road trip

This Land: North Dakota

Ah, North Dakota. Land of horizon-chugging grass-land and enough sky to make a claustrophobic traveler weep with joy. The stretch from Rapid City to Bismarck looked so much like the above image, it’s uncanny. No way could we get driver’s fatigue because it was straight up pastoral… beautiful! The state motto, in classic radio voice, declares Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable! But hold your horses, loopers, because North Dakota liberty isn’t exactly Park Avenue window shopping. It’s more like strapping yourself to a goddamn rocket and blasting off into the great, howling void.

The ongoing search for hot springs? Asking around, we learned about Mineral Springs, tucked away in the Sheyenne River State Forest like a secret whispered by the wind. One measly waterfall, that’s all you get. But hey, at least it’s free – the water, that is. You might have to wrestle a badger for a decent towel. Unfortunately, it’s roughly a couple hundred miles out of the way so we took a pass. You see, nighttime temp in Bismarck dipped into the low 40s, and we were prepared for a late spring heat wave. So… we paid a quick personal hygiene visit to the local Planet Fitness, shivering at 5:30am, but then hightailed out of there, lickity-split.

Busking? No, but we did send some practice numbers into the Planet Fitness dressing room.

Famous musicians? Sure… those of a certain age might remember Bobby Vee, Peggy Lee, and Mary Osborne to name a few.

Colleges? Sure, there are a few universities scattered around, public and private, dispensing knowledge like seed corn. But don’t expect any Harvard Yard elitism here. These are institutions built with calloused hands and a no-nonsense spirit. Think less tweed jackets, more Carhartt overalls.

Literary landmarks? Well… North Dakota didn’t raise any Prousts. But there’s a certain stark beauty to the landscape that’s inspired its fair share of poets and novelists (Louis L’Amour anyone?). It’s the kind of place that makes you want to pound out a story on your typewriter with the fury of a possessed prairie dog.

Now, about those North Dakotans… they’re a hardy bunch, shaped by the relentless, brutal winters. They may give you the shirt off their backs (after peeling off a layer or two), but they won’t hesitate to tell you where to shove it if you cross them. We’re told it’s a land of salt-of-the-earth honesty and a deep respect for tradition.

Let’s get down to cases… you’ve seen the Coen Brother’s Oscar-winning movie, Fargo, right? North Dakota winters are enough to make a penguin question life choices. And if you’re looking for excitement, well, you might be better off watching paint dry. But there there is a certain peace to this place, a vast emptiness that allows you to breathe and maybe even hear yourself think. We know… we experienced it first hand on the drive to Bismarck from Rapid City.

Famous figures? You might not recognize their names, but North Dakota’s churned out its fair share of tough hombres and pioneering women (Louis L’Amour anyone?). Farmers who coaxed life from the stubborn earth, politicians who fought for what they believed in, everyday heroes who faced down blizzards and droughts with grit.

Lifestyle? For visitors, it’s a chance to disconnect, to shed the city slicker facade and embrace the raw beauty of the Great Plains. For natives, it’s a life built on hard work, community, and a fierce independence. It’s not for everyone, this North Dakota. But for those who find solace in the howl of the wind and the endless expanse of sky, it’s a place to call home.

As for that state motto, well, you can imagine North Dakotans appreciating their liberty as the freedom to leave their porchlight on all night without anyone bothering to steal it. We had to imagine it, because the wet, frigid night and morning made us hot to trot to get the hell outta Bismarck.

Once again… apologies to Woody Guthrie:

In North Dakota…
You got your liberty…
But don’t forget…
Responsibility…
To help each other…
In the face of nature’s wrath…
Now and forever…
We are one!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

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

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XI (plotting a course)

Picture this, America: some aging fool and his four-wheeled testament to stubbornness, baptized “Rocinante” for that same delusional optimism. Me? I’m trading academe for the wide-open spaces, tilting at the broadcast towers of mainstream media following a loose spine of favorable climates and college towns across these 48 states.

You see, I’ve got this itch. This notion that the true pulse of America isn’t in corporate board rooms or the marbled halls of power, but in the sticky floors of dive bars, the sun-baked town squares, and the yawning lecture halls of universities. So, Rocinante and i, we’re on a quest.

First things first, a man can’t get to the heart of the American Dream on an empty stomach. In each town, the routine is honed with a survivalist’s focus: hygiene out of the way (gyms, truck stops, even the occasional river bath for that true hobo chic), laundry refreshed, and Rocinante’s belly restocked with fuel and provisions. Local libraries become my sanctum – free internet, musty books, a whiff of intellectualism to ward off the creeping road madness.

Then, the hunt begins. I stalk state facts like a cornered possum, armed with Wikipedia and an unhealthy obsession with the bizarre and overlooked. Then it’s into the fray! I corner unsuspecting locals, less like an intrepid reporter and more like a stray dog sniffing out dinner.

“What’s your state motto?” I’ll ask, eyes gleaming with the zeal of a half-crazed Jeremiah. Then the real fun – listening as they fumble, praise, or outright despise those hallowed words. This, loopers, is raw, unfiltered Americana that no cable pundit can manufacture. It gets distilled into my loopy travel-blog dispatches over whatever questionable Wi-Fi i can scrounge.

College campuses – they’re the petri dishes of society, bubbling with idealism, hormones, and all that youthful angst. If there’s unrest brewing, Ronnie Hays has a front-row seat. Not to incite riots, but to chronicle the messy, beautiful chaos of young minds at war with a world that doesn’t seem to give two spits.

Now, this land, it sings to me. Woody Guthrie’s ghost haunts my guitar case. In each state, i’ll pen my own crooked verse of “This Land is Your Land,” a wind-whipped, low-fi ode to the cracked highways and resilient souls i find. Welcome signs become my stage, YouTube my tin-can amplifier.

Planning ain’t my strong suit. Half the joy is in the detours. But hot springs? Oh, sweet geothermal bliss. i’ll soak these old bones till they’re soft as a boiled noodle, conjuring up the ghosts of grizzled prospectors and bathing beauties while i fend off mosquitoes.

To fund this glorious mess, a little busking. My luting skills ain’t Carnegie Hall material, but it’ll buy a burger, or at least a sympathetic chuckle from passersby.

And so, it begins. A year under the vast American sky, a tin can Don Quixote fueled by French roast and stubborn hope. Expect tales of barroom philosophers, off-grid eccentrics, and everyday folks grappling with the beautiful, broken heart of this country. Expect a whole lotta nonsense, a dash of truth, and maybe, just maybe, a sliver of understanding about this glorious, maddening, never-ending experiment called America.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Hot Springs or Busk (chapter VII): Rocinante’s Maiden Voyage

And so, our mongrel of the rueful countenance takes another step closer to his post-retirement vision quest (hot springs or busk). Unlike Don Quixote’s rusty armor, helmet, and spear, he dons camo shorts, Tevas, and Hawaiian shirts blending gloriously with the avocado floor of his newly outfitted camper van. He christened her “Rocinante,” a nod to the famous 17th century novel and a little inside joke to himself. Seemed fitting for a slightly unhinged adventure like this. Luckily he’s traveling with a couple equally bent family members, we’ll call them Dawnareeno and Crazy Carter.

The first stop on Rocinante’s maiden voyage was Colorado Springs, where some savvy outfitters promised to turn Rocinante’s insides into a rolling studio apartment. Ronnie threw caution to the wind and was not disappointed, the outfitters turned the van into a true vagabond sanctuary. While waiting for the workers to finish the job, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, and Crazy Carter took in a few of the local attractions, and while exploring, stumbled upon a vintage motorcycle shop… you know, the one with the cryptic “help wanted” sign in the window. It was practically tailor-made for a gearhead like Crazy Carter, and we all got a chuckle from the words on the sign: “Wanted… mechanic to work on vintage motorcycles. Prefer a retiree with their own tools and plenty of time on their hands.”

Right on time, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, Crazy Carter, and Rocinante tilted towards the plains, bound for their home town where mom still lives (call her Sassy Salgal). Visiting that tiny windswept Western Kansas town made these intrepid travelers feel nostalgic for their flaming youth. But if the wind didn’t shake the vans to pieces that night, well, that would be a minor miracle. It howled like a banshee on a bender, giving their rolling domiciles an unnerving sway that had them contemplating the merits of Dramamine pills.

One more overnight. This time somewhere near the Choctaw Nation, they boondocked in a nearly empty truck stop parking lot, nearly empty because the place had closed for the night in order to upgrade their IT setup. Dinner under the golden arches, then up bright and early for the final stretch to Savannah with its sweet tea, Spanish moss, and symphonies of croaking frogs like drunken choirs of mutant crickets. It was Mother Nature’s lullaby and that night our intrepid travelers slept the sleep of the dead. The frog chorus was as loud as those relentless Kansas winds, which is saying something. Savannah has a ghostly charm, and Ronnie’s travel companions, back in their element, served up a delicious bowl of eggs, grits, and salsa. Just the rib-sticking ticket for the long journey back to Hays America.

A stopping point on the return trip, Nashville, very nearly did him in. The traffic was a biblical swarm of 18-wheelers and urban assault vehicles piloted by rage-filled maniacs who seemed personally offended by the very existence of camper vans. Our hero sweated bullets, the beginnings of a stress ulcer gnawing away in his gut as he navigated potholes big enough to swallow Rocinante whole. Between the craters and the belligerent rat race, he was about ready to cash in his chips and take up residence in a roadside ditch.

But like all things, even Nashville’s particular circle of hell came to an end. St. Louis passed in a blur, then a welcomed ice cream break with his two boys and a special friend in Kansas City, and then… the long, lonely expanse of I-70. The wind returned for one last hurrah, a farewell slap to remind him who was really in charge out on the prairie. Ronnie gritted his teeth, visions of sugar-coated mood gummies and his home bed the only thing keeping him sane.

And then, just like that, there was Hays America again. Rocinante, despite the indignities suffered, pulled into the parking lot with a weary sigh. Ronnie, a little grayer, a little more wrinkled, and sporting a newfound respect for the sheer chaotic power of the American highway, stumbled out. He was home, and damn, if it didn’t feel good. He might not be the world’s greatest adventurer yet, but as he patted Rocinante’s battered side, he grinned. “We’ve only just begun,” he said. There are 50 states in the good ol’ USofA, and Ronnie with Rocinante plans to busk them all then relax in their natural hot springs along the way.

Onward… through the fog!

And so… it begins!

Greetings, Loopers…
And great day in the morning!
Finally… a break from that weeks-long taste of Arctic-brisk.

Argh… over it, i am.

Now, as i was shedding the “bearskin-thick” protective layers, it hit me between the eyes. My 65th birthday and exit from the professional treadmill is mere months away. I promised myself in the doldrums of the post-y2k “dot-bomb” that i would, upon retirement, either A.), buy a wind-powered craft and sail the seven seas or B.) obtain a “Prairie Schooner” and roam the earth like Kwai Chang Caine. Well… the time has arrived, and a few hard truths have forced a semi-sudden pivot with the vehicles i’ll use to fulfill this visualization. For one, this middle of everywhere, landlubbin’ flatlander is a horrible candidate for single-handed sailing, and two, the pop-up tent/awning solution i, only last year, acquired for prairie schooning will work only in perfectly temperate zones. So… people i trust were advising i go the “stealth urban camper” route of acquiring a converted cargo van and turning it into a rolling tiny home. So, i started researching turn-key options and came up for air gasping at six-figure price tags… GAHHHH!

Solution? Acquire an empty van as blank canvas (see above), design, and construct the interior myself (project to begin post-haste).

Once that is accomplished… strap in, loopers, because this ain’t your drunk uncle’s road trip. We are professionals… we have “objectives.” This is a 52-week, 48-state odyssey through the heart of American academia, fueled by equal parts French Roast, guitars, and pure, unadulterated curiosity. We’re hitting Hays America’s sister cities… public college towns, mind you, the kind where dorms smell like stale pizza and regret, and the professors are either jaded veterans or wide-eyed grad students with tenure dreams as fragile as a bong hit in a mosh pit.

But hold on, this ain’t just about singing for my supper in college-towns across the nation. It’s also a quest for the literary Grail, a boozy, bookish bacchanal that’ll have us chasing Hemingway’s ghost in Key West, Kerouac’s shadow in Desolation Peak, and Faulkner’s phantom in Oxford, Mississippi. We’ll be spelunking through dusty library stacks, communing with ghosts, and trading wild stories like currency in smoky campus dives.

And when the sun sets on another day on the road, we’ll seek solace in our nation’s natural cathedrals: Yosemite’s granite giants, Yellowstone’s geyser symphony, the Grand Canyon’s mile-deep abyss. We’ll soak our grumpy bones in hidden hot springs, letting the geothermal magic mend our aching glutes and rekindle our wanderlust.

But be warned, this isn’t for the faint of heart. This is a road paved with potholes and detours, populated by characters as colorful as a Thompson-esque fever dream. We’ll encounter campus radicals and redneck renegades, peyote-toting professors and chain-smoking librarians, all with their own stories to tell, their own demons to chase.

So, are you ready, loopers? Ready to trade textbooks for bibles, lecture halls for dive bars, and term papers for loopy podcasts? Then buckle up, grab your Delta8 Vape, and let’s hit the gas on this loopcircus odyssey across the American landscape. We’ll be blogging our descent into madness every step of the way, so stay tuned for dispatches from the fringes, where academia meets anarchy, and the pursuit of knowledge gets a whole lot more interesting.

FOR EXAMPLE: Appalachian Ambiance and Moonshine Melodies

This stop begins in the misty hills of Boone, North Carolina, home to Appalachian State University, a haven for bluegrass pickers and outdoorsy types. We’ll be swapping songs for sammichs, trading Chaucer for cheap moonshine, and getting our Thoreau on in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain. Stay tuned for tales of wildlife encounters, existential campfire chats, and communing with the local legends who call these mountains home.

This is just an example, loopers. We’ve got 47 more states to explore, 48 stories to tell. So keep your eyes peeled, your minds open, and your courage prepped for the mother of all road trips. Because in this loopy odyssey, the only constant is the open road, and the only map we need is a tattered paperback with a dog-eared page for every adventure.

Cheers… Rohlfie

Hot Springs or Busk Chapter I =>

The Quick and the Dead

Baby Kyle was a sheepdog… age 17…
He sniffed out a pit-fight scene…
Vigilante ascent… loaded rifle he went…
To protect private property.

He loped into town… and spoke with renown…
To the press who had gathered there…
For the lambs getting hurt… put the ferals on alert…
Said his duty was to guard the square.

He’d seen on the video… pit-fight scenes
Played out crystal clear in his head…
The lesson that he takes… two pit-fighters make…
The quick… and the stone cold dead.

He joined in the fray… that fateful summer day…
In the din of the riot sound…
When the smoke of the chaos cleared away…
Two bodies… they had hit the ground.

A babyface pup… in over his head…
Faced the fury of an angry tide…
He learned his lesson well… lived to tell the bloody tale…
Now… justice will have to decide.

He’ll stand before the judge… and the jury twelve…
Twelve more for the caskets pall…
A ton of broken dreams… now a ward of the farm…
No more to play sheepdog.

On the western shore… others do abhor…
The state of a farm divide…
Anti-fascists on the left… vigilantes on the right…
No more will the shepherd abide.

There’s a feeling i get… starting out a road trip…
The kind where i can barely breathe…
I love my hometown and i really get around…
But today… i just can’t wait…

To leave.