And let’s not forget Papa Kurt Vonnegut… cos Ronnie won’t.

Indiana… a place where time seems to stand still. The past is revered, the future feared. There is a resistance to change, a stubborn clinging to the familiar. It is a state that is both comforting and claustrophobic, a place where one can find solace and despair in equal measure.

Indiana… a state where the weather is as bipolar as a teenage girl, where the summers are a sweaty, humid hell and the winters are an icy embrace of despair. And Highland… our first stop here, is a place where the asphalt stretches on forever, a barren wasteland punctuated by the occasional strip mall hellscape. Ronnie, in a state of frustration, described it as a “abject cluster-boink ” of suburban sprawl, muttering darkly about the need for a good old-fashioned public flogging for the traffic planners. He envisioned a spectacle, a puritan circus of shame, where the engineers of this urban blight would be flogged with pool noodles, their misdeeds projected onto a giant screen for all to see.

Perhaps Ronnie needs to cut back on the coffee… 😉

Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to brave the Indy streets among all the Mario Andretti wannabes on our bumper, looking for the nearest Chipotle for a lunchtime burrito.

From Michigan City…
To Ohio Wabash…
Indiana… rolls like a slapdash…
But bring your high hand…
When you drive in Highland…
Everybody here’s an Indy flash.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter LAST (the bramble patch)

Behold, the monstrous menagerie i’ve conjured! A labyrinthine Loopcircus, with its three infernal subdivisions—Loop, Circus, and Packmule Productions—each teeming with rooms more convoluted than a Kafkaesque nightmare. Circus, you see, is the current carnival of chaos. There, the seemingly endless series, “Hot Springs or Busk,” a first-person fever dream of a year-long, forty-eight-state tour, a kaleidoscopic voyage seeking the “fibrillating heart of our divided nation”. Then there’s “This Land,” a series of fleeting impressions, like a tourist snapping photos without digging much deeper. And let’s not forget “Below the Earth—Above the Sun,” pseudo-philosophical commentary mostly focused on spiritual evolution, but sometimes veering into US politics as if i were a celestial cartographer charting the nation’s zeitgeist one post at a time.

I fear it has grown into a tangled bramble with no real prospect of gaining navigable coherence. On the whole, it has become… how did i put it in Indiana? Oh, ya… it has become an “Abject cluster-boink” of planning failure, where the traffic engineers are frog-marched to the city square and flogged with pool noodles while a giant jumbotron broadcasts implications of their misdeeds for all to see. Yes… i would take my punishment like a guilty man.

Yet, don’t we all agree the first step toward redemption is admitting there’s a problem? And I’ve certainly done that. Now, the question remains: what to do about this tangled mess? I’m either adrift, like a sailor on a stormy sea, my ship battered by the waves of misunderstanding, or i’m a modern-day Don Quixote, tilting at windmills of ignorance and injustice, armed only with a laptop and a compulsion. I cast my bloggy pearls into the void, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere, might stumble upon these digital messages in a bottle.

As an offering to the communion gods, i’ve even cloned my voice and began producing AI-generated spoken versions of the work, catering to the audio fans among us. Will i go a step further and offer video? Nope, pass. That’s a bridge too far. Perhaps i should seek an audience match-maker, something, anything. Self-publishing, perhaps? There’s a wealth of advice out there, from Substack to Amazon. But where do i fit in? I’m not driven by reputation or monetary gain. I tend to lean organic, unfiltered. But that also means i’m a lion without hunger, a correspondent without a deadline.

For now, the plan is to sift through the wreckage, salvaging what i can once the tour is completed. I’ll cobble together a volume of highlights, a testament to the gist of my experiences. And then, set sail again, into the uncharted waters of the next adventure i guess. Rinse, repeat till such time as i am unable. Anyway… back to it… one more trip to Colorado Springs. This time, we’re installing rooftop solar, a final urban nomading detail for Rocinante.

Onward through the fog… R H

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter I (the purge)

by RonnieHays February 4, 2024

This Land: Iowa

Iowa, the very heartland of America, is a place where the sky is as vast as an open range and the people are as sturdy as the cornstalks that dominate the landscape. A land of endless horizons and a peculiar brand of charm that’s as comforting as a warm bowl of chicken soup, yet as perplexing as a tornado watch.

Sadly, this flat, fertile expanse is devoid of the earth’s fiery embrace. No bubbling hot springs to soothe weary bones after a day wrestling with eight-row planters. It’s a geological oversight, a cosmic joke, perhaps. But fear not, for the lack of geothermal grandeur is offset by a surplus of Midwestern hospitality, which can be equally warming.

Sioux City, a metropolis of sorts in this agrarian expanse, offers a surprising array of intellectual pursuits. Morningside University, a quaint campus nestled amidst the cornfields, and Western Iowa Tech, a bastion of practical knowledge, cater to the region’s yearning minds. And for those who crave a touch of the exotic, South Dakota State University in nearby Sioux Falls offers a tantalizing glimpse beyond the Iowa horizon.

Literary luminaries have emerged from this seemingly prosaic landscape. The University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop has birthed wordsmiths as prolific as a swarm of locusts. Yet, tangible literary landmarks are as scarce as hen’s teeth. Iowa’s literary legacy is more a whisper on the wind than a towering monument.

Iowans are a peculiar breed. Industrious as prairie dogs, they toil from dawn to dusk, their faces etched with a determination as enduring as the land itself. Yet, beneath the veneer of hard-nosed practicality lies a wellspring of friendliness that can be both disarming and overwhelming. It’s like being hugged by a bear – a warm, fuzzy embrace that can leave you slightly confused.

Community is a cornerstone of Iowa life. Folks look out for one another with a vigilance that borders on obsession. Traditions are clung to with the tenacity of a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood. But this unwavering allegiance to the past can sometimes feel like a straitjacket, stifling individuality and progress. And though driving through Iowa might be a relentless parade of corn, corn, soy beans, Dollar General, corn, corn, corn, Dollar General, soy beans, corn, corn, and corn, the people have their pride as exemplified in their state motto, Our liberties we prize, and our rights we will maintain. In fact, several famous figures hail from the Cardinal State. Former presidents (Herbert Hoover), famous actors (Ashton Kutcher), coaches (Fred Hoiberg), and artists (Grant Wood and Donna Fargo) among others.

While Iowa may lack the dramatic topography of other states, the Loess Hills offer a surprising twist to the endless ag. These wind-carved bluffs are a testament to the land’s resilience, standing as silent sentinels against the relentless march of time. And yes… the weather, a capricious force that can transform the state from a winter wonderland to a sweltering inferno in the blink of an eye.

Agriculture is the lifeblood of Iowa, a monoculture of corn and soybeans punctuated by the occasional oasis of a small town. Yet, beneath the seemingly endless expanse of green, a diverse economy is taking root. Biotechnology, manufacturing, and insurance are injecting a touch of cosmopolitanism into this rural realm.

Life in Iowa offers a certain simplicity. The cost of living is as gentle as a summer breeze, and the pace of life is leisurely enough to cultivate a garden or catch a fish. Jobs may not be as plentiful as blades of grass, but the ones that exist often come with a sense of stability and security. And while the threat of tornadoes and blizzards adds a touch of excitement to everyday life, the state’s overall safety record is as solid as a silo.

Amidst the cornfields and small towns, Iowans exude a quiet confidence. Their faces, a canvas of weathered optimism, reflect a people at peace with their surroundings. It’s a quality that is both endearing and enigmatic.

You got your corn fields…
You got your small towns…
In Iowa… you’ll find your playground…
From the Mississippi…
To the Loess Hills Byway…
liberty and rights the Cardinals prize.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Utah

REMINDER: This isn’t a typical state travelogue, loopers. This is a kaleidoscopic nightmare funhouse of experience, brought to you almost live from the Pike’s Peak Library’s flickering Wi-Fi. Remember Steinbeck in “Travels with Charlie”? Similar deal. We’re all peering at the world through our own warped lenses. We might bend facts from time to time, maybe even invent a story or two, just to get a point across or, hell, maybe just for a laugh.

Our mission: all 48 contiguous states in a year, a whirlwind tour fueled by hot springs and busking (the jury’s still out on the busking, frankly). This is entry number ten, and truth be told, we’re about hot-springed out. But hey, maybe when the snow flies and the world chills out, those pools of scalding water will look more appealing.

Speaking of the fickle finger of fate, this Utah entry is coming to you courtesy of a rogue trucker and a windshield that looks like it went fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson. First crack? We figured we could live with it, a battle scar from the road. Second crack? Sounded like a goddamn gunshot, leaving a gaping maw in Rocinante’s once-pristine view of the world. Check, and mate. We limped into Vernal, Utah, a dusty outpost seemingly populated entirely by paleontologists. Turns out, the magic replacement glass for our noble mount was not in stock. Combined with the fact that we had another technical problem waiting in the wings. Specifically, Rocinante’s power station link to the motor’s alternator is subject to a factory recall. That problem had a roughly 3-week lead time. So, the options? A: Become one with the Utah outback until the technology planets align. B: Hightail it back to Hays, regroup, knock out a few repairs, catch up on snail mail from the PO box, and maybe, just maybe, have a beer (or three) with some friends. Option B, it was, and a good time was had by all… 😉

Now, back to Utah. Ronnie Hays, our intrepid (and slightly befuddled) explorer, first encountered the Beehive State back in the halcyon days of y2k. A freshly-minted network administrator for a Denver architecture/engineering firm, he found himself wrangling computers for their new Salt Lake City satellite office. Governor Mitt Romney was at the helm then, prepping for the 2002 Winter Olympics, a future success story veiled in construction dust and post-9/11 security paranoia. Ronnie, meanwhile, was juggling the network buildout and a blossoming romance with a lovely darling from Spokane with roots in the Church of Latter-day Saints (LDS).

Fast forward to a potentially career-ending decision. Ronnie, bless his naive soul, packed a yellow Ryder truck – yeah, the same kind that delivered fiery doom to Oklahoma City – with office equipment. Remember those angry militia types? Yeah, not a good look. After unloading the gear in the SLC office, Ronnie decided to grab a Godiva treat for his Spokane sweetheart. Parking spot of choice? Right next to the main LDS temple. Picture this: Ronnie, shaved head and all, looking like a skinhead with a bomb plot, abandoning a Ryder truck in temple proximity. Post-9/11, loopers! Here’s the kicker: No interrogation. No raised eyebrows. Just Ronnie, oblivious to his near brush with disaster, feeling strangely confident about the competence of the Olympic planners, particularly Mr. Romney. Measured and calm, that’s how Ronnie saw it.

Over the next decade, working with the loopers in SLC, Ronnie solidified his impression. These were some of the nicest, most genuine people he’d ever met, rivaled only by the deeply Mennonite denizens of Hillsboro, Kansas. Religious communities, Ronnie learned, are a mixed bag. Some, like the Mormons and the Mennonites, seem to genuinely strive for those good old-fashioned moral values and decency. This coming from a card-carrying secular humanist, mind you.

For the homegrown loopers, Utah’s a paradise sculpted by a celestial stonemason. Think towering crimson cliffs spilling out like a kaleidoscope on fire, and enough outdoor activities to make a grizzly bear envious. Hot springs bubble up like nature’s Jacuzzi, with Monroe Hot Springs a favorite amongst the locals (though let’s be honest, loopers, a quick Google search reveals a whole smorgasbord of options).

Outsiders, those poor bastards lost in a Greyhound bus-induced fugue state, stumble into Utah for the same reasons: the scenery’s a knockout, a visual uppercut that’ll leave you breathless. The “Mighty Five” National Parks – Zion, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Arches, and Canyonlands – are a crown jewel collection fit for a psychedelic king. And hey, those hot springs add a touch of surreal serenity after a day of dodging rattlesnakes and “Mormon Crickets” (more on that later).

Now, about them institutions of higher learnin’. Utah’s got a decent spread of small-to-medium colleges like Weber State and Utah Valley slinging affordable educations. As for famous literary landmarks? Well, that’s about as scarce as a decent mojito in Salt Lake City. Though Robert Frost’s little stint at Brigham Young does add a curious footnote, like a stray haiku scribbled on a napkin in a Denny’s.

But hey, who needs Dostoevsky when you’ve got a community spirit stronger than moonshine and a work ethic that’d put a Puritan to shame? Utahns are a hardy bunch, the kind who’d build a log cabin with their bare hands and a smile (probably because they can’t drink a decent cup of joe in this state, but hey, more for the rest of us, right?). Sure, there’s a whiff of social conservatism clinging to the air, thicker than hairspray at a Miss Utah pageant. But Ronnie here, your fearless guide through this geological wonderland, can tell you this: it ain’t the in-your-face Bible-thumping you get down South. More like a politely phrased pamphlet tucked under your windshield wiper.

Speaking of windshields, let’s talk about the real star of the show: Utah’s natural majesty. Picking a single “best” spot is like picking a favorite flavor of crazy – you just can’t. But Zion National Park, with its towering red cliffs and slot canyons that look like they were carved by a deranged sculptor on peyote, is a definite contender.

Regarding Utah’s general vibe, their motto is Industry…? Now, this seems a bit too generalized to draw any meaning, but when you juxtapose the motto with their famous “beehive” iconography, it makes wagon-train loads of sense. In order for the early settlers to carve out a niche of civilization from the Great Salt desert, it would require singularity of purpose and cooperative action to get ‘er done. Very much like the machinations of bees all working for the interests of their hive in real time.

And the famous loopers? Utah’s got a surprising number of them. There’s Robert Redford, the man with a face that launched a thousand swoons, the Osmond family with their wholesome brand of earworms, Philo T. Farnsworth, the goddamn inventor of television (thankfully, he’s not around to see the logical Kardashian conclusion), and the whole Sundance Film Festival bringing current and future celebrities to Park City every January.

Now, the state’s bread and butter? Tourism, obviously, but mining, tech, and the government sector all play a role in keeping the gears of Utah turning. And for the average Joe (or Jane) punching a clock? The cost of living is reasonable, and jobs are plentiful, making it a prime stomping ground for young professionals still reaching for that “American Dream”.

Finally, a word about Vernal, a desert oasis that popped up like a mirage after we took a rock half the size of a golf ball to the windshield (thanks, Utah!). The desolation was epic, man. On the way there, we saw what looked like a stampede of miniature bison migrating across the highway – turns out, those weren’t tiny bison at all, but Mormon Crickets, these hoppy little buggers that look like something out of Gulliver’s Travels gone bad. Not exactly a threat to humans, but a surefire way to make any halfway curious road tripper slam on the brakes.

So there you have it, loopers. A taste of Utah, the state that’ll leave you with sun-bleached memories, a renewed appreciation for wide-open spaces, and maybe, just maybe, a hankering for a good cup of coffee (because seriously, Utah, what’s the deal?). Until next time, we’re hitting the road again, hoping to appease the windshield-exploding rock gods and delve deeper into the fibrillating heart of our divided nation.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

And now… more with ongoing apologies to Mr. Guthrie.

I saw a stampede…
Cross a Utah Highway…
I felt a calm vibe…
From a Beehive family…
But don’t you worry…
You’ll get your coffee…
Utah peeps can bee and let it be.

This Land: Wyoming

Ronnie Hays, bless his late-developed soul, once spent a week in Riverton, Wyoming that felt like a lifetime trapped in a malfunctioning deep freeze. December in that desolate outpost was a symphony of howling wind and sub-zero temperatures, a perfect recipe for laryngitis. Ronnie, fueled by a steady diet of codeine cough syrup and a delusional dream of rockstardom, had the brilliant idea to chase his nonexistent high notes across a stage the size of a postage stamp. Needless to say, it went about as well as a penguin tap-dancing competition on the moon.

Fast forward a couple of years. Ronnie, now liberated from the shackles of his musical aspirations, found himself partnered with a gonzo comrade, Fozzy. (We’ll christen him Fozzy for the sake of anonymity… let’s just say we’re super glad there was no Facebook in the 80s.)

Fozzy, a Laramie-educated savant with a graduate school acceptance letter burning a hole in his pocket, held a peculiar belief: that Laramie, Wyoming, was a magical land where cops were blind to the transgressions of the gloriously intoxicated. This, of course, was a theory ripe for testing by two nihilistic souls clinging desperately to the wreckage of their mid-80s existence.

Imagine, if you will, a “borrowed” car (ownership and registration a fiction at best), fueled by cold beer (courtesy of the nearest liquor store), hurtling towards Laramie like a pair of wobbly missiles. The speedometer, a mere suggestion, registered a healthy too-damn-fast, a testament to their utter disregard for both the law and their own mortality.

Several beers and a vanished sunset later, they rolled into Laramie like banshees on Adderall. To their utter disappointment, the flashing blue lights they so richly deserved remained stubbornly absent. Finally, in a moment of glorious absurdity, Fozzy managed to run a red light, narrowly missing a cop car pulling out of a parking lot.

“Well, this is it,” Ronnie chuckled, fresh with “i told you so” energy dancing in his eyes. Busted! Hauled off to the drunk tank! A glorious, self-inflicted martyrdom!

The officer, a woman with a withering gaze that could curdle milk, approached Fozzy’s window. The story Fozzy concocted to explain their lack of documentation was a masterpiece of nonsensical bravado, worthy of a Bugs Bunny episode. Miraculously, it worked. The officer, perhaps amused by the sheer audacity of it all, subjected Fozzy to a “sobriety dance” (how he passed remains a mystery). Deemed sufficiently non-threatening, they were banished from her sight with a stern warning and a $25 fine, payable through a conveniently located “after hours” slot at the courthouse.

And so Fozzy’s theory is field-tested and determined factually sound. Or perhaps, Laramie had simply taken pity on these two hapless fools.

Anyway… enough ancient history, as Garth Algar once said… “LIVE IN THE NOW!”

So what of Wyoming now? Well, it’s a land of contradictions. The Equal Rights motto proudly proclaims a progressive past, yet some grapple with its present-day relevance. Natural wonders like Yellowstone leave visitors speechless, while the wind in Riverton can leave you speechless… and possibly frostbitten. Thermopolis, however, boasts hot springs that could soothe even the most cynical soul, as Ronnie himself discovered on his later, decidedly less gonzo, tour. The locals cherish their independence and self-reliance, but there’s a growing discussion about the need for more higher education options. Famous figures like Esther Hobart Morris and J.C. Penney stand as testaments to Wyoming’s spirit, while economic mainstays like tourism and resource extraction raise questions about environmental responsibility.

In the end, Wyoming offers a unique tapestry: breathtaking beauty, a fierce sense of self, and a touch of the wild west. And yes, while Fozzy’s theory about DUIs in Laramie may have held some truth back in ’86, we’re pretty damn sure you can get one now.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

And now…
Another step up the Tower of Song…
With apologies to Woody Guthrie…
And Leonard Cohen.

For Nature’s Wonders…
And personal liberty…
Don’t look far…
It’s in Wyoming…
Declare your freedom…
And let your freak flag fly…
Equal Rights are stamped upon its seal.

This Land: Montana

So here we are, a new “This Land” tour motto ringing in our ears: “Ever thus to the best laid plans,” like some cosmic Rodney Dangerfield whispering sweet nothings of misfortune. Or, as Iron Mike Tyson would say, “everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.”

Yessir, Rocinante, our mostly-trusty mount, decided to throw a wobbly right in the heart of Big Sky Country. Talk about a plot twist worthy of a pulp novel! Forget the quaint plan to hug along the northern border till autumn’s cool embrace washes over the central states. We were in Bismarck, North Dakota, staring down the barrel of a Northeast heat wave that could roast a side of beef, when Montana beckoned like a siren song. First stop: Billings. A strip mall Mecca, with Wal Mart to the left and Planet Fitness to the right, and a gloriously semi-shady parking spot (complete with a complimentary grass carpet for Rocinante).

But as the Bard himself might have quipped, a rolling stone gathers no moss, and the siren song of geothermal bliss in Chico lured us onward. The journey was a technicolor blur – us, the befuddled tourists, waltzing through a funhouse of wrong turns, misplaced tickets, and a staff that looked at us like extras from a particularly bizarre reality TV show. But hey, all’s well that ends well, and the mineral pool? Pure, unadulterated bliss.

Bozeman is where we scribbled this dispatch with the ghosts of cowboys and prospectors whispering in our ears. Oro y Plata, they rasp, that dusty state motto – a gold-rush relic that speaks of Montana’s glittering past. But Montana’s more than just a bygone era. Here, Native American oral traditions echo through the canyons, while literary giants like Norman Maclean and James Welch spin tales that capture the rugged soul of the place. Forget your fancy bookstores, loopers. The real stories are whispered by the wind and etched in the faces of the locals.

Yellowstone? Sure, it might be Wyoming’s crown jewel, but Montana holds the key to the back door – a secret stash of less-crowded wonderlands for those who know where to look. As for famous Montanans? Think beyond Hollywood. Charles M. Russell, the cowboy artist, paints a truer picture, and Jeannette Rankin, the first woman in Congress, is a testament to Montana’s maverick spirit.

This state’s lifeblood? It pumps to the rhythm of ranching and agriculture, a slow, steady beat that some might find intoxicating, others isolating. Tourism throws a splashy cymbal crash into the mix, a double-edged sword for these close-knit communities. But for the everyday worker? Montana’s a symphony of affordability, a chorus of friendly faces, and an entire concerto dedicated to wide-open spaces and the thrill of self-reliance.

The locals? They’re a rugged bunch, fiercely independent, possessing a deep connection to the land that borders on the spiritual. But don’t be fooled by the gruff exterior. Hospitality here is as vast as the sky, and looking out for one another is the unwritten melody that binds them all.

Of course, no symphony is complete without a discordant note. Isolation can be a haunting melody, opportunities a little thin on the ground, and change? Well, let’s just say some folks prefer the classics. There’s a whisper of a lack of diversity too, and a tension between those who’ve always known this land and those just discovering its charm.

But hey, that’s the beauty of Montana – a land of contradictions, a place where the unexpected throws a monkey wrench into your meticulously planned itinerary, and the soundtrack of your journey is a wild, unpredictable jazz riff played out against a backdrop of breathtaking beauty. Strap in, loopers, because in This Land, you never quite know what the next verse will hold.

And speaking of verses (again, apologies to Woody Guthrie):

It might be cozy…
In Big Sky country…
Sharing campsites…
With tourists bluntly…
And if you can’t swing…
Winter’s fury…
You might want to go ahead…
And move along.

Onward through the fog… R.H.