On the Road to Acceptance

October 3-8

Very few, if any, of us will pass through our life without experiencing grief. I have some understanding of the rumored 5 stages as they have cycled and rolled and transposed themselves within my grieving psyche in response to the great losses of my life. For the loss of my plans in the American south, I grieve. As I acted on my choice to take a more direct route into the west to my next haven and rest stop in Nevada,  I had already gone through Denial and Anger, and had spent the last few days in Bargaining. This left me, as I crossed through Alabama and Arkansas, to deal with Depression.

Cotton field in a thunderstorm near Talladega National Forest, Alabama

With Step 4 on my heels, I packed up my comfortable camp in Carolina Beach and piloted Pagoo through South Carolina, Georgia and into Alabama. As the sun set and the Cumulus clouds squeezed and darkened, I bumped down eight miles of dirt road to a free campsite deep in the Talladega National Forest near Birmingham. I did not see another soul until a car pulled in (pulled in ominously, I would have said that night) at midnight. I peered anxiously from my window to evaluate the new arrivals, and was comforted by the sight of a t-shirt and flip-flops clad young man who grabbed a fee envelope and settled to sleep in his car. I'm not really sure why I found the flip-flops comforting---perhaps they were a familiar reminder of home in California. Perhaps I reasoned serial killers would opt for sturdier attire. Shortly after 2:00 that same night, the clouds let loose their torrent of rain, thunder and lightening. I have rarely felt so small and alone.

My campmate's car was still and quiet when I wrung out and packed up my rugs left out in the rain and left early the next morning. I discovered in the always hopeful light of dawn, that the road was not as long and was cheerfully lined with the first turning leaves of fall. I headed to Birmingham and breakfast at IHOP, where I learned it was possible to be viewed with suspicion and admiration over a veggie omelette. The restaurant was crowded and the tables quite close---the slip of an elbow could land you in a stranger's pancakes. As I spread my Rand McNally out on the table, I was eyed by the folks at my nervous right elbow, a man and woman in their 50's and a twenty-something young woman, perhaps their daughter. 

  "Where are you traveling?" asked the older (that is to say, my age) woman as she leaned over the   atlas.

  "I'm on a cross country trip."

  "All by yourself??"

  "No, with my dog. We spent last night in the middle of the Talladega Forest in a thunderstorm."

  *blink, blink* "Whatever for?"

I did not have a convincing answer to that question. The waitress, Michelle, her open face in perfect makeup, with every hair perfectly obedient and stylishly combed, listened in on our conversation as she waited for my order. As I ordered my food--mushroom omelette, no bacon (seriously, everything in the south has bacon in it), Hollandaise on the side, please---my table neighbor stared.

  "Where ya from?" she asked.

  "Where do you guess I'm from?" I grinned.

  "From your accent, I'd say you're one of them folks..." Everyone around the table nodded in agreement.

  "Them folks?" 

  "New York City." Welcome to my Pace picante sauce commercial (Git a rope).

As Michelle came to clear my plate, she beamed shyly at me, "I would so love to have an adventure. I wish I were as brave as you."  In a moment where I felt at the lower threshold of my courage, these words were a tonic. Thank-you, Michelle at the IHOP in Birmingham, Alabama. I doubt I deserve your admiration, but if someday you think of me and Harry and embark on your long-dreamed of adventure, I will be very pleased.

After breakfast, another big push across Mississippi into Arkansas, just dipping our toe into Tennessee at the Memphis corner to pick up I-40. There is road work (as there has been on the major interstates for 80% of this trip) and the progress is slower than usual. My mood darkens with the waning light, and I am perversely determined to reach the curiously named town of Toad Suck, northwest of Little Rock. It seemed to me that when one passes near a place with a name like that, one should not pass up the opportunity to bear witness . There was a pretty sunset as Google maps guided me on a highly questionable route down the trailer lined back roads, under railroad trestles and through barking packs of stray dogs to my destination where all the darkness the world and my consciousness had to offer would descend upon me.

I still don't know if the toads suck

Anxiety had a purpose once. Perhaps it still does, in that gut feeling we get that turns us away from the dark alleys of the world. The anxiety of today has runaway with us. It is devoid of rationality and wisdom. It is a consumer of peace and weaves its tangling web in the darkness. My heart was not peaceful as I bedded down that night in Toad Suck---I worried about the broken latch on my pop-up discovered just after my arrival. I worried about time, money and the expectations of myself and others. I worried that the one bathroom in the campground was half a mile away.  With every little thought that entered my mind that night, a little piece of my soul was pinched. I tapped the bottom of Stage 4 right there in Toad Suck.

But of course there are always solutions, and when the sun comes up, things are never as dire as they seemed at 2 AM. I remembered the straps I'd brought just in case, and secured the pop-up to Emmy's frame. It doesn't look pretty, but it worked for 3000 miles. I was treated with southern charm and courtesy by the camp host who solved two problems for me (empty propane = no morning coffee) by directing me to the nearest Walmart where all reserves that might run low may be replenished. An observation on Walmart: I avoid them as a rule but I think I've tapped in to part of their appeal. When I walked through those doors into the fantasyland of fluorescent illuminated objects of consumer desire, I felt oddly safe and comforted. What is up with that, I wonder? I guess one can find anything behind those automatic doors.

Always have duck tape, zip ties and tie-down straps

Fueled with coffee and propane, I met the transition from south to the American West at the Oklahoma border. One of the benefits of a rapid journey along a line of latitude, is that ecological patterns unfold at an observable rate. Humid palmetto pocosin, to dense hardwood, to the plains and scrub, I knew I'd made it west when I saw my first armadillo which was on my list of "must see" species for this trip. Heartbreakingly, the only specimens of this bizarre creature I saw were flattened on the side of the highway. Our heavy transit east to west crosses theirs from north to south, and they will always be the losers at the intersections. The engineering of wildlife corridors for the safe coexistence of non-human travelers and vehicles is a science we can only hope gains momentum and support. See one example here.

If you find yourself a traveler on I-40 through Oklahoma, there is a gift-wrapped surprise waiting for you near Hinton. Invisible until the very last moment in the flat expanse of plains, Red Rock Canyon State Park dips magically into a slot of wooded river and red walls. It was one of the least expected and most welcomed discoveries on this trip. Harry greeted other cheerful campers as we tucked into a site at the end of a slot canyon that was heavy with the perfume of sycamore. The setting sun set the red rocks afire.  A great horned owl hooted in the night. Things were looking up.

Red Rock Canyon, Oklahoma