January 2025
The surest cure for existential fatigue, acedia or ennui is leisurely, or even aimless, travel. Shake up the senses. Combat stagnation. See new places, eat strange foods, and meet people who think differently from you. Experience otherness. My current drive isn’t quite aimless, I have a destination in mind, however my route is open for random detours and frequent backroad explorations.
I head south out of Pittsfield through, alternately, light snow that turns to sleet, then turns to rain, then back to sleet. Somehow the dreariness adds to the excitement of being on the move. There is the possibility that I may outrun the inner bleakness that can be so overpowering during a New England winter. For luck (tempting karma?) I’ve put a silver Steal Your Face lightning bolt sticker on the back of the Subaru and I am wearing Fran’s light grey Patagonia scarf. Do I believe in good luck charms? No, but like Niels Bohrs’ horseshoe, sometimes they work. Yet I'm never entirely free from the nagging truth that most of my life has been a series of very lucky coincidences.
I cross the Hudson and soon the Delaware and next the Potomac. The temperature drops to the low 20s, the snow has stopped although the clouds remain low. My lunch is some of Hauge’s venison jerky and a Snickers bar.
Winchester, VA
Eight hours is enough driving for day one. At the first of what I figure will be many crossroad motels, I meet a charming desk clerk who is fascinated by my plan of driving to California. She tells me she aches to be traveling and wants to drive across the USA in a van. I implore her to get moving, she won’t regret it. Her enthusiasm stabs my heart.
My room is clean and recently remodeled. I pop a cold Schaefer, check emails, send a few texts and plot tomorrow’s route.
1/12
This morning, I stopped in Charlottesville and took a short tour of Monticello. I’ve wanted to visit here since fifth grade. Because of the big snowstorm that made it this far south a few days ago most of the walking tours were closed. I get to see the entrance room where guests were greeted and waited for the great man, the length of the wait time depending on whether or not you had an appointment. While you waited you could marvel at, among other treasures, many maps, Native American artifacts, a mastodon jawbone, a bust of Voltaire and a magnificent ticking clock to remind you of how important your visit was to the busy statesman. Through two tall doors is the parlor where we viewed paintings of people of importance in Jefferson’s life. There we see Lafayette, Washington, Paine, Monroe, Franklin and Martha Jefferson, to name just a few.
We walk through the library and a small room with a daybed that we are told is probably the room where he died.
The dining room is smaller than I thought it would be and imaging the great minds who sat at the modest table in front of an equally modest fireplace gives me pause for wonder. There is a small table set for two where Jefferson frequently dined alone. (JFK once remarked at a dinner honoring Nobel prize winners that “I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent, of human knowledge, that has ever been gathered together at the White House, with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone.) Dumbwaiters on the sides of the fireplace were specifically designed to deliver wine directly from the cellar, which we visit next.
Jefferson was, as was his friend/rival/co-diplomat/enemy/ex-president, and finally cherished correspondent, John Adams, a wino. And I mean that as a compliment, a wine connoisseur. In their famous exchange of letters, a collection of which should be required reading for elected federal officials, there are many notes about wine shipments from France and Spain that are larger than allowed by the import laws of the day. They often got around these pesky rules by splitting up their purchases and delivering cases to each other.
We hear about Sally Hemmings, and I need to learn more. I know the basics from biographies of Jefferson but there’s so much I don't know. I remember years ago, after the DNA tests proved her descendants were also Jefferson’s. The outrage from the right was terrible. They could easily condone our third president owning black people, but having sex with one? It was hard to fathom for the most backward and racist members of our society. And things haven’t changed much in the intervening years. Blatant racism is all too common in this time of Trump.
I learned that Sally extracted a promise from Jefferson that their children would get their freedom and they were the only slaves he freed upon his death. Sally did not ask for her own personal freedom. An example of a mother’s powerful love. There are no portraits of Sally Hemmings. A shame. I imagine her beauty, grace and intelligence that enchanted the world’s most famous bachelor.
After the tour we are allowed to walk around some of the grounds and through some of the rooms underneath the house where the privy and some storerooms where slaves worked. I looked into Sally’s kitchen where bread was baked, a spare utilitarian room.
Because of the snow I couldn't walk down the path to Jefferson’s grave, but I knew what he wanted to be remembered for and what’s inscribed on the stone. He was proudest of being the author of the Declaration of Independence and the Virginia Statute for Religious Freedom as well as being the founder of the University of Virginia, another piece of required reading for the congress and senate should be the Statute for Religious Freedom which is the basis for our First Amendment. We were certainly not founded as a Christian nation.
One more book of required reading should be the Jefferson Bible which I was happy to see available at the gift shop, along with Monticello Mountain Ale. I bought a six pack. I already have the bible.
Four hours later I am at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Bristol, VA. It is a very new hotel and my room is quite high tech. Rather complicated for a simple guy like me. But I adapted ok.
I ask a housekeeper in the next room, who I interrupt, earbuds in and dancing with her vacuum cleaner, where I can find an ice machine. She reminds me of Esperanza Spaulding on stage at the Lobero Theatre swaying gracefully with her upright bass. I’m always happy to find beauty in odd places.
I chill up a bottle of Mountain Ale and from my flask I sip the last of the holiday Calvados. Down in the casino I make my way to the Council Oaks Bar and have a huge sauteed shrimp appetizer and an expertly made Manhattan. Too tired to gamble I am back in my giant suite trying to figure out all the motion sensors to get my reading light to work. The bartender told me the hotel has only been open since November.
1/7 West Memphis, AR 42°
This morning I left an extra-large tip for the alluring dancing housekeeper. Then I spent the day heading west on Route 40 across Tennessee. The easy rolling hills are picturesque and the houses I saw tucked away back in the trees seemed inviting. They'll be invisible by late spring. There is a slight hint of woodsmoke through the naked limbs on this overcast morning. The further west I go the less snow there is on the ground. I speed through Nashville with no desire to stop. I am happy to be alone on the road and craving the wide-open vistas of the southwest.
I also have no want to stop in Memphis like Johnny and I did on a rainy autumn night all those years ago. Dad liked Memphis and would stay at The Peabody, the hotel where the ducks walk through the lobby during the cocktail hour. Traffic is heavy past the city as I continue toward the setting sun.
I am now sitting at the window of my room on the twentieth floor of the Southland Hotel and Casino watching the full moon rise. Two casinos in two days. My direct view is of the dog track, oddly ominous in the dull moonlight. I am spoiling myself with these plush suites intended for degenerate gamblers. I should get back to more austere crossroads motels.
Security here is tight. Checking in I had to pass through a metal detector and a police dog sniffed my bag. I’m not sure whether to be reassured or nervous. Everyone is very nice about the procedure, so I choose to relax.
At the Charred Oak Bar down in the casino I have a mediocre crabcake and fatigue overtakes me after only one beer, so I go back up the elevator to figure out tomorrow’s drive.
I talk to Johnny, and we plan on meeting at Lake Arrowhead in five or six days. I read some Socrates before falling asleep.
Elk City, OK
Eight plus hours driving on the 40. Slipped past Little Rock into big, flat, wide-open Oklahoma which possesses its own particular beauty. I see signs for the Nations; Seminole, Choctaw, and Muskogee. I wish I knew about the history here and would love to spend more time exploring. My problem is I'm always aware of how little I know about everything. Dylan sings One Too Many Mornings as I avoid Oklahoma City. Cities are always more attractive from a distance, but I am more emotionally suited to less traffic and rural landscapes. The sky is full of hawks and the hills are dotted with wind turbines.
I’m road weary when I pull off the highway at Elk City. I check into the Sleep Inn and the nice desk clerk upgrades me to a room with a powerful jet bath.
I’ve had a 375 of Laurent-Perrier in my cooler for a month or so and have been meaning to try Phil Crawford’s favorite pre dinner routine. Champagne and, not foie gras or oysters or caviar, but Fritos. He tells me they are hard to get in Paris, and he considers them a treat. So, I pop the cork and open a bag of Fritos. As usual, Phil is onto something here. I sip the Laurent and enjoy a sensation of casual, pedestrian simplicity. I’m, after all, just a common wanderer.
I have dinner at a family Italian restaurant called Roma that shares a parking lot with the Sleep Inn. I’m served a massive eggplant dish with a huge side of pasta and a nice red sauce. Sterling cabernet by the glass and I slowly teeter toward a food coma. Nice friendly staff.
A hot tub fails to revive me and a few lines from Socrates is all I can manage.
Getting reading to check out I leave a copy of Thoreau’s essays under the bible in the bedside desk. Included in the edition are Life Without Principle, Civil Disobedience and A Plea for John Brown. Plenty to think about there.
1/15 Taos. NM
On the road before sunrise and into upper Texas. More of the same rolling hills and small dust storms. Finally turn away from Route 40 and aim northwest. Traffic disappears and the speed limit rises. I zip along listening to Pat Metheny, Jackson Brown and Joni.
Dalhart TX: Smells like oil, then cow shit, then oil again.
In Springer, NM I got stopped for doing 41 in a 35 zone. I am not used to this little car’s acceleration. The cop is nice although stoic and after figuring out my combination of Massachusetts registration and insurance with a California license, all legal, he gives me a warning instead of a $53 ticket. I told him it would've been my first speeding ticket ever. He barely cracks a grin, but it's true. I gave him a thankful wave as I drove off at 33 mph.
I start to gain elevation on Route 64 as I near Cimarron and then pass Eagle's Nest and Angel Fire. The road is narrow and curvy with shoulders of red dirt. There is a dusting of snow on the pines. Going is slow and I put down the window and smell the forest scents. Invigorating! I’ve made it to the southwest!
After an early start this morning I'm in Taos by 2:00. Time to walk around before I check in. I stroll around the plaza looking at shops and galleries. It’s sunny but cool. Down a side street I come to Kit Carson Park and Cemetery. I wander around coming out on a trail that leads to Mabel Dodge Luhan’s house which is now a hotel/conference center. The grounds are nice and if I knew about it I would have liked to stay here.
Back into the park and I find the cemetery and stop at Kit Carson’s grave and send a picture to Kassy. I also find Mable’s headstone and am joined by a cat who continues on, weaving slowly in between the graves,
There’s lots of road construction and the downtown is cluttered and dusty. The old unpaved side streets are lined with fences made of thin upright logs giving the neighborhoods a rustic charm. There are long views of snowcapped mountains, the Southern Rockies. I’m slightly out of breath after my short walk. Taos is at 6900 feet.
The Hotel La Fonda is old and creaky with an air of underrated history. I like it. Los tells me la fonda means small inn or restaurant. My room, 206, has an old heavy wood desk and cabinet. There are bedside tables that are hand crafted as well. My window overlooks a warehouse and beyond that the mountains to the south.
On my floor is a sitting room with big soft chairs, games, puzzles, and a modest collection of books. I donate Classics Revisited by Kenneth Rexroth, essays about, to name a few, Homer, Lucretius, Twain, and Montaigne. I also leave a signed copy of An Invisible Means tucked on the shelf next to The Hobbit.
I walk around the plaza and down toward the neon sign, missing a few letters, of the Taos Inn and Adobe Bar, and find a warm friendly room with a fireplace and guitarist setting up. The place is full of greying hippies with small cowboy hats like Weir wears when playing with The Wolf Brothers. The girls are dressed like new age yoga instructors. There is an air of ditziness. The singer reminds me of Pam, but pretty much every flash of beauty reminds me of her, gone now slightly over a month. My heart is terribly scratched.
I get the last barstool and order a bowl of elk chili but instead I’m given pork chili verde. Delicious, although not what I wanted. Another in a long series of confused and flustered bartenders. Knowing the condition all too well I cut her some slack and tip big.
At the plaza I find a restaurant with a long bar and decide on a nightcap, which I feel is deserved. In memory of my old pal Ź I sip a Wellers 107.
I walk back toward the La Fonda, which now that it’s totally dark I notice it also has a few lights out on their sign. It emits a kind of shabby elegance.
I read where the planets are all aligned during the next several days. I look up but from the plaza there is too much ambient light. I can pick out Jupiter and Venus, and maybe Mars low on the horizon. Perhaps tomorrow, in Flagstaff, I will have better luck.
I love my comfortable, simple, possibly haunted room. It’s much less antiseptic than the casinos and I feel like I'm in a friend’s home. The bed is soft, and I sink in with pleasure.
4 a.m. I slam wide awake with my tired and frustrating anxieties. Why do I let others suck so much energy from me? Why do I question my way of living? How should I spend my final years? I read some Socrates for possible solutions to my old dilemmas. Of course, the answers need to come from within. Know thyself...
Again, I’m driving before sunrise, following the moon, four days past full, setting in the west.
1/16 Flagstaff – The Aspen Inn - Abbey Country
Stopped this morning in Santa Fe to pay a visit to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. I’m also on a mission from Vern to find a particular picture of “a man in a denim work shirt.”
The woman who checks me in reminds me of Ami from An Invisible Means, long greying hair, piercing eyes, lithe, mischievous. What does it mean when you see people from your own fiction? Most likely nothing.
Since my last visit many of the rooms have changed so I saw, in addition to some favorites, plenty of new, for me, works. I stroll back and forth between exhibits, experiencing borderline aesthetic arrest. I simply am fascinated by Georgia’s vision. In the gift shop I flipped through some large books about her studios and gardens and finally stumbled across a photo of the sculptor and Georgia’s friend Juan Hamilton resplendent in his dark blue shirt. Mission accomplished. Just what Vern was looking for.
Five and a half hours of driving the high desert past wonderful vistas of distant mountains and long flat open landscapes that made me often stop or slow down so as to take it all in. An impossible endeavor, I know. The Little Rio Grande is serene with a few fly fisherman gracefully casting into the afternoon sun.
I take a rest stop in Gallup, the high desert winter air crisp and invigorating. Skip past Winslow, again, next time maybe I’ll check it out and stand on that corner. An hour from Flagstaff Mt Humphreys is already visible and commands the horizon. I think of Joanna standing on the summit!
A lot of Bob Weir on the random playlist today. Somehow apropos for this spacious and lonely part of the west.
The Aspen Inn is as I remember it. Small studio like room, clean and modern. Listening to Patricia Barber makes me think of my old friend Don French, a traveler, writer, artist and confidant. Gone, I can’t remember how long now.
I fight off a nap and instead I walk around town and have a beer in a brewery where I see two people reading books while they sip their drinks. Imagine that in Santa Barbara.
In another bar I have a burger and exchange snowboarding stories with the bartender. She tells me it’s been a terrible snow year around here and she would love to be going to California to glide around Mammoth. I encourage her wanderlust.
Back outside it’s getting cold, and I take refuge at the Monte Vista Bar where, yet another alluring bartender befriends me. We also talk about snowboarding and then music. Like Joanna says, “Flagstaff, our kind of town.”
And now here it is, nine o’clock and back at The Aspen I’m drained and reading some Socrates where the great philosopher tries to explain the difference between people who love wisdom and those who claim to possess wisdom. I know where I fit in, clearly I’m someone who is terribly aware of how much I don't know, how much I need to learn, and how much that will always be beyond my ability to grasp.
1/17
It is 19° as I drive through Kaibab toward the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. I pass scattered houses, mobile homes, campers, and, of course, ravens. I drive through a white birch grove as I get closer to the park entrance. The clean air at 7000 feet being one more reminder of how big everything is in the southwest. I feel more speck like and insignificant than usual and I haven’t even gazed at the canyon yet.
I park and walk over to Mather Point and stare for ten minutes trying to take in as much of the South Rim as my brain can handle. You could spend a lifetime here in simple contemplation of the meaning, if any, of Nature’s grandeur and mystery.
I stroll the rim trail for a few miles toward Hermits Rest, frequently stopping to watch deer and mountain sheep, vultures and ravens. I hope to finally see a condor but today is not the day.
On the six mile walk I take some breaks to sit on huge flat rocks and mesmerize myself and attempt to photograph the layers of rock, some of which I'm informed are 1800 million years old. Hard for my simple mind to understand. Time’s flow will forever confound me.
I check out Kolb Studio and then the El Tovar Hotel. It’s too early in the day to take advantage of the dark bar. An excuse to return and stay out here at the village for a day or two. I suspect the El Tover is as expensive as the Ahwahnee. But……
The day warms up and the return hike is even more pleasant. Very few people here on this winter morning. Again, I linger off the trail and watch the light subtly change the color on the canyon walls. There is not a cloud in the sky so blue that I think I can almost see stars.
I swing by the Grand Canyon Conservancy shop and am encouraged to see a fine science bookshelf and an equally impressive section on the natives who inhabited this area for many thousands of years. I’m slightly disheartened to see only one Ed Abbey book, Desert Solitaire of course. His collected works should be here. Especially Down The River and The Journey Home.
I should reread Desert Solitaire. I try to get to it every few years, but it’s been a while. His plea for nature for nature's sake in that book is every bit as important now as it was sixty years ago.
On the walk back to the parking lot I pass an area near the visitor center set aside for “The expression of our first amendment free speech rights.” Sadly, the only people, mostly ignored, trying to express themselves are born again Christians. How brave of them to stand there with their cartoon pamphlets in the face of so much scientific evidence and still believe unwaveringly the words of a book written by people for whom a shovel was modern technology.
I go back to the rim and find a secluded small rock to sit on. Meditation and contemplation. A cool breeze comes from every direction and the sound is steady and soothing complimented by the brilliant sun. I lose track of time again. A nap here would be appropriate but instead I make my way along the Desert View Drive and, not for the first time, looking at dirt road turn offs, miss the jeep. Even though the turnouts are well groomed I feel like a bit of a poser, and slightly delicate, zipping around in the small Subaru.
My ghost will drive a black Jeep.
I stop at Grandview Point and then take some time at Navajo Point standing by a picturesque dead pine tree and watching vultures far below me. They glide effortlessly on the air currents only sporadically flapping their long wings. At least they seem long to me until a golden eagle swoops into view making the vultures look like magpies. I watch the eagle drift through the canyon with its massive wingspan and unmistakable grace. Looking down at the eagle as it maneuvered in and out of side canyons the afternoon sun flared on its feathers and they truly glistened golden. Another one of those moments where I understand the importance of wildness and am glad that there always will be a world that I am forever excluded from but every now and then given a glimpse. Like seeing the cranes and grizzlies and blue whales, I add this moment to my memories of Nature’s power and once again also grasp its indifference to my silly and unimportant plight.
Now sitting here at The Aspen, the day has caught up with me. Even though I promised the bartender, Rachel, at the Monte Vista that I would return tonight for a whiskey, I decided to stay in to read and write these notes. I grab a sandwich from a nearby deli and that’s my dinner.
Johnny calls and cancels the visit to Brian and Stephanie’s cabin. Because of the LA fires and high winds, the power has been out at Lake Arrowhead. There’s no estimated day for it to be back on, so we reluctantly postpone the trip. I hope we can make it happen later next month.
I’ll decide tomorrow what my next stop will be now that I won’t be staying up at the lake.
1/18
The Mojave through Kingman toward California is austere and its long views and jagged peaks encourage the eyes to linger on the horizon. Old Route 66 has not only a historic charm but also a captivating allure. I can’t help but believe, like so many sojourners before me, that the gorgeous road ahead, the future, holds great promise. Time will tell.
Not ten minutes past the California state line and I hit my first traffic jam in almost 3200 miles of driving. All lanes come to a dead halt about a mile before the state inspection station where vehicles are supposed to be screened for any non-native plants. True! After twenty minutes of creeping along I am waved forward without having to be inspected. Just like always. A needless delay. I also notice that the price of gas is $1.55 more a gallon than I’ve paid since I was last in California almost a year ago.
Barstow of all places. I could’ve made it to Santa Barbara, but I stopped here for a double double animal and found a reasonable Ramada in a less squalid part of town, so I called it an early day. Checked into my huge newly renovated room, took a walk, had a beer at the 86 Lounge, a typically ordinary neighborhood bar where the locals and personable bartender made me feel right at home. I think I fit in anywhere. I’m a bit road weary, windburned from the Rim Trail, and generally haggard, perhaps it shows, hence the kindness of strangers.
Santa Barbara Interlude # 1
I sneak into town and get a room at the Lemon Tree. It’s Sunday and I know Gerry is working the bar. He’s surprised and, I think, glad to see me. Johnny and Willy are there and we have a toast. I text Los and he’s there in minutes. He had a heads up so was expecting me.
Nonsense ensues. From the Croc we go to the Tee Off then Chuck’s, gathering momentum and company. Vern, Todd H., Su, Aidan, Amanda, Matt, Scott… Will I ever learn to pace myself? I’m already anxious to get up to Johnny’s.
Day two: Lunch with the gang at Harry’s and a hug from McHugh. Some good laughs and then we move to The Tee for a short session with Aidan.
And then, as stealthy as I snuck into town, I slipped out, bound for Yosemite Forks.
Bibliography
The Beauty -- Jane Hirshfield
Thomas Jefferson -- Christopher Hitchens
A Voice Crying in the Wilderness -- Edward Abbey
Socrates A Very Short Introduction -- C.C.W. Taylor
The Trial and Death of Socrates -- Plato
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