May 24, 2022

In Apache and Comanche territory, specifically Lincoln National Forest, I am alone again. Like former Texas Ranger Agustus McCrae, I would like to wander and philosophize, maybe take care of somebody I could love, and sleep under the sky every night. I could learn his campfire biscuit-making method, too. Unlike Augustus, I expect to be able to do this without murdering anyone already here. It seems the people of these particular deserts were a warring kind way back when; there was plenty of tension to go around when the white men arrived. Not that there’s any justification for stolen land, but I happen to know that Augustus as well as his partner, Woodrow Call, felt that people needed protecting and nothing more. I also understand them to be wholly fictional.

There’s a former US Coast Guard dude posted up near me here at James Canyon Campground, at 6,670 feet. He wants to be left alone and so do I, though we exchanged firm handshakes and decent pleasantries. If I know anything about former military–often men in general–I am now under well-meant but relatively useless protection.

I maneuvered Sorcha until she was evenly set in the campsite under circumstances that are only just short of ideal. According to my rubric, this spot is perfect, including the singular, infrequent bar of cell service. I come about this assessment firstly by whether my bed is level, then what the sky will do in relation to that setup and my views. Lastly, I incorporate privacy and quietude. I try to face the car toward wherever the most human noise is occurring, and also so that her ass end, where my tent goes, is relatively secluded given the locale. If I’m putting the tent up at all, there’s already a certain amount of privacy. This time I aimed to catch a little of both the sunset and rise, secured my star view from too many trees, and double-checked that I was level. It was then that I realized I’d effectively put the car against the main view, from both the campground and the road, of my activities at the site’s picnic table–a bonus. This is all a very boring way of explaining how my brainspace gets used out here on the road. Arranging the priorities accordingly, I do this routine in parking lots, rest stops, anywhere else I stay. It’s nice to be in touch with what’s going on nearby, and in the sky, especially when you can see it all from your pillow.

A pair of Stellar’s jays (I have learned how to correctly capitalize bird names!) greeted my arrival here–my first sighting of them since around this time last year, and by then they’d become commonplace. What a lovely spot for our reunion. I have been quite fortunate ornithologically this year. I haven’t planned or bothered to try, but I pull in whenever I see the right kind of sign, and I go look at birds. In this way I came across, among so many other perhaps less startling but equally impressive shorebirds, the Roseate spoonbill. April was too late in the year to consider visiting South Florida, so I thought I’d missed out on prehistoric pink birds. Not so! The original spoonbill is already a strange and gorgeous creature, looking a little lost as it leans for the water among vigilantly hunting shorebirds; these beauties rarely bring their bills up from the muck as they siphon and suck and enjoy. It’s kind of disgusting and wonderful. Remember Bazooka Joe gum? That is the pink of the Roseate spoonbill’s feathers. They are sugary bright, gloriously out of place in garb that seems better fit for a children’s party than a marsh bath.

My neighbor Clay, it turns out, never shuts up. I’ve asked him not one question, but have been subjected to his entire life story. And I wouldn’t believe how old he is, because no one ever does. These gems of conversation go overlooked as I insist on keeping my peace. I continue to do whatever it was Clay has attempted to interrupt, which is mostly watching birds. Herein is the difficulty: were I staying elsewhere, I could just tell Clay to take a fucking hike. Tonight though, this is my home. That he is a man and also ex-military both factor into my consideration when I choose not to tell him off. He drones on even as I ignore him; I never meet his eyes except to say contrary things. As, for the umpteenth time, I listen to Clay chirp, “knock knock” without so much as pausing as he enters my campsite, it occurs to me that I might actually have to murder the person who was here when I arrived.

I didn’t really want to leave Austin, but it was hot and expensive to be in that city. I went back and forth about it for a bit before taking off on a bright morning. The heat of the desert sun soon found me in the heart of the hills of Texas. Tucked right in among deep stretches of rich farmland, after the many miles of impressive mansions northeast of Austin, sits an old ashe juniper forest. It’s the protected habitat of the Golden-cheeked warbler–their one and only home in the States. I knew none of this, but you know, I’ve developed this habit of pulling off at the right kind of signs. I had already been stunned by the revelation of so many millionaires in the hills of Texas—that these were not gated communities was an added confusion; this tiny bird with its proportionately sized habitat was a much preferred surprise. Thus, I arrived at Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Refuge. I parked Sorcha and got myself settled for a hike: sunscreen, hat, scope, water, bandanna, etc. When I finally left home, the volunteer manning this little ice-cream-looking information truck was excited to have me, especially after he found out I had arrived by happenstance. He gave me some pointers on the trail map and sent me right into the heart of the ashe juniper and oak, forest. The trees were spindly, just tall enough, and smelled divinely of fresh piney earth. The path was narrow for conservation purposes, crunchy, dusty, and somewhat rocky, but mostly level. It was an easy hike; the elevation combined with the sweet forest all around made for cooler weather than I’d known in well over a week. I was stoked just to be there.

When I heard the warbling, I of course paused and oriented, then set to my visual search. The warbles continued, almost taunting in their immediate presence and clarity. Ashe juniper trees are of thin build all around, and plentiful in their reachings. Interspersed with the oak, they crocheted a loose blanket of forest across the horizon. It’s all a thicket of twigs, leaves not sparse but not generous, so that sky comes through in pinches and bits, everywhere with no consistency. If a bird moves, you might see it. Maybe. If it just sits and sings then you’re never going to see the bird and it’s probably laughing at you. Having stared for a while, I arrived at this inevitable conclusion, and sat myself down on the path. No sooner had I mentally capitulated though than I witnessed a small bright torpedo hurtle from wherever it had been singing in front of me across the path directly behind. There it landed, somewhere precisely out of my line of sight, and began again to twitter some beautiful tweets. Just as I had sat down! And you scoffed when I said the bird is making fun. Grumbling quietly but nonetheless in cheerful earnest, I stood, wiped the dirt from my butt, and turned to resume my search for the warbling. Wouldn’t you know that all of a sudden this sassy beauty alighted right in my line of sight, just there, maybe twenty yards away, through several well-situated little windows through the trees: a Golden-cheeked warbler.

I listen to a lot of Poetry Unbound, a podcast hosted by the poet Pádraig Ó Tuama, whose poetry I have never read but whose mind I adore. Back at my perfect campsite, Clay has gone for a hike and I have the privilege of listening to Pádraig read M. Soledad Caballero’s “Some Day I Will Visit Hawk Mountain”. It’s about birding, and all I can do is ruin it. You can listen to the podcast, or just read the poem, here. I randomly downloaded this episode from the list of “unplayed” without knowing how apt it might be–ah, poetry, always–and can certainly say I am delighted to have had it here, in particular. Here where I watch their flights closely but cannot imagine differentiating a swallow from a swift, or any of the hidden many by their songs. Here at my picnic table amid Ponderosa pines, who grow so tall and have no branches lower than six feet, I look up to see the Stellar’s jays again. They are boldly, casually peering down on me like old white ladies at the supermarket with their heads cocked so I don’t know if they are trying to figure something out or just want my snacks.

I am glad when there arrive neighbors on the far side who are much less eager for attention. I go to bed contentedly enough, and with a mind for mental preparation, complete with a raging debate about departing my perfect campsite sooner than later. In the morning, my first little jaunt is to the bathroom. Here I read very bad news that makes me laugh out loud: The forests of New Mexico are threatened by fire all over the state, and the National Forest Service is closing Lincoln National Forest effective immediately. Please leave today. No longer torn about departing this beautiful forest, I am happy to begin packing. As I do, Clay attempts to communicate with me while I ignore him completely. He says my name and I do not react. I am organizing breakfast at my relatively private picnic table when I hear a noise across the dry stream bed. My first reaction is to wonder if Clay has gone “hiking” over there, but I look up to see a Mule deer casually bounding by. Directly in my field of vision, it leaps from left to right. This hurried creature seems small for a Mule deer, but it is unmistakable so close. The animal springs carefully through the brush, bearing the telltale understatements of its kind: dull brown coat so muted as to be almost gray, broad black nose, and dramatically dark ruminant eyes, complete with lashes to die for. It vaults from each pair of hooves in turn, rear, front, up again almost before they touch the forest floor. This is the creature I must depart the forest to save, and gladly.

Firefighters showed up in their adorable, mint green–“Forest Service Green,” they say–four person truck and politely answered my volley of questions about their job and what’s going to happen in this forest. It turned out they were brought in from Washington State, where a lot of their jurisdiction is still melting with Spring. They gave me advice about visiting both their state and Idaho, complete with brochures they had in the truck, which it turned out they’d driven all the way down from the northwest. They said they were lucky it was only four of them, because the truck can hold five.

Throughout this entire conversation, Clay was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience for his turn. He butted his way in eventually, at which point I thanked the firefighters, bowed out, got in my car, and drove away smiling.

When I started this entry, I didn’t know where it was going, but I thought about Augustus’ musings and felt like doing something similar. Augustus would never let anyone, not even his partner Call, spoil his good time. And so I didn’t. This is a particularly non-fiction piece, which I hope sings as clear as a Golden cheeked warbler how much I love this cowboy life. Speaking of, I have to admit that my man Augustus wouldn’t waste a fight on a guy like Clay, which is really the only reason I didn’t murder him.

Planes dip into this lake, man-made on indigenous land, en route to fight the fires all around. It’s one of very few campgrounds currently open in New Mexico. No matter how much of this area I haven’t been allowed to see on these past two visits–first COVID, now fires–it continues to feel utterly magical to me.

You will stop to stick your face into a gardened rose. Soon, you’ll catch your companion doing the same. Something like adoration blooms between you as you laugh over shared meals. Stories are appreciated, silences smooth, all feels paced with elegant understanding. Both and each of you breathe easy despite your only recent acquaintance. The gangly dog bounds and leaps, attentive to the second, affectionate without pride. What standards these creature have concocted for you! What hope.

I enjoy going to the laundromat. Truly, I enjoy the humanness of it all. It’s like on mass transit: everybody is just here to get a thing done so we’ll mostly be polite. The trolleys are a multi-functional assist that I only learned the full capabilities of by watching. Quarter machines feel nostalgic these days, as if adulting is its own prize. The dirty clothes are another whole adventure. The before part actually is a strange experience, and so trite–airing it, and all–but the after is an underrated opportunity to see your own stuff anew. Although I’ve found that strangers universally do not pay any attention, a wardrobe folded publicly does ask for some scrutiny. Most of my clothes are nicely worn to the point of not really bothering to look clean despite being so. I appreciate that—I’m not a person who concerns themself with wrinkles. There’s something to learn from clean clothes.

Today at the laundromat I was preoccupied with the forests of New Mexico closing for fire safety. This would make it tricky to find a home for the night, no less on a holiday weekend. I didn’t bother to dry my clothes for more than one quarter’s time, never mind that the enormous TV in this two-dozen machine laundromat was playing that old Michael J. Fox show where he’s a cute nerd. I was laughing out loud as I laid my damp laundry into the bag in a way that would make drying it easy. Being in the hot car for a while wouldn’t hurt, then I’d hang them when I found a spot.

Et voila.

Ahem, hi hello yes do you have birds here?

I drove into the desert and up a hill after a long day of birding in hot weather. I had that mineral sunscreen on, the white kind that you have to scrub off. I’d been sweating and I was aching to get out of the sun. This is the desert though, and shady spots are hard to come by. I decided to do the next best thing to cool myself off. I found a nice flat spot atop a rise, parked the car, and peered around for signs of civilization. The horizon was visible for nearly the entire turn of my body. I assessed the distance to the closest other human at at least a mile before I set myself up. If a solar shower spends all day in a mostly-hot car, well, the temperature gauge on this thing read 115F. Thusly equipped I washed off the day under no shelter whatsoever in the nearly-setting, still hot sun. Alone and exposed to the elements, half-rushing, mostly giggling, I cooled down, so fresh and so clean.

Morning showed a new crack in the abused plastic fender
Fur stuck in the tape where I’d patched up the rest

Had you been there I know I would have pulled over
Together we’d have offered the scavengers’ feast

Alone though, I drove on screaming I fucking tried
I had prayed I had slowed for the creatures of twilight

I taped up the fender I left there the fur
Destruction, creation, adventure, remember

Fuckin’ delighted to let y’all know that I drove my little car right onto this beach to camp. If you haven’t attempted to drive on sand before, let me tell you: don’t. This beach, with the exception of shorebird nesting areas and the strange interruption of a gator swamp, is packed down and specifically maintained for vehicles to cruise on. Two nights in a row now I’ve been able to get good sleeps in the sea breeze despite the temperature remaining well above 65F. In the mornings there are hundreds of water-loving birds: little sandpipers, kildeer, and plovers flitting to and fro in the sand, hooded and other gulls bathing in the calm pools made by a break wall, giant brown pelicans diving in the background. All of them noisy and excitable as a lunchroom full of seven year olds: socializing, bickering, eating. No swimming here, so I keep myself busy at the myriad nature preserves and bird sanctuaries in this area.

I hadn’t seen the Gulf of Mexico before. The horizon out here is dotted with what I assume are oil rigs. Way, way out there are metal monstrosities that never move. They are lit up all day and night, but would be easy to spot regardless. I am deeply grateful to have found myself in a part of this area that celebrates and protects wildlife. There’s hurricane damage here, but no particularly noteworthy human destruction.

I was greeted this morning by a man who wanted to talk about my Maine plates. He ended up giving me a map for a National Park where he works in Wisconsin. We laughed that the day I visit will probably be his day off. His wife gave me a giant cookie from a local bakery. It was her birthday.

It hasn’t been easy for me to acclimate to the deep south social culture. I am always up for single serving friendships, but this was one of my first happy, easy, traveling exchanges since.. last year. I’m not sure why—and I’m certainly not gonna spend much time on it—but my charm is pretty ineffectual round these parts. So far none of my “little while friends” have been southerners, but that won’t stop me trying.

Slowly but surely, this cowboy is heading to Texas.

Many major cities are composed of stunning architecture, bright lights, and a bubbling, impersonal ferocity. There is constant energy, relentless tension, perpetual motion. My bumpkin heart gets caught-up and entranced by the sights and sounds for a short while, then quickly exhausted.

Many fewer major cities—and I’m sure hundreds of neighborhoods within the shinier cities—have a different feel of hustle and bustle. Outdated but beloved architecture, shorter buildings, sky with stars overhead, and people who say hello to strangers. There is a flow of energy, tension only with authority, perpetual creation. There is an authenticity to this, an appreciation for what remains after government neglect. The roads in these places require slow-going: rutted, pocked, full of holes. This is the most obvious evidence of abandonment, but as you look you will find so much more.

A common enemy creates bonds within a community. A common cause can do the same. Although it is certainly in my nature to hold court about a thing like this, I cannot pretend to know much about the plight of impoverished cities and neighborhoods under a government built on the subjugation of the inhabitants. Majority black places are routinely fucked over–Symone says “these streets are a hate crime”, and her precision takes my breath for a second–yet always chock full of beauty, right at the surface. Give me a spray painted mural over a corporate sculpture any day. Better yet, paint the mural on the corporate sculpture. Trip over a broken sidewalk and look up to see a bounty of squash and tomatoes and lettuce fitted into four square feet of fencing. There will be local and classic and beloved music bursting from slow moving vehicles. Pieces of plastic, glass, and metal repurposed as decoration, planters, fencing. Neighbors who say hello, no eyes averted, who are yelling and laughing like every day is a good one. I like a culture that looks at the truth of what power does, grieves it, then decides to go ahead and create something, take care of each other. Indeed, from the songs of enslaved people to the undeniable skill of the wheelie boys, such behavior is quintessential black American legacy.

There’s those trite aphorisms about the rose from concrete, or “they tried to bury us but didn’t know we were seeds”. I fall hard and fast for anything that embodies those statements. The buildings in disrepair with clearly beloved gardens. Aggressively bright colors against the grey of crumbling walls. Rebellion in the face of the slavers, who later became the police.

As this spoiled, pathetically bratty, absolutely embarrassing infant of a country finally learns what it means to have rapists in power, I stay avoiding the news. There’s plenty to do in the world right in front of me. Truly, for a lot of Americans, the civil war never ended.

Today Symone and I grabbed some soul food for a picnic in City Park, which at 1,300 acres is 50% bigger than NYC’s Central Park. Our friendship grew directly from our shared curiosity about art and the outside world. We have spent many hours playing together in highly curated DC spaces, both in and out of doors. Then there was that one time we explored all of Berlin’s Tiergarten, which is a humble 519 acres but still made for a very big day. We love an outdoor adventure! City Park was the natural choice for Symone and my first adventure in her new city.

I been solo on the road for eight nights! How about a glimpse of Sorcha’s interior before I batten her down for some city parking? I didn’t edit this scene at all, just snapped the shots. Next time, back seats.

Have I missed the deadline?

Can I play my part?

I apologize for wandering

I had to make a start

I had to just get going

hit the road

sleep outside

I was busy birding

Busy sighing at the sky

I started “Rhythms for the Road” last year and then took a break as I stood still a while. Now that I’ve driven all the way to fuckin Mississippi from Maine (woohoo!) I want to share this one with y’all again. I present to you the copilot of my dreams—encouraging in traffic, rolling with the ups and downs of mountains, chilling and cruising at any speed. The only limitation of this playlist seems to be that it’s exclusively good for being in a moving vehicle. Not recommended for hanging out, doing chores, or dancing. It’s also in no particular order because Spotify only made that feature available recently.

Please enjoy these songs randomly as your scenery changes.

If you would like to enjoy this glorious compilation but do not use Spotify, please let me know! I will send you screenshots of every song on this four hour list. I was gonna put it here but that would be a massive aesthetic disservice.

Yesterday a Canada goose honked at my car as I passed by.

ABOLISH THE POLICE But today I was on a crowded highway where everyone was going too fast—like legit no one was near the speed limit—and I had to stay in the right lane to pass a cop who had somebody pulled over on the right shoulder. I couldn’t go left but the cop was directly in front of my car walking toward his own on the shoulder, looking, I suddenly realized, smokin hot in his short sleeved uniform, hat included, and full-sleeve tattoos. I gave him an apologetic little wave to which he immediately responded with a gesture of “no problem” and whew! If I didn’t think of how badly I did not, did not, want him to stop me further down the road.

I saw so many bears in the Smoky Mountains that I had to take notes.

Whenever I spy an actually shitty tattoo, I play this little game with myself. This is kind of a secret and it’s a little embarrassing. But the game is called “hot? or hot garbage?” Cuz think about it. I have some shitty tattoos. So do most punk rockers. There’s Steve-O, and Nick Nolte. And all of my best friends! So whenever I see a shitty tattoo I try not to stare when I’m checking the person out. Because to be completely honest: I can never tell.

If this subject makes you feel anything but amused, please skip it. This is your trigger warning, as apologizing for discussing human bodily functions is not at all my bag.

I’m on a turn-out/pull-off between the river that runs the Nantahala Gorge and the road that carries, from what I can tell, mostly kayakers and rafters to their destinations. I just made myself chuckle with a fart.

I think the most important thing about pooping is privacy. That’s why it’s hard to discuss. We all have no issue holding dog shit in our hands with only a thin plastic barrier while it is still warm. Don’t even get me started on how ready caretakers are to discuss the poops of anyone under five years old. Include me in this, as I have enjoyed comparing my niblings’ turds to all sorts of different unrelated things. My favorite has to have been my brother’s son, Camilo’s cameatball, with a singular, prune-shaped turd from Rose as runner-up. In summation, privacy is subjective.

Let’s talk about pooping in the woods. You find your spot, dig your “cat”-hole, settle into your squat. The fresh air kisses your bum and carries away any malodorous leavings. When you stand, the earth covers your pile of waste as naturally as if it was never there at all. What is not to love?!

Okay maybe you have some tummy or bowel issues and this doesn’t seem possible. Or you’re bad at squatting. Maybe you hate digging holes? That’s my least favorite bit, partly because I’m often struggling in the dirt while my dookies are knockin’ on the back door. But like, what if you had a toilet in the wilderness: would you shit there?

There are folks I know with shitters in their backyards that are fully designed for enjoying the view. Some have half doors, some have no doors. This is even less privacy that I usually enjoy when I dig a hole. Have you ever notice how squatting hides your bits? But in these outhouses you get to sit down, which is certainly nice. I would like to take a poll about whether this is more preferable or if people need a bathroom to feel safe enough to number two.

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I return to this post having lived indoors, with running water and a seated toilet, for a few months now. It made me miss pooping al fresco, but if I’m honest I was already feeling that absence frequently. If you have the capacity, I implore you to poop out of doors, at least once! And as much as possible.

All the biggest and most extravagant butterflies I’ve seen have been those startled from dung or mud. I write now from a riverside perch in the Smoky Mountains where I’ve taken off my shoes to have lunch.

This morning I awoke to car doors closing and people excitedly chatting about the weather. It was 6:30AM and about 50F (so many emojis and still no “degrees” character), and I was grateful to have tucked myself into bed around dusk the night before. I hadn’t posted up in a busy area, but people get real stoked at national parks and I don’t blame ‘em. Happy strangers are not the worst alarm clock.

My first hike, to Laurel Falls, was brief but busy. I knew that it was popular—paved and short—and even arriving at 8 was kind of late. On the way back from the falls I heard Chinese and managed to say “good morning” in Mandarin. Were these two ever delighted! We walked the last half mile or so together, chatting (in English) about life in Asia vs here. It was hard to say goodbye at the crowded parking lot! People were lining up for our spots though, and so we said 再見

My second hike was a big loop through a gorgeous forest. Not quite as wet as a rainforest but the scents of spring were plentiful. I would have been stopping to sniff the air more than anything if I hadn’t walked up on a wildflower touring group! These people were nerding out over every third flower and taking up the whole path. When I got “stuck” behind them they tried to let me pass and I refused, asking if I was okay for me to tag along. I learned so much and forgot most of it immediately, but if anybody’s interested in next year’s 73rd annual wildflower pilgrimage, please get in touch. I’m serious.

Now I am watching yellow butterflies and black ones with blue tails. They flutter up and dance around, landing again together in the waterside mud. I wonder what they find there.

Last summer I was in unceded Shoshone territory camped out on a cliff overlooking a river about thirty feet down. It was sweaty summer weather and while I knew I wouldn’t swim in the glacial Boise River river, I did want to go dip my toes in. I scaled down the cliff to find myself on a sandy little beach that I hadn’t seen from my higher perch. I was relieved to have made it down the cliff and fairly trotted right onto the wet silty sand, startling and setting flight to hundreds of yellow butterflies that had been camouflaged in the mud only a half-second prior. Hundreds of bright yellow wings opened and rose gracefully but spastically all around me, swirling and swarming around their spot even as I stood there frozen in astonishment. After a moment in the gentle kerfuffle my eyes adjusted to notice the darker colored butterflies, lots of black with some blue-green. Surrounded by soft wings I just stood there until they settled a bit before realizing that every movement I could make would be disruptive. I felt as though I’d disturbed a secret place, so startled were the bugs, but I wasn’t unwelcome. Butterflies have no choice but grace, I suppose.

Back here in Cherokee country a raven just flew past with a mouthful of yellow wings. Can’t even be mad.

I resent screens for being the method by which I must connect with other humans. Out here, I am connected to the whole world, though the quality is universally considered “alone”. Last night I was interested in sleep just before dusk. In the glowing ever-deeper green evening ebb of activity, I gathered myself fully into my open tent/trunk. A few minutes later, in the duskiest of forest light, a Pileated woodpecker cackled into view not twenty yards from my perch.

Do you know these animals? I have certainly become inured to the stature of most predatory birds. We joke that it’s not really a Maine day if you haven’t seen a Bald eagle, but my pop’s house near the Great Lakes gets eagle visits all the time. Pileated woodpeckers though are this uncanny mix of hoppity hopping tree-loving bird and actual dinosaur that is maybe too heavy for that branch. Like many woodpeckers from around these northeastern climes, Pileateds have a red crest. Unlike any other however, that crest is an actual flat top. Literally they look like Jim Carrey as the Riddler but only on the very top and in a much more flattering shade. Also the rest of their outfit is much more stylish and attractive. So going back to the flat top, maybe just imagine peak Fresh Prince with fire-engine red hair. I really have no way of doing this bird justice but I am just going to soldier on here; if you haven’t looked it up already, please be my guest. The ‘do is significant, but not half as much as the bird’s size. These giants are the size of newborns, I swear. They come in with their impossibly recognizable hollerin’ to land, as is the style of woodpeckers, parallel on a tree trunk. Unlike others though, Pileateds will make you put up your hands to measure and wonder, “That might really be as big as a baby.” Here I am, watching this enormous bird who for some reason has not stopped shouting, wondering if this is it: finally an opportunity to communicate with a dinosaur. This megafauna hops from one tree to another, staying in my, admittedly narrow, sight and calling out with some consistency. Am I being threatened, I wonder before laughing at myself. Indeed this bird could do serious damage but what the actual fuck would it want with me? Before long, my monstrous friend swoops off, its wingbeats stifled only by its yelling.

It is in moments like this, when I realize that my fears are actually predicated on complete unreality, that I can discern my own humanity from the animal my soul longs to be. Later in the evening I had to take care of some uterine twaddle (the lengths I am trying to go to not write “blood” y’all, smh) and wondered if I’d be attracting a bear. I triple bagged my garbage and sprayed the whole car with peppermint before I realized that the fear itself was based on what? An urban legend. Bears aren’t sharks! That didn’t stop me from leaving the top off the coffee can while I slept, but it did allow me to fall asleep peacefully as the crickets and frogs chattered.

There is a tree here who creaks and wails in the ways of fairytale witches. She leans in one direction and nearly squeals, another direction provokes deep whining. Her sway changes again and the nasally sound is lilting, almost singing. At first when I hear this I wonder about a bird, but that’s just the wild hope of a strange human who’d like to make a new friend. In the dark the tree could easily be called creepy, whispering and complaining to the apathetic night. I listen to the gusts that travel through the treetops, never even touching my tent, like waves high above my head. The trees lean and tilt, but only one or two make any fuss about it. I look to the deep blue sky, the trees silhouetted and stark, stars peeking through thei branches. I am a sea creature, way deep down in the calm below the surface. These massive fronds are my shelter, lilting in the current. I wonder if kelp creaks under the weight of waves.

In actually wet news, the creek beside which I’ve nested this evening is definitely some type of babbler. At one point in my near-slumber I imagine I hear people talking. I wake up listening intently to the flow of shallow water over smooth rocks. I recognize the weird change in pitch that has occurred. I cannot explain or really even illustrate the moments when a bustling waterway changes its tune, but it happens, and can be truly disconcerting. We like to think a non-living thing is constant–rocks and water aren’t really a conscious combo–but nothing on this earth is constant. My little brook has been chattering all day, but only in the depth of night do my senses awake to its conversation. I have been indoors a long time, and will need a moment before my forest senses return. In this way I find myself, wide awake long after tucking in to bed, delighted by my own annoyance with this guilelessly talkative stream.

A beloved friend recommended me the book The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, and I love it so far. I think it’s a fairly quick read overall, and I recommend it to anyone who needs a little burst of surreptitious wonder in their lives. I’m not going to give too much away but our sweet author is deeply afflicted by illness and finds some comfort in overhearing their snail’s nocturnal munching of a calm, lonely evening. My pantry happens to be directly under the head of my bed, which is helpful if there are unwelcome guests in the breadbox–they always go for the bread or oatmeal first. I sure did wish it was a snail when I awoke a couple hours before dawn to the sounds of nibbling. That sound, more effectively than any other, jolts me immediately from dead sleep to usefully alert. I don’t hesitate as I grab my headlamp and put it on maximum brightness, dangling it toward the floor from my bed in an effort to startle the smaller creature. Then, like the omnipotent giant that I am, I reach down to remove all the food from the floor. I am glad to see that only one bread bag has a half-inch nibble out of it, barely missing a few crumbs. I’d caught the little dude in the act, glad again to have the pantry so close to my hearing. Now, to smoke ’em out. This involves a lot of noisemaking in the predawn blue and I didn’t really enjoy it, but my univited visitor was finally evicted as the sky lightened, and the woods didn’t seem to mind. The first thing I did when I got up this morning was to bolster my security. I couldn’t find a weak spot, and so the possibility of a subsequent intruder is decent. But any fear I might have of encountering animals fades directly in relation to time spent in the woods.

As if I could ever consider myself “alone”.

Whenever I am stuck in a standstill, bumper to bumper—why is it so frequently Virginia?—I like to time the whole thing. I want to know how long it will take until we all start moving again, but I am even more interested in who’s going to get out their car first. You know that person who needs to see the whole arc, and maybe they’ll learn something. Perhaps just knowing the scope will ameliorate some anxiety. Or it won’t, but I like to see how long it takes before somebody feels the need to walk around.

The first person to hit the pavement in these circumstances seems to be one who will invariably look down the length of highway, one hand on their hip and another over their eyes, to survey the scene in both directions. It took this guy about six minutes, and I would be out there too if I wasn’t driving. I love getting out of the car in standstill traffic (see previous post titled “independence day”). Inevitably none of us can do much besides wait, on the hot pavement or in the cars full of cool air. Some boldly cruise down the shoulders toward escapes in which they seem confident. I watch as one man exits a car in the right lane to ask if the folks in the left can give him an out. He gestures at their driver side to roll down the window using the antiquated but entirely recognizable fist-in-a-circle motion. They back up cautiously to allow him through, and off he goes toward who knows what.

Eight minutes in, the heat from the pavement and packed-in vehicles threatens suffocation and I succumb to the need for air conditioning. I am listening to a podcast discussing the life of Malcolm X, whose rage I find perhaps the most inescapable of all righteous angers. I appreciate that the people involved in this discussion do not apologize to or try to placate their audience regarding X’s hatred. I remain stupefied that seemingly so few marginalized people are even half as hostile.

Now we’re at twelve minutes, and there are other folks disembarking. They chat and stretch and walk around. Our pioneer surveyor had long since returned to their vehicle, but makes another appearance now. Not even a quarter hour into our delay we are already giving in to social habits that we usually leave behind as we drive. See now why I like to time it?

I’ve been thinking about my harmonica. These are decent practice circumstances—the car in park with windows shut. I remember the notes I learned last week. I give “Mary Had a Little Lamb” a shot. I hit one note horribly and the next with perfection; the beauty of learning. I’m proud to repeat this ridiculous song incrementally better over fifteen more minutes.

It was ultimately a half hour that could have been spent waiting. Some people drove off, others mingled on the highway. Most spent the time in languor. Under the hot sun and in the privacy of my own home, I made a lame attempt to play the blues for us all.

I’m listening to birds sing the sun down in Shenandoah National Park. It’s my first NP this year and I was pretty stoked cruising in to purchase my annual pass from the entrance gate folks. The young babe there with blond pigtails and a ranger uniform caught my energy in the best way: “I like your tattoos. You look cool,” followed by a genuinely sweet smile. I carried that for most of Skyline Drive.

Every US national park pamphlet discusses origins and “the first people who used” the land, like for resources or vacations or conservation. They rarely talk about the indigenous tribes, and then mostly to appropriate their lore (see: Devil’s Tower, FKA Bear Mountain). Shenandoah National Park, as far as I know, is on Shawandasse Tula and Manahoac land.

I stayed in my friends’ sisters’ family home last night. In a room like a great room with two story ceilings and a wide fireplace chimney bordered by windows and pale yellow walls, there is hung a portrait of a young woman and a little girl on a sandy, grassy beach. The room for all its height feels accessible and well-loved, but the beauty of that artwork needed the space to breathe for sure. The two subjects, tight knit and shuffling among the tall grasses and sand, wear clothes that speak of another time: layers of skirts and blouses blustering about in the sea breeze, also bonnets. Their hair escapes in wisps, aglow in places, the whole painting is doted on by a not-quite-summer kind of sunlight, in which our ladies seem to be telling secrets. They walk tightly together toward the onlooker, possible interloper. In the evening when we arrived it struck me how I’ve seen so many paintings—too many!—as or possibly more glorious than this one, but that this one becomes everything it should be because it isn’t surrounded by others similarly impressive. The work flourishes by not being in among a crowd. Perhaps all art could.

Sunlight streamed through those great room windows in the morning, gracing the still-conspiring duo, and whatever else. I was forced to admit I hadn’t thought the painting could have been more beautiful. I didn’t take a photo of it because it felt sacred then, but now I wish I had.

I find myself only two hours from where I set out around midday, slowly leaving family.

I am in another home theater. Last night I watched the first two John Wick movies with my uncle. Tonight I’m watching music videos with a friend I met on the eve of the new year 2008 in Taipei. When we tell the story, he always makes sure to add: Kiah was in a shopping cart. I spent so much of my night in that shopping cart that I had bruises on the backs of my legs. This old friend and I have seen each other a few times since I left Taipei. The story stays adorable.

I have been so spoiled lately, on couches and in guest rooms. I have camped less than half the time since I left Maine. Tomorrow I’mma get to it.

Gonna stop numbering my days cuz it’s fucking with me. Today I reorganized my car, sat around with family, and enjoyed a delicious dinner. I’m still indoors but now re-optimized for outdoor adventuring and gettin antsy! New tent is due to arrive imminently, big thanks to my mama.

Today I borrowed my cousin’s dog for a nature adventure. I’ve been practicing trail running, but she barely broke a trot.

My cousin has a house in Baltimore and it’s cute as hell. I don’t know how to commit [to anything] but I do believe Baltimore is an excellent place in which to build a life, for a myriad of reasons. I’m sure glad I have folks to visit in the dazzlingly vibrant yet genuinely approachable Charm City.