Now, Ronnie, his conception of California mostly the product of pop culture and literature, had dreamed of staking a claim in the LA music scene back in his salad days. But those dreams evaporated in a mix of spandex, big hair, and MTV-dominated schlock. He washed out in the Denver cover-band scene, selling out for a couple hundred bucks a week. His California Dream ended on New Year’s Eve, 1987.
Fast forward to 2024. The Hot Springs or Busk tour begins its California leg in Eureka, a beach town crawling with former pirates, giving us the heebie-jeebies. The local strip-mall reeked of desperation, beach sand coating every surface like a bad habit. We pushed on to Redding, a digital nomad-friendly place with a familiar feel. Sorta like Garden City Kansas, with palm trees.
Speaking of familiar places, we ventured south to Steinbeck Country… Salinas. Now, Ronnie’s used to half-empty malls, but this one was a different story. Thousands of people, a rainbow of cultures, all having a grand time. It was oddly refreshing, being on the other side of the majority.
And yes, California is home to many small to medium-sized colleges, as well as several famous literary landmarks associated with renowned authors. Jack London State Historic Park, The Henry Miller Library, a museum dedicated to the works of that prominent figure of the Beat Generation. And John Steinbeck National Historic Site, the birthplace and childhood home of that Nobel Prize-winner.
Cannery Row CharactersCannery RowMonterey Historic DistrictView from Doc’s LabWaiting for breakfastBringing in the haul
Steinbeck Country… Cannery Row… Salinas… Monterey… after leaving Eureka (scared the hell outta Rocinante), then we hoofed it to Redding (cos they had a PF), then to Salinas… hung here for a while before making our way to the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH) all the way to the LA archipelago (Moorpark, specifically).
Anyway… California isn’t just super-big, it’s also quite diverse in landscape: including a wide range of natural environments, from the Pacific coast to the Sierra Nevada mountains. It offers, at least in the coastal regions, fairly consistent Mild days with most of the state enjoying a Mediterranean climate, warm dry summers and mild, wet winters.
California, as anyone paying attention to national affairs knows, has a thriving economy, with major industries in technology, entertainment, agriculture, and tourism. But all those roads and bridges in sasquatch-infested double-canopy jungles require a somewhat higher bracket of fuel tax… (this is an extreme understatement).
Oy… thanks a lot, Obama
California also has its share of publicly accessible natural hot springs, from Slates Hot Springs near Big Sur to Travertine Hot Springs in the Mono County area. And, in Ronnie’s estimation, the best feature of all is California’s cultural diversity. California is a delicious mix of cultures, with a rich tapestry of ethnicities and traditions… this is our true national character… a glorious stew of the world’s diverse personalities.
Oregon! A place where the gods must have been drunk when they tossed the dice. A state where the mountains are so tall they kiss the sky, and the forests are so thick you could get lost in them for a lifetime. It’s a place where the sun can shine bright one minute and then unleash a torrent of rain in the next… a land of contradictions and extremes.
Picture this: you’re cruising down the Oregon Coast, the breeze cool and fragrant, the Pacific Ocean stretching out before you like a vast, angry beast. You’re surrounded by towering cliffs, sandy beaches, and tide pools teeming with life. But then, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky, the fog rolls in, thick and heavy, obscuring everything. And just when you think it can’t get any worse, you swear you see a Sasquatch lurking in the shadows. It’s a scene straight out of a nightmare, a testament to the raw, untamed beauty of this place.
Beyond the natural wonders, Oregon is a state of mind. It’s a place where intellectuals and hippies rub shoulders, where the counterculture thrives, and where the pursuit of knowledge is as important as the pursuit of pleasure. From the sprawling campus of Oregon State University to the ivy-covered halls of Lewis & Clark College, Oregon offers a diverse range of educational opportunities.
And let’s not forget about the food. Fresh seafood, local brews, and a thriving culinary scene make Oregon a foodie’s paradise. From the hip restaurants of Portland to the cozy cafes of small-town Oregon, there’s something to satisfy every palate.
But Oregon is not all one love and kumbaya. It’s a place where the cost of living can be as high as the mountains, and where the rain can fall so hard it feels like a biblical flood. And yet, despite its challenges, Oregon remains a place of endless fascination and adventure. It’s a state that will leave you both enchanted and exhausted, but always with a story to tell.
Rollin’ through… An Oregon forest… I swear i heard… A sasquatch chorus… But back to Earth… The Portland gridlock… Take a breath… It’s gonna be a while.
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 it was the right place. 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.
Grand Coulee DamSpokane, WAOlympia, WAMarathon ParkGrand Coulee Dam
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.
View from Capital HillWA State CapitalHike to the capitalWTH is this?
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.
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.
You see, R.H. has always gotten Iowa and Ohio mixed up, so when we actually rolled into Ohio and learned it was the REAL "Buckeye" state, Ronnie felt some nostalgic pains for the days when publishers could afford to employ fact-checkers AND copy editors.
Anyway, the egregious error has been corrected, and apologies all around to the Cardinal AND the Buckeye states. We'll try to do better going forward, but will probably continue to do our best proofreading after hitting "publish".... Oy vey.
ONE MORE THING: We think it's important to note, among the hubbub over AI wrecking creative and journalistic landscapes, the abovementioned error (confusing Ohio's with Iowa's state icons) was an all-too-human error.
Yes... we leverage AI tools to generate loopcircus content, but we aren't in it for monetary gain, and we don't ask Siri's drunk sister to invent stories out of whole silicon/digital cloth.
We do this because R.H. says he HAS to. Call it a pursuit of self discovery, call it vanity posting, call it what you will. R.H. calls soul-work, and the speed in which these little soul-work nuggets are produced is greatly increased using available AI tools.
Furthermore, we don't take a position on the relative goodness or badness of the introduction of these tools, but with that said, we recognize the direction of the wind, and if you can't catch it (the wind), you might as well hoist and trim the sails.
Onward through the fog... loopcircus
Duluth, Minnesota. A granite jaw jutting into the maw of Lake Superior. They say it’s a stone’s throw from Dylan’s stomping grounds. We’re in no rush. Time is a river here, meandering leisurely through a landscape of pine and granite. The locals, bless their frostbitten hearts, seem to operate on a different clock altogether, a sundial perhaps, or maybe an ancient Norse timepiece that only reads ‘winter’ and ‘summer’.
Our encounter across this land of sky and water began with the stories from Ronnie’s first college mentor. A woman of the theater. She’d painted the Twin Cities as a glittering metropolis of culture, a place where the soul could stretch its legs and breathe. The Guthrie, she’d called it, a temple to the spoken word. A siren song, it was, luring us to the heart of Minnesota. But the fates, or perhaps our wounded mount, Rocinante, had other plans. So, we veer west, towards the iron-rich womb of the state, Hibbing. A pilgrimage, you see, to the birthplace of a bard.
Minnesota, a land of paradox. Its people, a curious blend of Nordic stoicism and Midwestern warmth. They speak of a quality called “Minnesota Nice,” a veneer of sugarcoating that hides a core of sturdy, salt-of-the-earth practicality. It’s a concept as elusive as the Northern Lights, shimmering on the horizon but always just out of reach.
Deluth, MNBob Dylan’s Stompin’ GroundsNopeNo… NOTriple NOPEAre you kidding?
The state itself is a canvas painted with extremes. Winters, a brutal siege of ice and snow, when the land lies dormant beneath a thick, white blanket. Summers, a riot of green, when the air is thick with the sweet scent of pine and the relentless hum of mosquitoes. These are the beasts that rule the North, tiny tyrants demanding tribute in blood. It’s a wonder anyone stays. Perhaps it’s the lure of the lakes, those crystalline jewels scattered across the landscape like a giant’s spilled treasure. Or maybe it’s the promise of a quiet life, far from the maddening crowds.
Yet, amidst the frozen tundra and the mosquito-infested marsh land, a surprising bloom of culture thrives. Colleges dot the land, nurturing young minds in the heart of the country. And from this unlikely soil, literary giants have risen. Sinclair Lewis, a bitter pill of Midwestern realism. Garrison Keillor, a gentle humorist who found poetry in the mundane. And then there’s the music of Prince and the troubadour, Dylan, a cosmic wanderer who carried a piece of Minnesota with him to the farthest reaches of the world.
So, we press on, into the heart of the land, armed with bug spray and a healthy dose of curiosity. Hibbing awaits, a chapter yet to be written in the Hot Springs or Busk adventure.
Way up north… You’ll find the great lakes… If you’re not careful… You’ll make a big mistake… So don’t you hurry… Don’t give to worry… Minnesota neighbors feel your pain.
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 all the tech. 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.
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.
Ok… i get it. It was the week of Independence Day. I showed up to home port with a holiday approaching. But i made a point to stress i wasn’t in a hurry, i just wanted to get the process of ordering parts and whatever other rigmarole necessary for the repairs underway in a timely manner.
But when i returned, a week later, seeking a date for the drydock, the shipmaster’s eyes glazed over like a barnacle-encrusted hull. “Oh, we know about yer plight,” he said, voice as flat as the Kansas prairie. “Parts were on back-order. They’re on their way now… Tuesday like clockwork. We’ll have ye shipshape by Wednesday.” A week and a half after dropping anchor.
A likely tale, that. The truth, me bucko, is they’d forgotten me, a speck on the horizon of their regular business rhythm. But the mate had the grace to keep a straight face. “Parts Tuesday, repairs Wednesday,” he repeated, as if reciting a nautical prayer.
Now, i’m a man of modest stature, a captain of a vessel dwarfed by the tour busses of the world. And like any short-legged wayfarer, i’ve weathered the doldrums of indifference. I may be refreshingly charismatic, fit, talented, smart, even at times, kind, but yea… short. Oh well, it is what it is. I refuse to put my body through dubious contortions to compensate for shortcomings. Seriously, who unloads hard-earned cash for corsets to make their belly look flatter, or stealth elevator shoes to add a few inches to their height? “hair transplants?” Seriously? Naw, none of this for me, thank you. If i can’t charm driver’s license examiner or a prairie schooner repair representative with my authentic self, i’m just fine sitting out the delay, hanging out with me and myself. I’m fine. That said, our Hot Springs or Busk tour has taken a mighty wrench in the gears.
In addition, Rocinante hit a rogue wave in the Utah outback. A semi’s kicked-up rock, hurled from the road like so much earned karma, punched a hole in her windshield. So… our choices were, a.) wait for the repair in the Utah outback, all the while perpetually searching for shade in the July inferno, or b.) head back to home base (Hays KS), where friends and family graciously allow shaded parking for Rocinante while we wait for the windshield and power link parts to arrive.
And the topper…? Mother Nature saw fit to provide a sustained string of rainy days in the Hays area, so our moored time was downright pleasant. And what do you think of that? Now i don’t believe in interventionist supernatural forces, and i’ve had my share of bad luck, but also, this. You see, without these setbacks, Rocinante and i would have made our way to Northern California by now. This morning’s weather report mentioned how Northern California was breaking heat records. So, rather than our temporary repose in Western Kansas with 80 temps in the day and 60s at night, we could be baking in 108 temps, there.
I’d say we’re right where we need to be, and like Joe Walsh once sang… “Life’s been good to me so far.” By gawd, the universe has been fairly good to me, all things considered. And we’ll leave it at that. Whatever the case, i’m moored at home port, but content, a solitary sailor in a sea of prairie grass. If you are somewhere in the extreme northwest USofA, and you were waiting for me to arrive, i offer humble apologies. I am detained by the random rock-kicks of fate. I will get there when i get there… and i’m looking forward to experiencing your slice of This Land.
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!
Ah, the siren song of the open road! Trading the work-a-day cage for a rolling studio apartment, a veritable steel dinghy sailing the asphalt seas. Freedom beckons, middle fingers extended at the tyranny of the treadmill. But hold onto your bucket hats, loopers, for this isn’t all fair weather and calm seas. There’s a choppier side to this self-imposed exile, a truth the #vanlife Instagram influencers won’t tell you. It’s a truth as vast and tangible as the Montana sky – solitude is a many-splendored beast, with teeth that can chomp down on your sanity faster than a hammerhead on a sea snake.
Now, before you dismiss me as some hayseed landlubber, hear me out. For weeks, nay, months, you’ll be traversing landscapes both majestic and mundane – from the sun-bleached skeletons of forgotten gas stations in the Mojave to the soul-crushing suburban sprawl of Anytown, USA. You’ll be Jack Sparrow, with your 20-foot Ford Sprinter, a tin can on wheels holding the weight of your dreams and melting ice supply. This solitude, if you aren’t careful, can be an overfilled helium balloon waiting to pop.
Think of those iron-willed bastards sailing the briny blue alone. They stare into the abyss, and the abyss, stares right back. There are times where fear, a primordial ooze, will rise from the depths of your psyche. It’ll start as a whisper, a nagging doubt about the wisdom of this whole escapade. Then, it’ll morph into a full-blown symphony of anxieties, a heavy metal concert conducted by the maestro of self-doubt.
But here’s the rub, loopers: Don’t be a damn ostrich with its head shoved in the oblivious sand! Embrace the fear! Like that over-ripe orange in the back corner of the crisper drawer – peel and all, it can be a sweet and zesty kick to your morning smoothie.
Here’s a recipe for fear management, courtesy of those masters of isolation, those solo seafaring circumnavigators: First, confess your anxieties to the universe, shout them from the top of the mast (in this case, a post on your blog). Then, list those fears in a tattered notebook, like some crazed Dostoevsky scribbling his next masterpiece. Next, develop a personal risk-assessment routine, a daily dance with the what-ifs. Analyze the situation, eyeball the worst-case scenarios, and if taking action beats the paralysis of analysis, then for God’s sake, take action!
Finally, soak up every freakin’ experience, the good, the bad, and the utterly bizarre. Let it all marinate in your soul, because when you finally crawl out of your metal cocoon and rejoin civilization, you’ll have a treasure trove of stories to share with anyone inclined to listen. Just remember, loopers, van life isn’t all sunshine and hashtags. In fact Mike Tyson’s “everyone has a plan…” comment makes more sense with every passing day out here in “This Land.” It’s an exercise in self-discovery, a confrontation with inner demons, and hopefully, a chance to emerge, blinking in the light, a stronger, slightly less neurotic version of yourself.
Loopcircus 