Foreword
This is a story of rebellion and refusal, one of stubbornness and loneliness, of adventures and misfortunes. It is meant as a celebration of the greatness of nature and of the human spirit as well. Mostly, it is a story about personal freedom, a commodity which is becoming scarcer
and scarcer with the advancement (or should I say regression?) of modern western society.
Introduction
In the summer of 2002, burned out by two decades of rat race, I decided to quit and drop out. Suddenly, I had to shake loose from the constraints of modern society in the same hurried way that you doff your wet clothes after you’ve been caught in a downpour.
Once that mental switch had been thrown, working out the details was a breeze.
"Go small, go now!” I kept muttering to myself as I made the final arrangements, repeating the mantra of countless wanderers, vagabonds and outlaws often linked by the common denominator of minimalism as a way of life.
So, here it is: my journal of what started as a trip into the unknown and soon became a new way of approaching life. Was I the first one to do this? Of course not. Do I have something, anything, to contribute to the already huge library of travel diaries, self growth manuals and novels of fiction about different lifestyles? I doubt it. One thing is certain, though: this adventure actually happened and taught me to think outside the box I was brought up in. It helped me grow, discover myself and gave me a new sense of direction and, most importantly, hope.
I left this memoire as I originally wrote it, usually at night after a long day of travel or work, sitting next to a fire with a steaming mug of tea in front of me. I hope that you will excuse the grammatical errors, the screwed up syntax and the obligatory typos and just take it for what it is: the simple story of someone that went looking for paradise only to discover it buried deep inside himself.
One
Summer in Miami. The rain comes down in steady sheets that blanket the town, water rushing through the gutters then overflowing on the sidewalks, a thick layer of humidity coating my skin in a suffocating embrace that smells of heat and mildew. I sit on an empty ammo box in my loft, wandering how the fuck am I going to load my bus in this foul weather. The place is empty, three duffel bags piled neatly next to the front door, my three dogs curled up around them. Everything else either given away or junked. Today is the day; a day that I have fantasized about a zillion times in the past twenty years. At first, writing it off as sheer lunacy, then slowly shifting into thinking of it as an impossible dream before, finally, accepting it as the inevitable ending (beginning?) of my first life. Thinking back, I realize that I was inexorably drawn to this without knowing it.
As the grip of modern society became firmer over my throat and the every day obligations of urban life choked me further and further, I longed for more air, more space, more freedom. Without a clear understanding of this cultural shift that I was beginning to experience, I started down a winding path that - tentatively at first, then progressively faster and, finally, at neck breaking speed - led me away from my life as I knew it. Now it’s all here. It is actually happening. The goodbyes said, the hugs hugged, the inevitable tears shed. Today I cast off for the unknown, guided by my instinct and whatever route will appeal to me.
Ten years I spent in this concrete furnace that is South Florida and that is ten years too many. Dade County, the sewer of the United States, adiòs! Suddenly, I can’t wait a minute longer. I grab my shit and sprint down the slippery stairs, flying over the wet grass to where my trusty old bus is parked. This bus, a 1978 Volkswagen Transporter, will be my home for the next few months and I’ve spent countless hours working on it, trying to fix or replace anything that might become a liability on the road.
I will share this mobile home with my three dogs and cannot wait to find out how they will adapt to their new quarters. These guys, all rescued dogs, are not the easiest pets to travel with. Trudy is a Dingo mix and possibly the meanest dog on earth. Blutarski, Bluto, is a shepherd/lab mix, sweet as only Labradors can be; nevertheless, he is a seventy five pound beast and will take up his fare share of oxygen inside the bus. Finally Dino. A huge Doberman with a nasty streak and a penchant for attacking anything that moves, Dino joined the crew about one year ago after I picked him up starved almost to death by a lifetime on the street.
So, there it is: a clunky old van, three dogs, a roll of cash and nowhere to go.
In other words, on top of the world…
Two
In my case reaching the tweaking point was a combination of different factors, a long process of mental saturation and rejection of conventional wisdom. In its mad scramble to automate life in order to facilitate it, modern western society lost track of what being alive is supposed to feel in the first place. Simply put, I became allergic to plastic housing, tasteless meals, relentless advertisements for useless products to be bought with borrowed money and, in general, to an artificial life whose rhythm was set by rules and regulations that choked life itself. A switch was suddenly thrown inside my skull, for once in my sorry existence the rusted gears in my brain meshed effortlessly and that was it. Enough! Time to leave the madness behind.
I crank the engine and let it idle for a minute cocking my head to pick up any metallic, irregular noises that might spell disaster once under way. But no, the air cooled motor whirrs smoothly and steadily. I glance back and check that my crew is settled in for the trip. Trudy sits in the middle seat right behind me, relaxed yet alert. Smart as a whip, she knows something’s up and checks me out carefully. The other two share the third row seat and are already snoring away, lost in doggie dreams. First gear drops in with a clunk and we are off. It takes almost three hours to clear out of the strip mall scene. Developers, you shall burn in hell for what you’ve done to America. Finally, some open land. It is still pouring and the heavy tropical rain makes driving an exercise in focused endurance. By nine in the evening I am feeling beat, but elect to press on for a little longer. Finally, I am simply too exhausted to keep driving. I spot a glowing neon sign off the exit ramp and promptly kick my turn signal on and swerve right. Time to pack it in and forty bucks buy me a nice, warm room since there’s no way I am setting up camp in this foul weather. As I check in, I experience the first of countless gestures of kindness that strangers all over the country will offer me in the next few months. The night concierge comes out in the pouring rain with three giant dog cookies and tries her best to make friends while the dogs snarl at her behind the fogged up windows. Other than being very protective of their new home, so far the puppies have behaved like three little angels. Not even a peep from the back of the bus in over three hundred miles.
We wake up to a gorgeous day and a squeaky front wheel. Shit, am I already in trouble? I head north on US 1 debating my options and immediately spot a VW sign. I jerk the wheel to the right and bounce onto the driveway entrance of Ron’s VWs. I jump out of the cab and explain the situation. Ron simply nods and goes straight to work. He drops everything and takes care of me. Unbelievable. Well, I happen to be on the outskirts of Daytona and, after all, this is the motor capital of the world. Ron tells me he is envious. Envious of what? That I don’t have a job or that I am stuck in this van with three dogs? Envious of your freedom, he explains. He is the third person to make a similar comment since I left Miami. Either I am out of my mind or I am really onto something with this trip.
In a matter of minutes I am back on the road. I have to stop every few hours to let the dogs out, so our progress is slow and it takes for ever to cover a hundred miles. By nightfall I camp outside of St. Augustine just south of the Georgia border. The rain has stopped and there is a fresh breeze that sweeps the humidity off my skin. After a quick dinner, tuna right out of a can and a tall mug of tea, I realize that I left my address book at a pay phone in town. Damn! My whole life is in that book. I stopped for gas and tried to hook up with my friend Roy, but the connection was not made and, therefore, the rendezvous not arranged. Roy and I go way back. He lived on the other side of the loft, his kitchen separated from mine by a thin layer of sheet rock. He drove a VW Bus and initiated me to the pleasures and nightmares of being a Veedub enthusiast. A surfer, Roy is tall and athletic and taught English at the community college where I taught kayaking. At the time, we both dated extremely beautiful, but also very possessive and jealous Latin women and often had to take a break and hang with ourselves and each other. We started as neighbors and became fast friends. It was a friendship of deep conversations about politics and social justice over simple meals of rice and beans. My dogs loved him and we went for long evening walks in the neighborhood, skirting Biscayne Bay in an area of Miami where white people were scarce and reluctant to be on foot. We led a Bohemian life style shunning the glamour of South Beach and favoring the urban decay of the inner city, where we slipped through the cracks of a failing system and attempted to live our rebellious lives on our own terms. He split Miami just a few weeks before me and for pretty much the same reasons. We made loose plans to hook up some time during the summer somewhere between Jacksonville and North Carolina. A little too loose… No wonder it ain’t happening.
Anyway, I motion to the dogs, we jump back in the bus and cruise towards town. Sure enough, my precious little note book is still sitting on top of the phone booth. Relieved that a major inconvenience has been avoided, I head back to camp where I sleep like the dead.
Tomorrow I will cross my first state line. I definitely have Georgia on my mind since I can’t wait to get the hell out of Florida.
Three
Georgia is astoundingly beautiful and, as I cruise the back roads stopping at road side kiosks to stock up on the sweetest peaches I have ever tasted, I can’t get enough of the winding roads surrounded by old houses and thick moss covered trees.
The bus doesn’t miss a beat and the sun is out. It is such a perfect day that I feel euphoric and sing loudly. The dogs eye me suspiciously and cock their heads trying to understand what the hell I’m talking about. They seem to be enjoying the ride immensely, though. Always ready to jump out and take a break, then eager to run back to their assigned positions, a ritual that is repeated half a dozen times a day and executed with near military precision: the first one to take a running start and leap onto the back seat is Bluto, ears flopping and tongue hanging sideways, a twinkle in his eye. Then comes Trudy, slowly approaching the sliding door and checking that nobody is in her place. She stops right in front of the door, crouches slightly then leaps, sails, onto the middle seat with effortless grace. Once Trudy and her teeth are safely out of his way, Dino approaches and places his front paws on the step, waiting for me to lift his back legs and help him climb aboard. He is well into the double digits and asks for help in such a dignified manner that it never fails to bring a smile to my face.
I am trying to find General Coffee State Park where I plan to camp for the night, a task that is proving difficult since night fall is fast approaching, the gas gauge is leaning dangerously towards the empty mark and the only map I have is pretty much useless. When I feel the bus shudder slightly, I know what’s coming… I ease it into neutral, gently swerve right and coast to a stop on the side of the road. I jump out and evaluate my options. As I am staring into the sunset, a road maintenance crew drives by in a white pick up with state insignia. I flag them down and inquire about gas stations.
“Where you headed?” they want to know.
“How many dogs you got in there?” is the second question.
“Are you homeless?” comes next.
Meanwhile, the driver climbs out of the cab and circles around to the bed of the truck where he lifts an orange jerry can before continuing towards the bus. He pours a couple of gallons into my tank, waves away my hand that is trying to shove a fiver in his breast pocket, wishes me luck and they are off.
By the time I arrive to the park it is pitch black. I self register using my head lamp, then drive around the empty campground until I find a promising site, park the bus at an angle, leave my brights on and set up camp while the dogs disappear into the bushes. I am exhausted and crash without eating. After a while I hear the dogs whining, so I unzip the tent flap and let them in. They curl up around me and are instantly asleep. I watch them snore for a few minutes and can’t help but feel this enormous pride for my “three kids”, so well behaved and cuddly. I am starting to detox myself from the craziness of Miami and sense that I did the right thing. Curiously, I feel no anxiety or fear. I realize that funds will soon be short, but, as I start to fade, I suddenly know that everything will fall into place when the time is right. The park is dark and quiet and I listen to the sounds of silence. I look for stars through the mesh top, but all I see are ominous clouds assembling overhead. Quickly, I rig the rain fly and retire inside with the dogs. Later, minutes, hours?, the storm hits us hard with a series of lightning bolts that tear the darkness apart and light up the tent. Not a drop of rain seeps through and we snuggle together appreciating the warm contact of our four bodies. In the morning, the place is a muddy mess and I spend an hour cleaning up the tent. There’s red mud every where and I struggle with my bucket and a small sponge. Soon everything is clean and dry enough to be packed away and, after one last hike up the trail, we are back on the road.
Four
My next planned stop is at Fort Yargo State Park. The weather has cleared and it promises to be a beautiful day. Maybe happiness is a bus full of dogs rolling down an open stretch of pavement.
At Fort Yargo Trudy is the talk of the park. Rangers and tourists alike stop by to check out this cute wild dog mix that snarls at everybody from behind the windshield. When I walk the three of them on leash, people wave and we stop to chat. They ask many questions and are amazed that I am just roaming around looking for something.
“What are you looking for exactly?” they wish to know.
No clue, “When I find it”, I explain, “I’ll know that I was searching for it.”
From Fort Yargo to Cedars of Lebanon State Park in Tennessee. Once again it is huge and deserted. I roam around for a while trying to get a feel for the size of the place. I get lost a few times, but, somehow, the dogs always find their way back to the bus which I got in the habit of leaving open with the keys in the ignition. A young woman waves from a distance. When I reach her she asks for help in setting up her cabin style tent. I notice a large, fresh bruise on her cheekbone. She notices that I noticed. Husband drinks, she explains embarrassed. We struggle with a thousand different poles and no instructions. Finally, it’s up even though leaning slightly to one side. We brew a mug of tea and talk about relationships. Her name is Ellen and she’ll camp out here for a while as she sorts her life out. She is very pretty and very sad.
She asks me if I have a girl.
"No."
She asks me if I have ever hit a woman I loved.
"No."
“You seem like a nice guy”, she concludes.
The dogs creep up and sniff around the fire. I warn her not to pet Trudy, but, surprisingly enough, the little rascal sits very close to her and licks her hand. This has never happened with a complete stranger, so I am curious.
Suddenly, Ellen cries softly and I don’t know what to say or do. As I sip my tea, my dog licks the tears off her face until she stops sobbing and smiles. We chat for a little longer then I wish her well and get ready to go. I quickly pack up my gear and load it in the bus. The dogs jump in and, as I reach for the ignition key, she comes over to say one final good bye. She reaches in to pet Trudy, but the dog growls and bares her teeth.
“Back away from the bus!” is the message.
I take off and drive in the general direction of Illinois. I have mixed feelings about this state, since between 1988 and 1989 I spent a little more than a year between Chicago and Evanston.
I was taking business classes at Northwestern University while interning for J. Walter Thompson, one of the biggest advertising agencies in the world. Between the city and the college scene I had a jolly good time, I must admit. The lectures were interesting and the work environment stimulating, but it just wasn’t me. I met a girl who was a senior in college, fell in love and eventually married her. We went from Chicago to Milan to Miami before discovering that we had diametrically opposite views on how to exist. I was experiencing my first doubts about this whole prepackaged idea that you had to complete your education through established institutions so that you could then make a successful transition into the corporate world. I secretly aspired to be a beach bum, a vagabond, an adventurer. I dreamed of ditching my suits and living simply with as little obligations as possible. I found that abundance bogged me down, while scarcity energized me. I would visit friends in their homes and be amazed at the amount of objects they felt necessary to surround themselves with. Why all this accumulation? What are they shielding themselves from? I still remember when, as a young Second Lieutenant fresh out of the Academy, I was shown in my new quarters at the 6th Regiment Assault Snipers, a NATO elite unit. A small room with a rectangular shape, white washed walls, a big window with a courtyard view, a bunk bed, a desk with a stool and a chest for my clothes. I remember dropping my army pack on the floor and opening the window to smell the cold, snowy air of Italy’s winter.
The monastic set up of the room gave me clear thinking and I sensed that this would make a good home for me, at least for a while. Today, exactly twenty years later, living in this small but neatly organized bus, with my beloved dogs close to me, promotes the same clear thinking. As we putter along the midwest countryside, my energy level is high and my mind is clear of the cobwebs of western society. Suddenly it dawns on me. I have hit a point of no return. I’ve dropped out and I am not coming back in. I come to a fork in the road. It is a perfect Y and there are no signs. Confused, yet startled at this coincidence I come slowly to a stop. The configuration of the territory has matched my train of thoughts. Should I take this as a sign? I jump out of the bus and circle around to the sliding door to the let the dogs out. We sit there for a while… Dogs sniffing around, me staring at the horizon, the bus just sitting in the middle of the road. After a few minutes, a pick up truck pulls up, a friendly smile blossoming on the face of the driver.
“Car problems? Need some help?”
“No thanks, just wandering about life, politics, human nature and my personal future.”
Now he looks at me like I am from another planet.
“Well, as long as you are okay...”
“Yeah, no worries, thanks for stopping though.”
“Yep” is his final comment before hitting the gas.
The dogs hop back in and I hang a left without second thoughts. If this is a sign, I mutter to myself, then left is the only option. The road to change, revolution or uprising to correct social injustice always led left. In the tradition of Pertini, Guevara, Allende, I too choose to head left away from main stream society and its riches. I vow that from now on I will survive as I can, seeking new experiences as opposed to stability, adventure versus routine, innovation versus conformity. I tune the radio to a classic station just as Eric Burdon starts to sing “We gotta get out of this place, we gotta get out of here…”, a song that we played in the army anytime someone had a severe case of homesickness. Yes, it is time for me to get out there and do something with myself that I can be proud of. Viva la revolucion! Hasta la victoria siempre!
Thirty miles later I stumble onto Ferne Clyffe State Park. Once again, I am the only registered camper here. This is starting to get eerie. The woods are thick, with tall trees buried in dense undergrowth… Somewhere in the distance I hear water flowing… The air is fresh and smells of wild flowers, sweet but not overwhelming like often in the tropics.
I set up in a remote area and cook myself a feast. Couscous with lentils, mixed greens dressed with olive oil and a balsamic vinegar so full bodied and smooth that I use it to dress my last two Georgia peaches also. A noble’s meal. A mug of hot tea settles my stomach and I pack it in for the night. As I am getting ready for bed, a baby deer and his mom creep up the path. The dogs are flabbergasted. The five animals just stare at each other and I simply freeze in place, too awestruck myself to even think of reaching for the camera. The fawn is hiding in between mom’s tall legs and lifts his head to catch the scent of the dogs. Suddenly, the deer flash back deep into the woods and the dogs run up the path, barking loudly and wagging madly.
In the morning, a light rain showers the trees around my campsite and I take the dogs for a long hike to explore our surroundings and enjoy the rain. By mid morning I am starved and devour a whole box of cereal that was supposed to last the rest of the week.
Next stop is Finger Lakes National Park in Missouri. A large section of this park is dedicated to off road vehicles and I spend a day watching dirt bikes scramble around in the dirt.
My personal love affair with motorcycles goes way back. My dad bought me a 50cc scooter when I turned fifteen years old and I just could not stop riding the thing. My first real bike, though, came a year later for my 16th birthday. It was a Zundapp 125, an enduro machine that could literally climb anywhere. I rode it fast and hard in every type of weather and I still remember the rush I experienced every time I banged a downshift while cracking the throttle open to loft the front wheel towards the sky. By 1978 I was eighteen years old, the Zundapp felt small and underpowered and I needed a real ride. I had a part time job and saved every dime checking out the swap meets and scouring the classified ads. One day I spotted an Aermacchi Harley Davidson 350 for sale and bought it without second thoughts. It was a biker’s bike with black paint and blue ghost flames on the tank, tall handlebars that forced you to sit up straight in an-arms-stretched-out-heels-in the-wind posture. She was loud and wild, roaring through a straight pipe and leaking oil on the inside of my left boot. She was hard to start and would often strand me, usually at night and always far from home.
I loved her like you love a troubled friend, always willing to overlook the bad because the fleeting moments of happiness are so good that all else doesn’t matter. These are always very consuming relationships though and, eventually, it was time to move on. Enter Triumph. Ah, Triumph… It was love at first sight and the Aermacchi was promptly sold to my sister’s boyfriend to raise the necessary funds. The Trumpet seduced me with its classic lines that redefined motorcycle design. She sported a 650 motor with twin vertical cylinders that breathed through a single Amal carburetor. She was light and nimble and you could flick her in and out of the turns, dancing down a winding road with smooth transactions that caused your face to stretch out in a perpetual grin. My first Triumph was one of those blessed machines that roll off the assembly line having been put together flawlessly. Not too many of such a perfect motorcycle came out of the Triumph Meridien factory back in the 1960’s. In fact, most of them were an outright nightmare, driving their owners to the brink of insanity just like VW buses often did and still do today. Not mine. She would start on the first kick with no need to pull the handlebar mounted choke, then settle into a relaxed idle with a burbling exhaust note. When we ran together, we were one. Me crouched low and sitting deep inside the seat, she delivering a forceful yet graceful performance in a perfect balance of form and function that never ceased to amaze me. There was a small metal rack bolted to the tank and I would rest my chest on it, hugging its sides with my elbows.
Many other Triumphs would follow, but that very first one stole my heart and I never got over selling her.
Five
I take my time and enjoy a spectacular tour of Missouri's wilderness. What nature, what beauty!
Later in the day I arrive at Big Lake State Park. To reach the park's entrance you must first go through town. It is a small town. Just a dozen buildings lining the road next to the lake. A very quaint, small town. A tent site in the park goes for $8 a night so I splurge and buy two, nights that is. I quickly set up shop in a spot that enjoys a great view of this magnificent body of water and sit back relaxing. For the next 48 hours I am kicking it here. I am dying to paddle this lake, but launching the kayak, that has sat strapped on the roof of the bus since Miami, is too much of a production when you travel with three furry friends. So the kayak will stay put and we'll hike instead. There is so much space that you can wander around for days and not see an other soul. Open space fascinates me, perhaps because there is so little of it left in Europe. My fascination with space and the American West started the day I bought a ticket to see Easy Rider. I was just a teenager in Milan and on a warm spring evening a bunch of us rode to the movies. I sat transfixed watching Fonda and Hopper cruising down endless ribbons of asphalt astride big, powerful motorcycles gleaming with chrome and vowed that, one day, I too would ride across America. After the movie I rode my Aermacchi HD sitting up a little straighter and blipping the throttle a little harder at the stop lights before dumping the clutch and roaring off into the night. In the following months I let my hair grow long, stretched out the front end of my bike a few inches and removed the baffles from the exhaust. Just a few weeks later I was hanging out in front of school ditching a class when this kid I barely knew skidded to a stop next to me.
"Hey, you wanna go for a ride?" he yelled over the loud bark of his motor breathing through the obligatory straight pipes.
"Where to, the Jamaica Bar?" I replied referring to the hang out most patronized at the time by Milan's left leaning college students.
"No, dude, a real ride... to London's Ace Cafè first then on to Wembley Stadium. Led Zeppelin is playing on Saturday nite..."
"Wow, that's a fucking ride all right!" I said to myself staring at him in disbelief.
He looked around for his girl and motioned her over. It took her less than a second to say yes and I felt lonely and left out. We made plans to meet back at school in an hour and I blasted home to grab some gear and a roll of bills I kept stashed in the garage inside my motocross boots. When I got there I saw my Mom was home, so I went to my room, tossed my stuff out the window in the general direction of the garage and gave her some garbled explanation that I'd be gone for a couple of days making very little sense, but, hey, it was 1979 and everybody was a shade cooler, even your folks, so I got away with it.
I blasted back to campus and, as soon as I reached the entrance, he pulled up next to me, left thumb up, downshifting hard before pinning the throttle to the stop. His bike lunged forward, belching black smoke and spitting hot oil onto the asphalt. I looked up and caught a glimpse of tight jeans and black leather. She was wrapped tightly around him, her head turned sideways on his left shoulder to keep her face out of the wind. I dialed the throttle in and gave chase. About forty hours later, as we rolled off the ferry from Calais to Dover, I realized that, perhaps, I didn't have enough coins to get back to Italy let alone buy a ticket to the concert. In the end I never made it inside the stadium, but I did make it back home suffering from a very strong case of wanderlust. That was it, I had caught adventure fever and I would never rid myself of it.
After dinner, I do some accounting and discover that I have been frugal enough... there's still plenty of cash tucked away in my secret compartment in the bus, so there's no need for me to stress over money: I can keep living like the homeless bum I am quickly blossoming into without worries. It's amazing how easy it is to survive when you have no fixed costs and watch your expenses. A tank full of gas and a tummy full of rice really do go a long way.
A fellow camper walks over to my site and prudently stops far enough from me and the dogs.
"Are they friendly?" he wants to know.
"Not really..." I reply, making no effort to welcome him inside my camp space. Sorry, buddy, wherever you are, but I guess that I just wasn't in the mood to socialize with my fellow human being...
Six
Ah, Iowa… Sweet rolling hills and polite Germanic looking people.
It’s 105 degrees F inside this metal box on wheels and we bake along the way. As I struggle to stay awake in the blistering heat there is a sudden and nasty explosion of violence in the back seat.
I try to keep the bus on the road while at the same time comprehend what the hell might be going on. I look in the rear view mirror and see that Trudy and Dino are latched onto each other, while Bluto is desperately trying to stay out of their way. I pull over to the side of the road, smack Trudy across the nose (I know she started it, she always does) and asses the damage. Bluto’s untouched. Dino has a deep cut on his snout, while Trudy got superficially bit on her right front paw. I break out the first aid kit and go to work. I juggle peroxide, paper towels, antibiotic ointment and gauze like a pro and fifteen minutes later we are back on the road.
It is so hot that I am feeling woozy. The four of us are drinking water like it's going out of style and my six gallon jerry can is almost empty. I am wandering the back roads in search of Stone State Park and I pray that I’ll find it soon. Finally, a sign pointing to the park and, soon after that, the park entrance itself. I self register for two nights and look for a good tent site. The sun is on its way down and the temperature is finally starting to drop a little as a fresh breeze kicks in. I set up quickly, the small tent only since I am too exhausted to even think of fucking with the big one. I now realize how dehydrated and famished I am and cook a pot of rice, throw in a handful of almonds and raisins, drench it in olive oil, then proceed to wash it all down with two liters of raspberry tea. Instantly, I feel better. I roll out my bag and crash outside the tent, a star studded sky is my blanket, my faithful dogs curled up around me my night sentries.
In the morning I wake up and hike, give the dogs a break, then hike some more. I can’t get enough of this beautiful park with its tall trees and dense vegetation. The woods are just teeming with wild life and I am in heaven. The trails take us deep into the forest, where deer, raccoons and some sort of wild pheasant (in Scotland it would be a grouse) crisscross the path in front of us sending the dogs into a frenzy. I wish I could stay longer, but the call of the Great Northwest is becoming stronger. Two nights are enough… Time to head for the sunset.
Seven
We are up at dawn and enjoy one last hike through the forest before breaking camp and loading up. On my way out I keep gazing at the tall trees with their thick, overexposed roots, while I breath in the sweet humidity that forms pearl shaped droplets on the leaves of the giant ferns that line the trails. Today we start crossing the great plains: the far west ain't that far any longer. The scenery is now flat, mile after mile, as we plug along the sleepy backroads surrounded by tall corn. When I reach the Missouri river, I stop and stare. Perhaps I am standing in the same exact spot where Lewis and Clark once stood. Or at least I like to imagine that I am. I let my imagination soar wild. What adventure that must have been... What courage and celebration of human ingenuity.
Trudy tugs at my pants and I snap back to present times. If I wish to make it to the
Badlands - a whopping 300 miles away - by nightfall, I'd better get going. The bus is running well, still, when I let off the gas, I feel a distant vibration, a slight grinding noise coming from underneath the chassis, way back near the rear end. Deep down I know that I should stop, break out my tarp, my tools and the "Idiot's Guide to VW Maintenance" and take a good look, but I am feeling lazy and convince myself that, perhaps, I am imagining the whole thing. I drive for hours and, finally, land in Kennebec, South Dakota. I roam around for a while until I find a spot secluded enough to pitch my tent. Tomorrow night I will be at Wounded Knee.
In the morning, before cranking the engine, I crawl underneath the bus and inspect everything using a small flashlight. Fuel lines, clutch cable, CV joints, seals all seem ship shape. I check both the engine and gear oil levels and, satisfied with my findings, drive off.
Approaching the Badlands proves a surreal experience, almost like a lunar landing. It is about 100 degrees and I set up camp in very heavy winds. I double stake the tent and secure all my gear since I have a feeling that it will be a stormy night.
We take off for Wounded Knee. At the White river junction I stop and stare at the horizon. You might have noticed that I do this often: stop and simply stare... I like to take my time and take in the scenery, absorbing the empty space, allowing my mind to float over the land, imagining how things were before we humans proceeded to "civilize" nature.
I listen carefully and the whistling wind brings me the whispers of the Sioux warriors, women and children buried in the mass graves. Not a great day of soldiering for the US 7th Cavalry. when, in the late 1800s, they massacred hundreds of Sioux. There are no memorials here, no walls with hundreds of names engraved in expensive marble, no wreaths of flowers, pictures or shrines: just the wide open prairie with its dry grass rustled by the wind under a deep blue sky ruled by a fierce sun. Suddenly I feel like standing at attention and saluting. One modern day veteran acknowledging the heroism of fighters of the past. Rest easy Sioux people, the wind watches out for you and the magnificent trees that line the prairie are your memorial. Your indomitable spirit is not forgotten, your love and respect for Mother Nature a lesson for all future generations. As I leave, sadness fills my soul... Today, I am ashamed of being a white man. If you can, do travel here... Bring your children, tell the story and let them breathe the magic wind. Back at the campsite things are getting hairy. First of all the inside of my tent is hotter than the nuclear reactor of an Alfa class Soviet submarine. Then the wind is blowing hard. It must be gusting close to 50 knots and that is almost hurricane conditions as anybody that has lived in Florida through the summer knows well. Sand is blowing all over the place making it impossible to cook anything and expect to find it edible when ready. So dinner is two bananas, a Larabar and a glass of water. Once the sun disappears over the hilltops, more wind and a terrific lightning storm that sets the tent on fire (figuratively speaking.) The dogs are spooked and cower under my mat, while I lie spread eagle trying to hold the four corners of the tent down. It ends up being a very long night and by 5am I had enough. I emerge from the shelter and realize that it must have been a far worse experience for many of the other travelers that had decided to camp here and hadn't taken the precautions I took. Their gear is strewn all over the place. I quickly load the bus, point the nose towards the Black Hill and hit the gas.
Eight
The sun is raising over the jagged cliffs spreading an orange glow that makes the lunar scenario even more credible. The trip to the Black hills turns into a spectacular ride. It's a crisp morning, nobody is on the road and the heat hasn't risen to unbearable levels yet.
As always, we take our time. I kick my flip flops off and drive barefoot. I love the feeling of warm metal under my left foot, which I rest next to a clutch pedal that has seen very little use during this entire trip. The inside of the bus is stripped down to the bare metal with no mats or carpet like in more modern vehicles. Just solid sheet metal all the way around, a no frills automobile made to last, unlike today's disposable plastic contraptions on wheels.
During a doggie break I study my map and spot Custer State Park. I decide to head that way. How such a beautiful place could be named after a butcher like Custer is incomprehensible to me, still I am in awe of the natural setting. The park, the surrounding hills, the lakes that fill the valleys are stunning. Acres and acres of pristine land, tall pine trees and crystal clear streams. I roam around, get lost, find my way then get lost again. I come around a bend and almost smack my face into Mount Rushmore. I stop and take a good look... Mm, carving the face of a mountain... I don't know, a little too Disney for me... Definitely impressive, nevertheless artificial. I bet you that Sitting Bull is puking in his grave.
I turn north and drive through Deadwood. It's the "Days of '76" celebration and lots of folks are in town to enjoy the rodeo and festivities. Way too crowded for me, I press on...
Nine
In Sturgis bike week is in full swing. Lots of makes and models, but, mainly, American iron both old and new. I cruise the strip and look for the Indians. I spot a couple of late thirties Chiefs and stop to ogle. These motorcycles are so stunningly beautiful that a couple of hours go by in no time at all. I take in the streamlined designs, the bare-bones-no-frills appearance of these pre-war machines in a trancelike state with no concept of time. Suddenly, I realize that I need to find a campground for the night and that – with half a million bikers in town – this might not be the easiest of tasks. I take 79 north and find a good spot at Bear Butte State Park. The park is surrounded by the Black Hills, wide open prairies and a sparkling lake. I decide to stay three or four days. The bus needs servicing and I am feeling pretty beat anyway. Bear Butte is one of the most sacred places in North America for many (if not all) of the native tribes. As I camp at the bottom of the bear shaped hill, hundreds of people are making their way to this holy place in search of inner peace and wisdom. This quest, that is reason for people of different origins to travel thousands of miles just to sit and pray, is a powerful and complex phenomenon. Praying for an early morning trouble free start of my rusty Dogswagen bus is as spiritual as I get these days. Nevertheless, there is a different atmosphere here, as there was – is – at Wounded Knee. I feel very calm and relaxed: this place is conducive to meditation and self exploration. I am glad I decided to stay a while. On my second day I leave the dogs at the camp and hike up the mountain. It’s a moving experience: many trees are decorated with colored cloths and feathers, ribbons and artifacts. Once in a while I spot groups of people sitting in prayer. I try to be as discreet and unobtrusive as possible as I make my way to the summit. From the top the view is breathtaking. The wide open prairie conveys a strong sense of freedom. I sit for a long time and think. In our crazy, modern society we fail to do this often enough. Sit and think. “I can think, I can wait and I can fast,” says Herman Hesse’s Siddharta and there is a lot to be said for that. We need to do more thinking about who we really are, both individually and as a people, about where we come from and where we are going… What is man without thought? And yet, we are quick to make decisions that will affect mankind for generations without thinking things through. We dash through modernization and mechanization instead of taking it slow, marathon style. Where are we running to in our crazy frenzy: to our own destruction? Oh well, enough “Zen thinking” already… Time to climb back down and take the dogs for a walk.
Ten
I say goodbye to Bear Butte and its sacred and magical atmosphere. We hit the road and wade through a sea of motorcycles. I cruise the main drag in downtown Sturgis at fifteen miles per hour, dogs barking loudly every time a biker pulls up next to the bus and blips the throttle which - by the way - is the stupidest thing you can do on any air cooled motor while inching along in gridlocked traffic with the clutch at half mast and two fingers on the front brake, trying to manage forward momentum without dropping your ride in front of a couple hundred thousand spectators. Usually, the smaller the penis the louder the pipes. That's more or less the general rule of thumb.
As far as I am concerned, motorcycles were the means to get away from main stream society and its crowds. Here, as I witness thousands of bikers clad in identical gear and mounted on virtually identical rides, I realize that times have forever changed and that bikes, just like tattoos, are no longer a statement of rebellion, but a mere fashion accessory. From the very beginning of my motorcycle passion, bikes and politics were intertwined... In the spring of 1968 a bike made a political statement, gave you a license to dare and a ticket to freedom. In the seventies, you could ride up to any commune and, as long as you bounced around on a rigid frame and a stretched front end, they'd welcome you with open arms. Long unkempt hair and bandannas in place of helmets completed the picture. In other words, you had to conform to the non-conformity look in order to be accepted by the non-conformist crowd. During these gatherings, food was shared, new friendships were instantly made and love was free. The soundtrack was full of Stones, Zeppelin, Floyd, Hendrix, Cream, Joplin and the Doors, the festivals were frequent, cheap, crowded and off limits to anybody that didn't live the life. It was the brotherhood of the road... Hippies in beat up VW buses, Rockers on bikes, Mods on scooters: we all felt different and misunderstood. The sixties were over and the great dream had collapsed. Still, we were not prepared to clean up and seek a real job. There's a line in Easy Rider that sums it all up: Fonda and Hopper are camped out after a long day of riding and they make small talk. A few joints later, Dennis is downright silly, while Peter becomes more philosophical.
"We blew it...", he says, referring to the hippie movement. Still, the two of them are total outsiders and it never crosses their mind to question their lifestyle, probably because going through life in a constant state of partial mental alteration - induced by a powerful cocktail of weed and alcohol - is usually not conducive to making sound life-altering decisions.
I still remember when, a few years later, Bobby Sands started the hunger strike that would eventually kill him after 66 long days of agony. He was only 26 years old when he died in the
H-Blocks of Long Kesh on May 5th, 1981. The young IRA volunteer, imprisoned for almost all of the last nine years of his short life, was very famous all over Europe having been elected to the
British parliament and for arguing against the British government's policy of criminalizing the struggle of the Irish lumping together freedom of speech and acts of terrorism. The day he passed away campuses all over Europe erupted with demonstrations. Kids from every European nation jumped on their bikes and rode day and night to make the vigils that were held in Belfast, Paris, Berlin, Rome. They stood shoulder to shoulder next to their bikes holding candles, red flags with Che's image flapping in the wind, Jim Morrison's voice blaring from the loud speakers. It was the last hurrah of hundred of thousands of youngsters who, even though painfully aware that they were being slowly swallowed by a society they did not identify with, refused to surrender their ideals. How terribly ironic that, less than three years later, I would be back in camouflage gear, a black beret instead of a bandanna, a rifle in place of a candle. I guess that, even after all these years, deep down, I am still a rebel at heart. I cringe at the way our society treats the poor, the strays, the environment. I suffer when I have to submit to the hypocritical rituals dictated by organized religion and the establishment. I dream of a nation where people care and work together, where injustice is not tolerated and where the common greater good supersedes individual wants.
I am off to Little Big Horn to visit Custer's grave. Finally, a glorious day for the natives. What battle and what victory that must have been! I look for a suitable spot for camping, but find none. I wander around for hours then take advantage of the cover of darkness to camp in a park behind a cluster of trees. A sign clearly states that no overnight staying is allowed, but I simply ignore it and proceed to set up. It is amazing how hard it is to be free nowadays in America: step off the treadmill and, wham!, it's immediately No this and No that... The West is still a lot freer than the rest of the country, though. Since time immemorial big space has always been a wanderer's best ally. Not that Europe is any easier, but it is not Europe that loves to call itself "Land of the free..."
As I work, I am getting eaten alive by mosquitoes the size of the CH-47 choppers we flew in the army. The night is uneventful and I sleep like a rock. In the morning, I get ready to tackle the Bozeman Pass. I am feeling slightly apprehensive about the bus performance on the steep incline, but the old clunker climbs like a champ, chug-chugging its way to the top without missing a beat. The scenery is magnificent and the air clean and crisp as only mountain air can be. On a whim, I take a long detour towards Buffalo Jump State Park. After fourteen miles of tough gravel I finally reach the park's entrance: I take one look and leave, pulling a tight U-turn and leaving deep skid marks in the dusty parking lot. The place is literally crawling with rattlers (no jumping buffaloes either...)
I spread my map on the ground (the lack of a proper hood forces bus owners to do this) and realize that I am fairly close to the Missouri's headwaters and a town called Three Forks. I throw the bus in gear and head there. I reach the river and find a nicely remote site. Tent's up in three minutes flat. Dusk is fast approaching and the mosquitoes are gathering, but earlier in the day I stocked up on repellent and so, tonite, I am ready for combat.
I wake up to a flat tire. Of course, the bus is parked off road in a soft, sandy spot where it is impossible to set a jack so I dig through my gear and fish out a can of Fix-a-Flat. I spray the entire content into the valve stem and limp into town. The local garage is on Main Street and the guys running it wave me right in. It is absolutely amazing how helpful people have been so far. There is something about an old bus full of dogs that proves irresistible to people. Twenty minutes and $8 later I am driving back to the tent site. I dump the bus in the exact same spot, grab a backpack, fill it with some basic provisions and start down the trail towards the water. Forty five minutes later, Trudy, Bluto and Dino enjoy their first swim in the Missouri river. It is an awesome sight: my three dogs splashing around in this grandiose natural setting. This is the place where Lewis and Clarke (whose 231 birthday is being celebrated these days) hiked before me and where countless trappers and Native Americans launched their canoes, navigating these clean, churning waters. We walk along the riverbank for a while, the dogs darting in and out, running up ahead then looking back to check that I am indeed coming along, almost as if asking for approval. Suddenly, I can't resist any longer. I yank shirt and shoes off and dive in. The water is cool and refreshing, the swift current a stern reminder that this isn't some country stream where you can cool off without paying too much attention. Later, we all dry out laying on the warm pebbles of the beach and I enjoy the hot sun on my clean skin while I fill my eyes with Montana's enormous sky.
I feel a million years from Miami, completely removed from the madness of the city, the craziness generated by a high concentration of greedy humans. This place calls for an extended stay: I ain't leaving until I've filled every nook and cranny of my soul with this abundance of natural beauty.
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