Occupation of Independence

People really should stop asking "Where are you going?" and other questions of that type. I didn't decide where I was going until I was pulling out of the driveway of the relative I was visiting in Spokane. Besides the channeled scablands from the ice dam break on the Clark Fork river, the unique feature of Washington is the windblown dirt hills of eastern Washington, the Palouse, one of North America's most productive growers of wheat. from photoCascadia.wordpress.com, taken by Chip Phillips. There was still a lot of green wheat fields, but of course it was transitioning to yellow. I forgive it -- it is mid-July, after all. I even managed to see the small sign where my favorite cycling road intersects the main highway. Nostalgia can be so sweet!  And speaking of nostalgia, I can no longer remember why the Little Valiant One decided to snooze on the dirt in the Palouse, after a mountain bike ride: from the vault... my first dog in harmony with nature,

Google Maps guided me in to Sportsman's Warehouse in Bozeman, MT. I was surprised to be met outside the store by a virus-mullah insisting that I wear a virus-burka before entering the store. They were polite about it, and offered me a free mask. Actually it was funny. Years ago I was job-interviewing in the Northeast. At a restaurant that night, the snooty waiter said, "We have a tie and jacket available for you." I was confused and offended. I had never been to a place that required a uniform to eat. Anyway, I went into the store, only to find out that it was an REI instead of the Sportsman's Warehouse I was looking for. It turns out that they were right next to each other. But of course, they had opposite policies regarding the virus-burka.  Maybe REI's version is made of Polartec and costs $115. The REI had warning sign after warning sign inside the store, micro-managing every aspect of standing, walking, scratching your ass, etc.  But they seemed

When I first started seeing the color green, it was like a long disease was finally ending. But it was better than mere green; it was rolling hills of green grass, with the mountains of Yellowstone in the background. I even found a place to camp alone. It would have been a great place for a mountain bike ride except for the sign warning about grizzly bears. And I forgot to buy a can of bear spray! But I was delighted that the right kind of scenery can still have this effect on me, after all these years. There is nothing special about my central nervous system or brain. So why has this success happened? The likely explanation is that I have never allowed travel to collapse into a one-dimensional worship of pretty scenery. I have let it rest, from time to time. And then the appetite comes back.  For instance, green grass represents something of fundamental importance: humans and other animals actually need nature to live, to eat, and for shelter . We can't get necessities fro

I am traveling north, and trying to use a different route than in the old days. What a relief it was to finally get out of Colorado, with its high speed drivers and tourist hordes! But I didn't let them bully me. Wyoming: so much of it is rather ugly and barren. And the wind blows worse than in New Mexico! There are historical markers around the North Platte River that got me thinking about South Pass, WY, where the old Emigrant (wagon) Trails crossed the continental divide, just south of the Wind River mountain range in Wyoming.  from fineArtAmerica.com It's funny how many classic television westerns I have watched as sleeping pills, at night. But have they ever mentioned South Pass and the Sweetwater River? Just think of all those miles across the Great Plains, with a continuous track of water right to the continental divide at South Pass! What a piece of geographical luck! I camped at South Pass. The gasoline gauge was getting low. There I was, experiencing a ti

It doesn't seem like such a great thing to get out of bed at 3:30, but oddly, it was . I had been listening/sleeping to an audiobook of Jack London's "White Fang," narrated with great skill by Seth Thompson. His voice and London's story had lulled me into a state of unusual satisfaction. It was like sharing a campfire with friends, when the inane chatter of the early evening has worn down to the subdued voices of a later fire; quiet, dignified voices that imitate the steady breathing of a bed of orange coals. Here was a satisfaction that could never come from the written word.  Maybe it was anticipation of my upcoming trip that made me get up at 3:30. There is only one more day of waiting! It has always been like this, before a trip. Usually this mood hits at the end of summer, while anticipating a new autumn. But this time, I anticipated going north for the first time in years, thanks to a new tow vehicle. It won't exactly be a new experience to me. But