Night diving

The other night, at 2am, I found myself at the bottom of the ocean, sucking up rocks. I am a dredger, and this is what I do for money, these days. I've always wished that the little things that happen as a dredger were things I could share with everyone. There are certain aspects of oceanic nature that continue to inspire me with curiosity and wonder. This night was no exception.

I've seen swarms of little jelly-fish all around me, like being in a dandelion storm. I've seen fish come right up to me and nibble on my fingers- or have staring contests with me. I've found 2 nuggets, just sitting out in the open, fully exposed. I've seen water-current stratification where it looked like 2 feet of the water had oil in it. And night diving is creepy, but I have a fascination with it. Fish swim fleetingly in and out of the glow of my dive-light, making weird shadows and peripheral movement that makes me constantly look up, until I accept the fact that if it really WERE something that could eat me, seeing it before it strikes really isn't going to help me- so I continue dredging and disregard the movement. I've seen sunrises and sunsets from underwater- some in the same night. I've logged 50 hours underwater in a week before, and felt like the land was constantly moving under my feet once I got back onshore. I love my job, and I love the little, beautiful things nature has to offer.

This night, something I'd heard about, but hadn't ever seen in Alaska, happened. My dive-light, when it goes out, it goes out quickly. It will dim, and be out in less than 10 seconds. I noticed it getting dim, realized it, and before I had time to do more than turn around the light went out. And then, something happened. It was pitch black all around me. I knew the general direction of the boat, but visibility was poor that night and I couldn't see my work-lights shining from the boat to help orient me. My eyes adjusted quickly, and then Shazaam!! There was an explosion of light and glittery color, all around me. It startled me, but I quickly realized I was in a phosphorescent kaleidoscope. I'd kayaked on a phosphorescent pool in Puerto Rico, which was amazing, but we were only allowed to touch it. Now I was a part of it. My hand movements elicited a glittery glow with every swipe through the water. My feet sparkled at ever foot fall. My foot bumped the hose, and traced it back to the nozzle. The rocks, sand and water movement going up the nozzle made it glow like a shimmering light ring. This was amazing. If my light hadn't gone out, I never would have seen it. I turned and followed the hose back to the boat to get batteries. I still had to work on my paycheck after all.

When I surfaced, the northern lights were shining a dull halo over Nome. Not the most impressive display, but I feel lucky to have seen them so much that now I'm a bit of a Northern Lights snob. What a lucky man I am, to have all these incredible experiences happening, all at once. 

Old thoughts revisited

When I was working in Vernal, Utah, I had the opportunity to park a trailer on BLM land and live completely alone for 4 days a week. I haven't told many people about it simply because it wasn't something I was doing in an effort to get attention. It was so personal I wanted to experience it alone. Plus, how do you pepper that into normal conversations- "I work in a mine and live in a trailer for half the week." The questions don't stop. I'm over it now. This is something I wrote while doing that.

-I don't know if there's anything I can contribute to the world of thought and literature that hasn't already been vocalized or documented. I don't know if any of my thoughts are original to anyone but me, and even in that case I think most of my thoughts are just like finishing someone else's sentence from something I've read or heard. The only thing I seem to know enough to give my life for is work and reading.

I'm living in a trailer for half the week where my nearest neighbor is 5 miles away; a real life, modern-day Thoreau. Except he was even more long-winded than I am, and he built his cabin. Whatever. I'm really just following in the footsteps of Chris McCandless, and Eustace Conway, and Henry Thoreau and probably a thousand other hippie-philosophers who had an itch that lead them to scratch it in the solitude of the wilderness.

And half the week I'm a landlord and home remodeler; trying to make sure color schemes and "feel" are all complimentary in an old house. I think it looks better than just putting lipstick on a pig, but maybe my realtor isn't being honest with me. Is capitalism okay for those of us who want the simple life? Even the simple life costs money. And usually the simpler things get, the more time they cost. And in the end, that's what all this is about. How to use my time. Franklin Covey has it right, it would seem.

Middle Children of history. Another borrowed phrase. But I believe the dialogue from Fight Club 100%. Ours is a spiritual war. In the information age, in all of our exponentially doubling wisdom, we are redefining and rethinking everything. And we're getting a lot of it wrong. And a lot right. Its a war of information. A war of words. Some people say there was a war in Heaven, and God and Satan fought. God won, but Satan has dominion here. I've thought about what that war must have been like. No one died physically. So, we have another parallel information war. A war where the only weapon was logic. And we have a similar situation here, except that logic isn't always truth, as we saw with O.J. Maybe O.J. needs a dose of the Walden Pond too. Or maybe he'd just stab the ducks.

I wanted to get away. Not start over. I like the life I've made for myself. I have good friends, relatively nice things, healthy food, great family relationships, no love interest- which is a void thats always present but I'm not going to start watching the Notebook everyday or anything. Starting over makes it sound like you screwed up somewhere. I didn't. I just had a longing to try something different. I've listened to too much Pink Floyd. Or maybe not enough. 

But if 95% of people live, die, in various levels of social and economic mediocrity, why buy into a career? Why follow the model of debt accumulation, debt payment, with a 0 balance for 10 years at the end of your life when your knees need replacement and your bladder control is questionable? The underground hip-hop group Atmosphere calls this dilemma "from the cradle to the grave, from pampers to the depends." Another borrowed thought.

And just because its different doesn't mean its productive. Because we all have a stewardship to use the talents we have productively. Like it or not, we can't feel good outside of growth. And growth comes from doing hard things. Not just for the sake of doing a hard thing, but things that are hard for us personally. I had fear of confrontation. I still have fear of confrontation. I trained with cage-fighters for 4 years. I fought twice. I no longer fear physical confrontation, though I do get nervous every time I have a verbal confrontation. Information war. And I'm a sissy.

I'm not sure how it worked with Thoreau. But living this joint-custody life with myself, half-ferrel/half-domesticated, has been really interesting. When I go home now, I almost feel like I'm having an out-of-body experience. I hear the conversations, take part in them, but its like I'm going through the motions. The little nothings really are nothing to me. I can feel the stillness building. I don't know if other people notice it. I'm finally starting to just be because of my sojourn in the wilderness. Meaning from anonymity.

I'm getting to be comfortable with the idea of using an outdoor toilet; flushing with dirt. The Africans squat over a hole, even indoors. Their toilets are flush with the floor. In a hospital they had real toilets, and a sign inside that said, "don't stand on the toilet." Sitting on a toilet was as foreign to them as squatting is to us. I wondered how my dad would handle that sort of set-up with his fake knee. Maybe Africans don't get their parts replaced. Maybe life-span doesn't last long enough. Maybe activity keeps them healthy. I didn't see a McDonalds there. I'm sure there's positive correlation there between ability to squat and lack of McDonald's.

I haven't made time to do much exploring until today. I took my guitar, took off my shirt, and went to an outcropping of rocks right above my trailer. I got to the top, and it overlooks the entire Uintah basin. And I laughed a laugh I don't know if I've laughed ever. When I was a child, I think I would laugh for no reason other than some sense of happiness that had no understanding. I got tickled. I laughed. Big deal.

I've been to Africa now. I've read hundreds of books of human suffering. I've read and watched the news. People are dying everywhere.

The other day in Yoga, which to me is physical and relaxing all at once, I was thinking, "How dare I, enjoying myself while people are suffering." And I then asked myself, "what would they be doing if they were me?" And the answer hit me so powerfully, like a cricket mallet of truth across the butt. "They would be enjoying the reprieve as completely as they possibly could. They would be happy, and living and laughing. You do not dishonor struggle with laughter, you celebrate it for those who wish they could have things better." 

I like to think that these eyes that look on the world are the eyes of an experienced man. A man who is not disillusioned about the nature of things, but is still happy to be alive. And when I looked out on that valley, I laughed a pure, guileless laugh. The laugh of a man who sees something beautiful and remarkable and awesome and is filled with an energy that is completely spiritual. Basking in the purity of nature.

Bears

I'm a corporate reporter for a home security company called APX. I write internal news stories and have a 7am deadline every morning. So, I roll out of my cot at 5am, pull the pants on one leg at a time like any other human being- but then I write golden stories. 

Anyway, I get on a quad to go to a place that has an internet connection. As I'm about to leave the beach, there's some kind of fuzzy, rumbling thing in front of me. My eyes focus, and I'm looking at a bear's hindquarters. Its brown.

He lumbers up a hill, and I keep driving around his way on the road. I'm new at this Alaska stuff, so I remember thinking to myself, "Uh, do you follow bears?" But he was running away from me, so, whatever, right? 

He/she- (funny how I got sexist in my description of the bear. No guy wants to be scared of a girl, even if its a bear-girl. I have no idea if it was a girl or man-bear). He/she was about a quad and a half in length. When you're chasing a bear, you compare it to your own relative size. If you're bigger, you're okay. If not, well, proceed with caution. Moose, for instance, are not impressed by the size of a quad, as one of my friends up here got chased for 3 miles by a cow once.

I keep on chasing, though following would probably have been a better description of what I was doing. We were rolling through the boatyard now, and he/she ducked through two containers that I thought were physically impossible for him/her to fit through. I had to drive around them, and he/she was 75 yards off by the time I got around them. 

The bear was heading across the Tundra back towards our camp, though probably 50 yards off. And he/she was really cooking now. I called one of the guys at the camp and told them, in a voice which retrospectively must have been giddy/excited/(and I'm ashamed to say) a little blubbery. "dude, there's a bear. Its running. Its going past the camp. Its, a bear." If it had been a 911 call, the operator would have said, "Um, sir, slow down. Fire, medical or police..."

In Alaska, however, you hear "bear", you grab your gun, which is what Scott did.  I just wanted him to see it, but he didn't understand it was just a zoo experience. He got back on the phone and the bear was long gone. He thought the bear was at our camp. I just wanted him to see the fuzzy guy/gal. 

Then I drove the quad to write my stories. Another day in Alaska. Surreal. 

Alaska

When I first started working in a mine in Eastern Utah, I loved the anonymity and the newness of it. I loved the masculinity of the work; the sheer physicality of it. I loved how dirty I got. I loved the necessity of a shower after work. 

An opportunity came up to go to Alaska, dredging for gold. I was formally offered a position on a Tuesday. On Wednesday I accepted. Thursday, after work at the mine, 20 of us were laid off. Over the course of 2 months they laid off half their work force. Interesting how when one door opens, sometimes the door closing slams you in the butt.

Don't know what's with me and wild, open places. I wanted to go to Africa for that reason. I wanted to see stretches of land where I was the only person. I saw it. It was beautiful. I wanted to see Alaska for the same reason. But its only since I've lived here that I've realized what its all about.

Its a search for stillness. So, so very hard to find in the 'real' world.

My first week here, a good friend of mine, Bo Gardner, came to visit and we drove from Nome to Council. Council is a little outpost group of homes/cabins/shacks about 2 hours south-east of Nome. The drive follows the coast, then goes inland. I can't remember when I've felt more like Christmas than what I saw on that drive. It was like God had saved a special mural just for us, and 30 years into my life he was finally willing to share it with me. Lord, it was beautiful. 

The greens and shades of greens inside of greens. The shacks. Even the evidence of man in the form of rusting machinery and discarded this and thats can't detract from it. All evidence of work and industry. Hard to begrudge the abandoned tools of a man's dreams.

We went fishing, and I hadn't fished since I was a kid. Felt bad for the suckers- never really caught anything anyway. But now, well, we needed the meat. I was fishing of necessity. Caught 4 grayling in exchange for 10 mosquito bites. The Lord giveth and taketh away.

Just like Africa, when you frame pictures in Alaska, it frames itself. Because of the 22 hour day, most of which have been overcast, the lighting has been perfect. Dusk is a great time for photography, but it usually is a small half-hour window. In Alaska, dusk lasts from 9pm-12am. 

I came up here to dredge for gold. The process is simple and is applied to creeks, rivers, lakes and for us, the ocean. You vacuum up silt from the floor of the ocean, the sediment runs through a sluice box which sorts the gold from the sand/rock/nothing. Someone has to be on the end of the hose to direct the flow of sediment. Enter Ian Foster. 

I now find myself in Nome, Alaska, living in a big WW II Army tent on the beach, diving in 50 degree water, running an 8 inch vacuum hose, 20 feet deep on the bottom of the ocean for a living. Its totally nutty. Working in the mine was sissy stuff. 

Last time out I dove for 4 hours. At the end, I had to unclog a rock from our hose. When the pump turns off, it turns the hot water off too. We keep hot water constantly pumped to our suits... So, no hot water, I came up to the surface. Couldn't see where the rock was. Went back down the hose to visually inspect the hose with a flash-light. (it was 1am.) Couldn't see it. Came back up. Went back down to bang on a bend in the hose with a hammer. Came back up. Still clogged. Took a rope back down, tied it off at the nozzle. Come back up for good. I can see my breath. 

I'd been in the water for 20 minutes. Shivering. Glorious. You can FEEL that. It isn't sitting at a computer moving stuff from one electronic box to another all day. You can feel the life in your body. And its beautiful. And miserable. Can't remember a time I've been more miserable since I got to the Denny's in New Mexico a few years back after a 5 hour motorcycle ride at night. I ordered 6 cups of hot water and just let my hands hold the cup to warm up. Took 6 cups before I could unbend my fingers from the motorcycle grip they were frozen in. Misery along those lines. Marvelous misery.

And the whole package deal, the job, the town, the people, the setting, and Alaska, I keep wondering when something really bad is going to happen. Can it really get as good as this? People leave the keys in their cars when they walk into the store here. People know each other here. They let you shower at their homes because you're living on a beach. 

The dredging community is really connected here. All the men that do it are the loner types. Some have wives, but all feel compelled/pulled/drawn by the silent seduction of Alaska. She's a lover that seems to say, "keep pushing forward, there's something else if you dive longer or go over that hill or try that river. You may just find it. You just may." And they keep trying. 

And I've seen gold on the bottom of the ocean. You vacuum through a layer of sand to 8 inches of rock, but there, on a layer of clay, 1 foot below the ocean floor, you can see little flecks of gold. An ounce of gold isn't that much. In flecks, it takes up about as much space as the first two knuckles of your pinkie. And I trade my time, energy, and put my life on the line in one of the harshest seas of the earth for this golden rock in such damned small amounts. Even the ironies of Alaska are monumental.

But its still. There's manly drama as you're likely to see anywhere men who know it all are trying to get something done; but without the nastiness of women, man problems are so easy and innocent.

 "Swear word, that guy is an idiot isn't he?" "Swear word, ya. I sure know better than him. Swear word." "Curse, sure glad I know better than him and I'm not as stupidly retarded, Cursing curse." "For sure. Spit. Scratch. Curse." Eventually men talk or fight about it, talk again, figure it out, then have a drink. 

And all the while, the wind off the Bering Sea gets cold, and warm. It gets sunny and cloudy. The day never ends. And there's a stillness, even when its busy. I can feel it soaking into my bones like those warm cups of water into my hands, 6 years ago.

On my first 30 years

Things I've learned.

1-Talk is cheap. But its okay, if the person talking is attractive.

2-When the going gets tough the tough get going. Or they stick around. The thing is, the tough do what they want, which is why I started to learn how to cage-fight. Which leads me to my next point.

3-Fighting does solve some problems. Learn how to reason, learn how to punch.

4-Looks are only good for 30 years on a man and 20 years on a woman. 

5-I have no idea how the internet works, but its awesome.

6-What goes around comes around. Thanks to the Vietnam Vet, the fence workers, the insurance agent, the mexicans, the other mexican, and the german tourists for giving me rides when I hitchhiked this summer.

7-Women are simple creatures. Just check your ego at the door.

8-Check your ego at the door.

9-Check your massive ego at the door.

10-Life is too short to learn how to play HALO.

11-Life is not too short to spend time on Facebook.

12-Never say never. Unless you really should forget about it.

13-Going uphill is harder than going downhill. Downhill usually signifies a state of progressively worsening conditions. I still don't know how to use the phrase, "Its all downhill from here" properly.

14-I try to provide entertainment for the friends I have who are smarter than me.

15-Traditional education, as it stands and is packaged, is a farce.

16-Pink Floyd has 90% of it right.

17-No task is below you. Unless its literally on the ground.

18-Its 'manila' folders, not 'vanilla' folders.

19-Salad is the best medicine. 

20-God, indeed, does care

21-Obama, indeed, does not

22-The FED is a private corporation, unaudited and largely unregulated by the US government.

23-The only stillness left in the world is outdoors in remote, wild places. However, I'm not sure how much fun Henry Thoreau would have been to hang out with.

24-Money really doesn't matter. Except when you need it.

25-Life goes better when you do what you know you should do. I don't think I'll ever make the bed though.

26-Relationships and agency. Thats all we really have. But Ipods really are cool while we got 'em.

27-My mom knows best.

28-My father is easier to get a 'yes' from.

29-Beautiful women are like dollar bills. They used to have value.

30-You don't have to be able to squat 400 pounds. 

31-If it doesn't kill you, it can only make you stronger. My motto. And justification for some really stupid crap.

32-'Large' t-shirts don't go down far enough, so, when they're new, you have to stretch them in between the washer and dryer. Stretch them every time you wash them. You'll have your perfect t-shirt.

33-Sizzler's medium-rare steak is the best inexpensive steak out there.

34-Costa Azul's Barbecue Pork Quesadilla is the only food that has ever made me say a dirty word because it was so delicious.

35-Whoever said "Its better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all" was mentally handicapped.

36-Love does not conquer all.

37-Only when you lose everything are you free to do anything.

38-Charity is one of the best ways to hurt someone. And help. But a sword it is. With two-edges.

39-HMS will accomplish big things.

40-East of Eden is one of the best books ever written.

41-Don't take things too seriously. Unless it needs to be taken seriously.

42-Despite all the evidence that justifies you, there's a good chance you're wrong.

43-It is always your fault.

44-Based on results, you have exactly what you intended. Which is weird to think about when I think of when I tripped on the last hurdle in a race in front of the whole freshman class.

There's more, but that'll do for now.

Hurricane Ike

Picture this: You hear of a hurricane coming. You live on the gulf coast, so a hurricane in and of itself isn't a big deal. You take a few mementos. You figure you'll be back in 2 or three days. You go to stay with a family member in Houston. 

The Hurricane itself doesn't do much damage, but the storm surge which reached 15 feet in some parts of Galveston, floods everything. It's a week before you're able to get back. By then your refrigerator hasn't had power for a week. Everything in your home under 5 feet high has been soaking in water since the storm hit; drywall, carpet, couches, clothes. Most everything will have to be thrown away. The remodeling you just did was a waste of money. You're going to have to do a complete remodel, replacing everything on the inside of your home; drywall, fixtures, cabinets, carpet, paint... everything. 

You don't have much money to do it. You had hurricane insurance. But the damage was done by a flood, not by a hurricane. You don't have flood insurance. You don't know where you're going to stay, how you're going to pay for it, how long it will take, how much exactly you'll get from the insurance company, and if your life will EVER be exactly the same. 

And then 50 volunteers come to your home. As your neighbors are working with teams of 2 or 3 people, tearing out walls and making piles of debris on their front sidewalks, a small army does in 2 hours what will take your neighbors weeks to do. They haul everything out, they rip up the carpet, they bust the drywall, they get your house ready to air out so the remodeling can start. 

You are overwhelmed. You try to direct traffic and make yourself useful, but you can't seem to concentrate. Why are these people helping? How am I going to get my life back to normal? How long will they be here? How am I going to pay for the damage? Thoughts flood your head uncontrollably. 

It's time for the volunteers to go. You are so grateful, but then they present you with $500. Your pride tells you you can't take it. They've already done enough. You'll manage. But 50 volunteers tell you that you have no choice. You reluctantly accept the money. You're overcome. You weep. You're a proud man. But you weep. 

That was the scene of the final project. I don't know about everyone else there in Galveston last Saturday, but I saw something that I will never forget. We put that man in an impossible position of debt. He knew it. And when he realized that we didn't expect anything in return, he was overcome. But what he doesn't know is that he repaid us with his sincere gratitude in a way that nothing else could have. 

I am grateful to be part of a company that has the priorities, means and ability to make something like the Texas relief trip happen. I'm grateful that Lindsey Grauling had the gumption to vocalize an idea she'd had. I'm glad for the people that heard it and built it. I'm grateful to all the incredible people in Corporate (Josh, Danielle, Christy and company) who handled the myriad details that are evil but necessary and made the trip run so smoothly. To the people that went to bed after me and got up before me. But I'm most grateful to that man, who showed me what true gratitude looks like.

Hitchhiking

I'm supposed to go to a family reunion in Washington, then my brother volunteered to drive me back. But I'd already bought the plane tickets. Some friends are going to be in Powell for a couple of days at the end of the week, so I instantly put together the most practical plan to make it all happen. I'll fly up to the reunion, drive back with Brother, chill in Vegas for a couple of days, then, the obvious way to get to Powell from Vegas is hitchhiking. I looked at Greyhound, but they didn't have a legitimate stop at Bullfrog/Powell. I looked at the railroad lines, thinking maybe I could jump a train or something, but I couldn't be sure they would go in the right direction.

Hitchhiking it is.

I wanted to be as genuine a hitchhiker as possible. No cheating. My brother was going to give me a ride to Mesquite or St. George, but I told him just to drop me off at the edge of Vegas. I decided to do it the old fashioned way. The thing about the old fashioned way, is it really isn't old fashioned anymore. I had a debit card that I used to purchase refrigerated water. I had a cell-phone that I could use to call my brother while I was in Vegas, or on the road if I got into trouble. I'm not sure if old-fashioned exists anymore.

There is a lot of education that's involved with hitchhiking. As in the successful lemonade stand, one of the major keys to hitchhiking is "location, location, location." I tried the street corner first. I needed a place that people could see me and have room to pull over. I stayed on the corner for 45 minutes. Nothing. I walked up farther from the corner to where the actual on ramp was. And I realized there were only 1 or 2 cars every 15 minutes at this particular on ramp. No traffic=less potential rides.

I go back to the gas station. I started at 10:30am, on a typical July day in Vegas. Its now 12:00. Its bloody hot. I sit in the shade on the semi-truck side of the gas station, and have a sign sitting in front of me that says, "St. George, Cove Fort, Denver." A few truckers look at it as they go inside to pay. A couple smile. No one stops. I wait until 1pm. I've already drank a bottle and a half of water. I buy another liter, then as I sit to wait some more, a gas station attendant blitzes me with, "you can't do that here." and like an enigma, she's gone before I can argue or ask for suggestions.

So, I pick up my side bag, and start walking north. The exit was bad anyway. I call Las Vegas Metro P.D. to ask if I can hitchhike on the freeway. I wanted to clarify. I find out that you can't hitchhike legally in all of Clark County. My law-abiding self says, "just have your brother give you a ride to St. George." But luckily, the awesome side of myself says, "Don't make the call, pansy."

Its hot. I'm not going to try and impress you with geusstimations of how ridiculously hot it was. I would bet money is somewhere around the century mark. And I'm not a gambling man. Bloody hot. And I'm walking. The freeway goes in a north-easterly direction, but the road I'm walking on is heading east. I find a break in the fence of an empty lot that goes all the way to the freeway, and I go through it.

In a place where there are homeless people, if you think a place should have a break in the fence, there probably is one.

I walk through the barren lot, and come to a make-shift tent that looks like a mound of tarps, probably 10-12 feet in diameter. Water bottles are everywhere. Hydration is next to Godliness, was this guys mantra. This is how someone lives. In a scrap-book tent, water bottles everywhere, pissing in the trees behind his house when he needs to, coming and going as he pleases. What a life. I come to a fence, and don't see an opening, even though there should have been one.

And there was. Right behind the tree.

I make it to the next exit, and its much better for hitchhiking. Lots of traffic. Probably 2 cars a minute. Plenty of visibility. They can see me for about 100 yards in advance. And, under an elevated street-sign, there's a 3x3 patch of shade for me. My wildest dreams come true. Now its a waiting game.

I'm there for an hour, and a Mustang pulls over. When I first started hitchhiking, I had all these ideas of safety, and running if someone pulled over that I was nervous about. I actually bought a pocket knife that had a good feel in my hand- just in case I had to use it.

When the Mustang pulled over, I just felt so exhilarated and lucky, safety wasn't exactly the primary concern. I'd just spent 3 hours in 100 degree heat. I just wanted to get in before he drove away. I did shift the knife into a better position once I was in the car, just in case.

Saying I had a knife and had made contingency plans for using it, might make warning bells go off with some people. "Why would you put yourself in a position like that?" And if you think like that, then any explanation about me having a knife would probably just fall on deaf ears. I wanted to hitchhike. I didn't go out hoping to get in a knife fight. With hitchhiking, you're getting picked up by a stranger, or group of strangers. There are a lot of what-ifs. And so, I addressed the normal ones. What if he pulls off in the middle of nowhere? What if I get poked with a needle that has some date-rape drug? What if there isn't just the driver, but there are multiple people? How do I prepare for each different scenario depending on where I'm seated in relation to 1 or more people in the car?

I made the decision that if I got poked with a needle, or had a gun/knife pulled on me, I was going to go out swinging. Why put yourself in that position? Why not? is my question. I don't know of anyone that has lived an extraordinary life that did it working 9-5, and from the safety of their arm-chair. Now, hitchhiking isn't exactly extraordinary. Its actually one of the most boring and mundane things you could do. People talk about what they want to do, and what things would be like. I don't like to wonder what hitchhiking is like. I don't like to wonder about things. When possible, I try to get first hand experience. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to try hitchhiking. Maybe I just needed to get more material to blog about and hitchhiking was the cheapest way.

I never learned the first guy's name. He was a Vietnam Vet that served in a flight crew. He was shot down over Cambodia, on his way to deliver supplies to some Force Recon Marines. It was pretty hairy for a minute, as they ran from the Viet-cong, ran through the line of Force Recon guys just as the Marines engaged the Vietnamese that were pursuing him and his surviving crew members. They had to go back and get the plane, because we weren't supposed to be in Cambodia, even though everyone in the world knew we were, and knew the Vietnamese were using Cambodia for the Ho Chi Min trail. Political B.S. that has started precedents we still haven't learned and recovered from.

He gave me a ride to Hurricane, Utah. After a quick pit-stop, I started walking. I figured most people were like me, and if a person is walking rather than sitting, I'm more likely to help him.

I walked for 3 miles before the rain started. Just a sprinkle, but it was enough to get sympathy from a couple of fence builders on their way to a job. One was Caucasion, the other Mexican. (Senora). He kept on asking me about "weeeeeed." I tried to pay my way with jokes, got them laughing, and figured that was a good trade. They were only going a few miles up the road to Toquerville, aptly named for my newly-made Mexican marijuana lobbyist.

They dropped me off, and I started walking again. I hadn't gone 5 minutes when I got my 3rd ride. It was a sleek, black, BMW 330i. The guy in the car was a well-groomed, leg-shaving, fake-n-baking guy wearing Abercrombie nonsense and not wearing any shoes. I got in, fearing a bunch of patronizing nonsense, but after an hour he was pretty cool. He was going to Salt Lake, and I just needed a ride to Cove Fort, where I-70 med I-15.

We talked about his insurance business, which he started on his own in St. George. He has a wife and 5 boys, which was a relief. I though he might have had ulterior motives. He teaches his kids to meditate, to be still.

After a quick pit-stop at Cove Fort, and after successfully getting 3 rides and not getting raped even once, I started walking to I-70, which turned out to be another 2 miles. I got to the freeway just as the sun was setting, and this ride was the most critical of the day. Or so I thought.

As the light dwindled, a car stopped about 200 yards down the road, but didn't start backing up. A guy got out, made the motions of a man relieving himself in the bushes, then got back in. But, then it started to back up.

When they pulled up to me, my heart broke when I saw it was a latino family, and I was going to sit next to a 1 year old in a car seat. I wanted to thank them and then tell them to never do this again.

I had called Clayton, who I was supposed to meet at Powell by 7am the following morning. He said to take I-70 to a particular exit, that there weren't services, but I'd have reception. If I couldn't get a ride, I should call him and he'd come get me. I had no intention of calling, but it was good to know it was there.

The Latino's dropped me off at 11pm at exit 149 in the middle of desert on I-70. The left, and I turned my phone on.

No reception.

My battery was about dead. So, I turned it off, and put my thumb out for a passing car. In the first 45 minutes, 3 cars passed me, all coming from the I-70 west. They were going full speed when they saw me, and didn't even slow down. I decided to go up on the over-pass so they wouldn't be going as fast when they saw me, and just in case Clay or a Powell representative came, I could go back that way.

About 5 cars passed in the first 2 hours. It went down to about a car an hour all night.

It was muggy. There were gnats and mosquitos. It was at least 80 degrees until 2am. I didn't have repellant or pants, so I wrapped my Masai blanket around my legs, put on my hoody, and sat down, leaning against the concrete railing of the over-pass. I'd stand up whenever a car passed. Slowly, leaning became laying, and I dozed, jumping up whenever cars came, hoping my thumb would be a catalyst for a charitable act the person hadn't planned on in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.

My thumb had lost its magic, it seems. I dozed and woke all night, fighting off malicious mosquitos and tenacious gnats until the minute I left. At 8am, a mexican kid picked me up and gave me a ride 3 miles down the road. He had to feed the pheasants at a farm he worked at, but once he was done, if I paid for gas, he'd drive me all the way to Powell. He said he would be done in 2 hours, so if you get a ride, fine. If not, I'll take you..

I don't feel like writing anymore, so, to be continued....

OK, continued.

So, I'm standing there, overcast desert weather, muggy, gnats dive-bombing my eyes, little kamakazi SOB's. I still have my Masai blanket around my legs, still have my hoody on, still cursing the mosquitos. I wait for 45 minutes, about 5 cars pass, so the traffic is increasing, but no one stops. I think to myself, "why don't I help the mexican kid feed the pheasants, get it done faster, we'll leave sooner, and everyone's happier?"

I've seen the process of feeding poultry. It involves a bag or some quantity of food and some sort of hopper or receptical. Pretty cut and dry.

So, I walk to the farm, which was another mile and a half. Its located on a creek, and you get to it by following what used to be the old highway. Now their road to their farm is paved with red pavement.

I get there, but it turns out that his boss was there. I'd already put my bag back in his car, but then his boss saw me, and he was civil, but I definately got the feeling that this was a man that thought me hitchhiking wasn't an adventure or exciting or even amusing. He was about 68 going on 90. His family had farmed pheasants for over 70 years. He gave me mosquito repellant and a ride back to the road.

The car the Mexican kid was going to drive me in was a company car. He wasn't supposed to put strangers in it. I'd lost my ride.

He took me back to the road a different way, so I was now 2 miles further down the road. I had moved 5 miles in 10 hours. It was 9am.

And there I sat. The clouds began to get darker, then a drizzle started. It began to rain in earnest. My thumb was out, and no one cared. I tried reading and not looking at the cars passing. I tried reading and looking up. I tried standing up and looking them in the eye. I tried a smile like this was the happiest place I could be right now. I tried a somber look. I tried a pleading look. I'm not proud of that. But as 10 became 11, as I'd gotten rained on, I didn't care. I was a communist; my ends would justify my means. I even held up $20. No one stopped.

Now, I'd had plenty of water and some thing to snack on when I started, but I was down to my last half liter of water. I had a couple of pieces of jerky left. And I think a Southwest Airlines bag of peanuts. Green River was 20 miles north and east. Hanksville was 40 miles south. I could walk to Green River. Might take me 2 days. But I could do it. Bottom-line, all of a sudden, my fun little adventure had very real consequences. This was real.

At 1130, 13 hours after I'd been dropped off by the Latino family in the middle of nowhere in the dark, a PT Cruiser stopped and back up. After some seat shuffling, I was put in the front seat, a man driving, his wife and 20 year old son in the back. They were German tourists, on vacation for a month touring West's national parks. They listened to German pop music. We were going fast, and we began passing all the doosh-bags that hadn't pulled over.

Now, I'm not really mad that they didn't pull over. Most of the men driving were with their wives and kids. Some smiled at me and mouthed, "I can't." Some threw their hands up as if to say, "they're tied, dude." I don't blame them. It was just frustrating knowing who I am, knowing I'm as far from a threat as they will ever find, and not being perceived as anything than what I am.

I geuss they didn't gaze into my eyes. Or maybe I have too much gansta in my eyes; too much 1000 yard stare.

The Germans gave me a ride to Hanksville. There were a lot of people at the Gas station. My cell phone worked. I bought a Powerade. I washed my face, changed my clothes to Powell friendly stuff. But I was still a vagabond. There were all these beautiful girls and the guys they were with, and then there was me, overstuffed side-bag, a Gen-u-wine Johnny Appleseed vagabond. I could talk to them. What would I say? How would I say, "I'm actually a really normal dude that usually gets phone numbers from girls like you, but I also happened to feel like hitchhiking, just cuz. So, you come here often? Nice shoes..."

I walked to the next gas station, approached a likely candidate, explained I just needed a ride, I'd ride in the back of their truck if they wanted, I just didn't want to have to walk to Powell. They agreed. I drank another half liter of cold water. On the drive, I put my head into the wind like a happy dog with his tongue out. I had to squint to see. But I'd done it. It took me 26 hours, but I'd done it. And the last stage, as last stages seem to be, was the best. It was a panoramic triumph of desert landscape and my victory.

Okay, that all sounds pretty dramatic. Starting out, I didn't think I'd get hurt, but when you spend a night on an over-pass, all of a sudden getting there is a huge accomplishment. Because you've not accomplished your mission for much of your journey. I was giddy. I rolled into Powell as if I'd conquered the world.

Perspective.

I stuck my thumb out for a total of 6 hours. The rest of the 26 hours was walking, riding or sleeping. 6 hours of thumb in the air. Way to go.

I don't recommend hitchhiking, unless you have a lot of time on your hands. Girls should not hitchhike. Unless they're hot and I'm with them.