Today

I woke up, looked at the clock and with a start noticed it was 9:50am. My uncle was supposed to be coming at 10am to take me to the bank to co-sign a student loan.

I quickly threw some clothes on and asked my brother if he had heard from my uncle. "Someone buzzed about half an hour ago but didn't say anything." I was horrified.

I spent the next 40 minutes in the parking lot, and the 30 minutes afterwards on our balcony hoping I hadn't made my uncle drive all the way from Toronto to come out to Oshawa to sign some papers and I hadn't showed. The entire day I was wringing my hands waiting for my mother to rip a piece out of me when she came home from work.

Then she got home and I asked if my uncle had got in touch with her about my missed appointment. "Adam, he's coming tomorrow, not today! Your memory is so bad."

And that was my day.

Computer Withdrawal, Day Three

Day One

12:00 noon: Wake up, press the power button. Nothing happens. Press it again. And again. Examine back of computer--notice faint burning smell coming out of power supply. Unplugs power supply. Go on with day.

1:00pm: Attempt again to turn on computer, to no avail. Bike down to Wal-mart to see if Wal-mart has power supplies on sale. When I ask one of the salespeople in the electronics department if they have a power supply, and they first take me to a surge protector, then to a hard drive and ask if the hard drive is what I'm looking for, I realize that Wal-mart does not have any power supplies. The Wal-mart employees suggest Staples, at the other end of town, might have what I need.

2:00pm: After once again trying the power button, I call up a friend for a ride to Staples. Friend is not there, but wife says he'll be back in an hour. He will call me back when he gets home.

2:30pm: Begin searching phone book for computer stores. After several phone calls, there are two stores in Walla Walla that sell power supplies. One is a little computer store that has one for $45. The other is Staples, which has one for $90. This is why I shop around.

3:30pm: After not getting a phone call back, I take my bike and head downtown. I pick up the power supply for $45, stop at Home Depot and buy a screwdriver (necessary to install the supply), and head home.

5:00pm: I install new power supply, test it out, and it doesn't work. After hitting the power button about three or four more times... voila! the computer boots. I get online to discover the friend I had called had written me an email saying that he doesn't have my number, and that I should call him. Ah, the joys of email communication!

However, the new power supply is cheap and doesn't have enough plugs to connect to all my hard drives. Thus, I decide to give the old power supply one last whirl, in case it really isn't broken.

6:30pm: After reinstalling the old power supply and plugging it in, I notice the optical mouse light start okay... then start to flicker and die. I quickly unplug the old power supply, then take it into the kitchen and plug it in. After about three minutes, I notice smoke begin to pour out of the device. I unplug it and move it to the stove, where if it catches fire, at least it won't be on somewhere flammable.

7:00pm: I plug in the new power supply once again, and hit the power button. Nothing. I open the computer, check all the connections, and try again. Nothing. I uninstall the new power suppply, then install it again, this time being extremely careful that all the connections are all the way in, except that one large connection to the motherboard that everyone always has trouble getting all the way in, and which wasn't all the way in the one time it worked. Nothing.

7:45pm: I theorize that the 3V battery on the motherboard is dead and needs replacing. However, it is now too late to go shopping.

8:00pm: I lay on the floor beside my computer, yelling, "Why? Why? Why?" and pushing the power button every five minutes for the next two hours and randomly plugging and unplugging the power supply.

10:00pm: I give up and go to sleep.

Midnight: I can't sleep, so I try the power button one more time. Then I go to the living room, with all the windows to my house open, and play my oboe for about half an hour. I end up playing the entire Poulenc Sonata, which is actually a requiem.

Day Two

11:30am: I get up and immediately try the power button. Nothing.

12:30pm: After a few more attempts, I give up and finally move on to all the things I had been procrastinating on. I begin cutting out the felts for the teacher I promised I would cut out the felts for three weeks ago.

3:00pm: I go to sleep on the floor, catching up on all those sleep deprived nights of playing online games until two in the morning. Or try to, at least. I end up beginning to ponder all those things I had been trying not to ponder for the last four months but had drowned out, like whether or not the March Break camping disaster was really God's fault, or whether or not the romance failure one week later was really my fault. (Short answer: no, and yes.)

5:00pm: I once again try the power button. I hear the fans jump on for a second, then shut off again. I blame myself for not holding the power button down longer and press the power button again and again for the next 15 minutes, to no avail.

5:30pm: I begin washing the dishes in the sink, which have been sitting there for a week.

6:15pm: I make myself some dinner. First real dinner in a few days.

7:00pm: I return to cutting felts.

8:30pm: It's too dark to continue cutting felts, so I pull out the old Nintendo DS that I haven't touched in months and try to beat Pokemon Pearl all over again.

10:30pm: The final four is once again vanquished. Wow, that was boring. Once again try to sleep.

Day Three

11:00am: Wake up. Try the power button. Nothing.

12:00noon: Travel to school computer lab to catch up on the internet. Amazingly, nothing noteworthy has happened, except for missing a few more emails.

2:00pm: I begin typing this blog as a sort of therapy over being torn away from my computer...

Perhaps It's Time

To end my strategy of isolationism and start talking to the world again.

The problem with keeping to yourself is that you leave yourself no baseline.

Now, I can talk about this, but will I actually do it?

A Million Words in One Quote

While reading the caption for a picture in today's Toronto Star, I realized that the caption was a perfect summary for conservatives everywhere, so I present it to you.


"Stephen Harper stands in front of a projected image of storm clouds."

Reading this made my day.

The Pharisee's Prayer

Dear God,

Thank you that I was not born a Republican,

Ignorant, unethical, low-class, warmongering,

Destroyers of the Earth.

I attend good universities,

travel abroad and speak foreign languages, and

I fight for what I believe in by

donning a sign and getting my face on TV.

Come quickly, and deliver me from the evil ones--

May your Anointed One lead our party to victory.

Amen.

* * * * * * *

I'd write a version that went "Thank God I was not born a Democrat" for my Republican friends, but I think the point has already been made.

Wilderness Adventures

It's Friday after finals week. 4:30PM. Just finished writing my last overdue essay two hours ago. This past quarter has been very, very hard on me and my sanity--some might say disastrous. Further, I've had 23 hours of sleep since last Saturday.

I can't stay here any longer. Whatever fragments of sanity or insanity I have left compell me to go. So I pack my backpack with one change of clothes, two pairs of socks, a towel, a poncho, a flute, a hymnal, a bible, an emergency blanket, toiletries, a 50 ft. rope (which I intend to weave a hammock of for sleeping), chapstick, this notebook, a trowel (I plan on keeping the Mosaic laws), a sweater, my driver's license (in the event they need to ID my body), credit card (to buy food and water on the way out), and nothing else. Well, and allergy medication--would rather not come down with anaphylactic shock twenty hours from civilization. Then, I head out... on foot, to Umatilla National Forest. No map. No compass. (I bought one but left it at home.) No tent or sleeping bag. No cell phone (I don't have one, in case you forgot).

Just me and nature, for four days. I'm pretty sure I've lost my marbles at this point too.

P.S. I hesitate to write the following story, because it ends pretty embarrassingly, and I make a lot of stupid decisions. Very nearly didn't publish this.

* * * * * * *

Journal Entry: March 21, 6:30am

So, I went to Wal-mart. End up purchasing 5L of water, some Raisin Bran, a small bag of flour, 4 packets of Ramen, some Nature Valley bars, and some spoons, which I forgot at home and didn't have the time to go back and get. When one cannot make a fire, and has no stove, options are rather limited. Also purchased a small container of shampoo.

The shopping trip takes me to 5:45PM. Sunset is at 7PM. I only have time to get to the other end of Walla Walla, forget Umatilla National Forest--meaning I may have to spend the evening sleeping in a ditch. Lucky me.

* * * * * * *

I've come to the conclusion lately that my plan for my life and my biggest hobby are mutually exclusive. I very much want to spend my life traversing the planet as a missionary/teacher/pioneer/humanitarian/etc. I cannot be convinced otherwise that a more meaningful line of work exists.

Yet for the last fifteen years, my biggest hobby has been computer gaming. Over that time, I have probably spent more time on a computer than sleeping.

There is no way that these two things can co-exist. I cannot be enthralled by a fantasy world that forces me to replay a level one thousand times until a random dice roll generates a needed artifact--dice games are vanity--while being surounded by such need and suffering. It would be like combining meaning with meaninglessness and not expecting conflict.

Conflict, of course, is my soul right now, hence why I'm wandering through the wilderness.

* * * * * * *

I spend the next hour and a half walking through Walla Walla. I see at least two cars of friends drive by, who furiously wave at me. I'm afraid I wasn't able to recognize the second, due to the darkness and the silhouette effect of car windows.

I continue into the country, despite the onrushing darkness. After I feel far enough from civilization to be safe outside at night, I begin searching for a ditch deep enough to hide me from the road, all the while hoping no one attempts to pick me up.

I eventually find such a place, and set down for the night. It isn't really a ditch; more like an embankment. It's too dark to eat; but I had a late lunch, and it's only 8pm. I curl up and turn in.

I did not notice that the road turned ahead to the right; and as I am sleeping on the right side of the road, the headlights shine directly on me when cars approach from that direction. So much for a hiding spot. The cars are far away when they do so; so I gather yellow grass (hay?) and camouflage my backpack and myself with it. Then I try to sleep.

To say that it was my worst night of sleep would not be entirely true. But it wouldn't be far off. Every passing car strikes fear as I pray no one stops. I have this horrible recurring thought that anyone who stops when confronted with a defenceless person alone with no one watching will kill them, or at least rob. I imagine cops showing up, making me recite the alphabet backwards and taking me to the station.

I find that tossing and turning are not completely possible when one is trying to stay covered. One simple twist can cause all the hay to fall off, and require a repair to the defenses. I find that normal walking temperature is cold sitting still temperature. I pull out a turtleneck and hat; I ponder using the facemask attached to the hate, then decide that I already look too much like an escaped convict, and use a scarf instead.

The sounds of the night provide an incessant backdrop to my thoughts. Frogs never shut up. Around nine I hear a dog-like animal and hope it isn't a coyote or something. By ten I hear an owl and a cow. Around eleven, a car pulls out of a driveway just up the road; and as I'm relying on sound, not sight, it sounds just like a car stopping. I fear having been caught.

I curse myself for having forgot gloves. I vacillate between shaking a little and finding a new comfortable position. Around one, I fall asleep. Around 2:30am, I feel a drop of rain. I pull out the bright red poncho, but it remains a mere drop, so I just cover my backpack with it. I wake up again about five, anticipating sunrise; I note that today is spring equinox, and therefore if sunset was at seven, sunrise will also be at seven.

About 6:30am, I decide it's light enought to get up. Now that I can see, I examine my surroundings... and discover to my horror that I spent the night sleeping on a nest of some sort. My first instinct is that it was a hornet's nest. I feel so much better about that night.

Did not actually figure out what kind of nest this was; all I know was that I unwittingly slept on it.

* * * * * * *

"I have a place prepared for you."

These words echoed in my head as I searched for and fuond a place to sleep. I turned down the first place I chose, a hedge, after hearing a chorus of animal voices greet me therein. These words spoke to me as I entered the hedge, too. The second place I chose I stuck with, as it was now getting quite late.

About an hour in, I opened my eyes to the sky, and was horrified: the sky was mostly clouded, perhaps stormy; one half looked light, inviting; the other half dark, brooding; and the border between them was right where I was sleeping. It was like the entrance into Mordor. Was I heading into that?

The speed limit sign a few yards from me was mistaken more than once for a person or a stamina shrine, causing more than a few jumps; it glowed whenever a car approached from the west, so I knew when to keep still.

My father told me stories about his great uncle who fought in WWI. He was a "spotter"--the guy who would sit in no-man's land and telegraph enemy coordinates to the artillery. He survived four years of war and came home to tell about it. My Dad would tell me he could lie down on a "flat" lawn and disappear--he knew every nuance of the ground and how to stay hidden.

I feel a little like that.

When the cow lowed for the first time, I almost laughed. The sounds of the night: frogs that don't shut up; creepy owl; approaching cars I'm afraid of; MOOOOO!!!!!

My fears were irrational, admittedly; that some wild animal would attack; or an escaped convict; that it would rain; that I would get hypothermia.

"What's the difference between this and home?"

"At home, I have everything under control--locked doors, windows, walls, heater; here I have no control over this room--limitless space, wild animals, weather..."

"You have control at home because it's your room. I have control here because it's my room. Rest now--I am in control. Learn to trust me."

Where I slept the first night.

* * * * * * *

11:00am

I plan on skipping devotions this morning because my Bible is at the bottom of my backpack. Then I realize the utter ridiculousness of going on a trip to regain sanity and a sense of identity, yet skipping devotions while on it. Thus scolding myself, I plan on pulling my Bible out after eating breakfast.

I eat Raisin Bran for breakfast. Spoon it right out of the bag. Then it starts raining, so breakfast gets cut short.

After walking along the road for what feels like eternity, I start to question whether I had taken the wrong road. I was under the impression I was going south; but a quick glance at the morning sun reveals that it is to my right--perhaps then this is the right road. I later recognize the name of the next road as my turn.

This road begins to ascend. And ascend. Pretty soon my feet, knees and legs are killing me, and to walk the road requires small steps. I wonder if blisters have formed on my feet yet. The road eventually turns to gravel. A FedEx truck passes. I notice a fairly large animal footprint on the ground in front of me "following" my intended trail. A little unnerved, I continue walking.

Animal print of some sort. My guess was Cougar.

* * * * * * *

"I am with you, Adam."

I've been thinking of God as a female lately. A being who longs to be romanced by us; someone who can't wait for our "phone calls"; wants to be chosen, desired, pursued; someone who is beautiful and makes the world beautiful.

"How do you climb a mountain?"

I've always wanted to climb a mountain. There's something about putting forth effort in reaching a pinnacle; something tangible about making it to the top. I'm growing excited with the thought that this is a mountain; and since I've walked all the way from Walla Walla, I can say I climbed the whole thing.

"Don't stop walking." Oh. Genius. Duh. "How do you do all your homework assignments on time and pass a quarter?"

"Let me guess--don't stop working."

"You're a bright one."

"Very funny."

The cat worries me. At first, I hope it is a Raccoon; but the print is too big and deep for a raccoon--I think. A Lynx? I hope not, but I begin assuming that it very well is the big cat.

Later, I see what look like deer tracks... getting pounced on by said cat tracks... then only the cat tracks keep going. Definitely not a raccoon... oh fun...

"This is my room, Adam. I'm in control. And by the way, I hope it doesn't require scaring you to turn your thoughts towards me next time."

"Right. Sorry."

"Don't mention it."

I stop to write. Notice it's getting quite cold. Curse myself yet again for forgetting to bring gloves.

* * * * * * *

When it first starts to rain, I put on the bright red poncho I bought specifically for this trip. After it drizzles for only 10 minutes of what could barely be called rain, I feel silly for wearing it. Next time it rains I leave it off. Same for the third time... until it starts pouring harder. An on/off routine continues most of the morning.

I love my poncho because it covers my backpack too. I mean, I can zipper up my raincoat over my backpack--I used to ride to school on my bicycle like that--but it was a tight fit. This is just loose, even with carrying a shopping bag with my water in front, also under my poncho. I feel like I'm wearing the rich robes of some Renaissance prince. Ponchos are amazing!

I can see most of Walla Walla from up here. Looks so very small from this height.

One last look at Walla Walla before cresting the hill. (What, you can't see it?)

* * * * * * *

12:45pm

While I was sitting writing, some guy going down the hill offered me a ride. I politely declined--I'm going up the hill.

I got to the crest, and wow! what a view! Whoever said Walla Walla is not beautiful (me) has obviously never seen this. There were trees!!! Snow-capped hills! Misty valleys! In fact, running through that valley is a road... the road I was supposed to have been on. Maybe I was supposed to turn left at that intersection three hours ago.

The other side of the hill. Looks foreboding.

An option exists to turn right onto another street, and after an unseen distance, actually reach the top of this hill; but I have every intention of making it to Umatilla, one way or another, so I proceed forward. Perhaps another time (later this trip?) I will have opportunity to climb a mountain.

I continued walking on the gravel road, now in a slight descent, and turned to the right, so that the valley was on my left and the hill/ridge was on my right. Trees lined both sides of the road, filled with birds singing--very uplifting!

I briefly considered walking through the fields of... something (on my left), just plowed, to get to the proper road, but that struck me as a little bit dangerous. (I have a history of trying to descend hills in the Walla Walla area without a trail.)

Halfway through the bird stretch, I stopped for lunch. Lunch was to be crushed, dry ramen and a nature valley bar. I ate more or less on the road, as I hadn't seen a car go by in an hour. None interrupted my meal.

As I continued walking, the steep dropoff on the left side (not actually that steep, but possible to fall down) was giving me a slight case of vertigo. It was then that I saw it--a deer carcass (well, skeleton). I then noticed my little Lynx's footprints, still there. Knowing that I was unintentionally tracking a Lynx (which at this time I thought was another name for Cougar) was a bit unnerving; knowing what it ate was a skeleton, therefore long gone, was comforting.

The first deer skeleton.

Another few hundred yards, another skeleton, this one a little more intact. I saw a trail leading up the hill where I was confronted, after 100 yards, by the sight of a pine forest! In Eastern Washington?

Pine trees!

I wanted to walk up that trial--I presumed it was still the hunting preserve--but forests are thick--I was a bit unnerved at the thought the Lynx might be waiting. So, I continued walking down the road, when the following quote forcefully came to mind:

"We have nothing to fear but fear itself."

That's right! This trip has so far been all about conquering fear... and it won't be if I turn around and go see those pines up close, maybe even climb one.

So I turned back and went to climbe the trail. It was then that I noticed the familiar footprints on the trail... and a distinct lack of human footprints--this was an animal trail!

Nothing to fear but fear itself, nothing to fear but fear itself...

I went up to the pines...

* * * * * * *

My devotional this morning was from Amos 5. It was a dark chapter. But it had a few interesting notes. One, this chapter mentions Orion by name--is that the only named constellation in the Bible?

Two, it mentioned as a mighty sin "taking a bribe." That brought to mind something that happened Wednesday.

"See good, and not evil, that ye may live: and so the Lord God of hosts shall be with you." (vs 14)

I have not been very good at hating evil lately. I can think of a number of computer games for one, with highly disturbing scenes, backdrops, pentagrams. This, I love. Why?

Is it because I get to be a warrior-knight, slaughtering evil? Is it because of self-improvement, with simple, numerical, guaranteed results? Or maybe it makes me feel needed, lest the world perishes? A sense of accomplishment? A sense of strength?

All of it is make-believe, of course. A fantasy world. Why accept fantasy over the wonderful, real beauty that surrounds me now? Because it's easy? Oh, don't I know that. Reality is hard. Actual self-improvement is hard. An actual relationship is hard. But they're real.

Fantasy is vanity. And isn't much of the world today one gigantic fantasy, designed to take our minds off of a reality we can't handle? Television, movies, sports, novels--all are merely an anestetic to life.

What is life? Life is work. No. Life is easing suffering, wherever you find it, not just by anesthetizing it, but by fixing it, even if that causes more short-term pain. Life is enjoying beauty. Life is creating your own beauty.

* * * * * * *

[At this point, all journal entries stop, due to the trip taking a sudden nosedive, and more or less unceasing rain for the duration of the trip.]

* * * * * * *

After sitting on the hillside playing the flute for half an hour (possibly my favourite thing to do), I walk down the hill and rejoin the road. It's now about 2:30pm.

I get to a bridge over a waterfall/stream. It's an odd bridge: there are no rails, curbs, or any sort of protective device to prevent anyone or anything from falling over the side. It's really just a glorified culvert, though a very large one, as a fall off the side would not be fun.

I investigate by looking over the side, and the first thing I see is another deer carcass. Except that this one is actually a carcass, not just a skeleton--there's still a little bit of meat on the portion that is visible. The stench is disgusting. Then I hear a low growl.

At first, I wonder if I'm not just mistaking the gargle of the stream echoing in the culvert as a growl--I've been mistaking things all trip, and I'm not sure that someone who has barely slept in the past 54 hours ought to be trusting his first impression. Then I hear it again--this time a bit louder and more insistent, as if whatever is making it is getting angrier.

I can't say for sure whether or not I actually heard a cougar growling at me that day, or whether it was a different animal, as I failed to make visual contact. I don't even know if there was an animal there at all. However, in such a situation, sticking my head over the culvert to look inside did not seem like the most appropriate thing to do. Instead, I left, with a slightly quicker pace than I had been going at earlier.

I decide at this point that there is a difference between courage and stupidity. Courage is confronting a cougar that approaches you and your family, chasing it off. Stupidity is chasing a cougar who would otherwise have left you alone, completely unarmed, alone, and weighed down by supplies.

* * * * * * *

In the event I wasn't sure what country I just entered. I only took a picture of this one because it was the first one I saw like this; future signs were far more gun-shot riddled.

After walking a little bit further, I come across the first houses in many miles. I also begin to notice traffic signs that are gunshot riddled. For the next several miles, about 80% of the houses I will pass will have "No Trespassing" signs on them; the majority of those signs will be more specific "No Trespassing, No Fishing, No Hunting, No Swimming; Violators will be Prosecuted to the full extent of the law." The funniest one I saw was "Is there life after death? Trespass and find out!"

I thought it was sad that there were all these people living out in the middle of nowhere that despised people to the point of living out here in the middle of nowhere, threatening to take all comers against their privacy and their property. What would have to happen to a person to make them close up like that? (Never mind, don't answer that question.)

* * * * * * *

Eventually the road I was on merged with the road in the valley. As my memory of the map I viewed before leaving did not have this happening, I assumed the road I was supposed to be on was the next road over. I considered turning left on the valley road, heading back north, and taking the next road to the east, getting to the road I was supposed to have been on.

"Go straight." What? "Go straight." I mock the voice by mentally whispering in my head "Go left," in as close as an approximation of the voice as I can get. The voice returns, much more insistent this time "Go straight!" Alright, alright, I'll go straight. I have no idea where this is going to take me, or how I'm ever going to get to Umatilla, but so be it. If I remember right, there's a TV tower about twenty miles down the road that's supposed to be on the top of a mountain--maybe that will make a nice alternate goal.

The road greets me with many odds sights and scenes. I see snow in the ditches--and given the large creek to the left, I'm clearly at a low elevation--so I'm wondering if some sort of rainshadow-type effect causes this valley to be colder than the Walla Walla valley. It's certainly narrow--maybe that has something to do with it?

Snow? Here? In a valley?

I see a family playing on ATVs in their yard. They look at me, then go back to their playing. I see a traffic sign that roughly amounts to "Cattle crossing." I see a Christmas tree farm--multiple Christmas tree farms, actually. I see a decently-sized tree growing halfway up a steep rock face, with no potential for roots. I have absolutely no idea how that tree is growing, gaining nutrients, or staying upright. A very odd tree to be sure. For reasons unknown to me, I wasn't tempted to push the tree over--perhaps I was following the mantra "take only pictures, leave only footprints."

If you're not sure what you're supposed to be looking for in this picture, it's a tree, growing halfway up the side of a steep rock face, with no possible roots in sight.

I see a house with stained glass windows, and looks more like a church with its high triangular roof than a house. I find random dead things on the road (like a bird, a frog, a key, a deer).

I see a historical marker: it was apparently marking the site of the first sawmill that Whitman built in the Walla Walla valley.

It was a big sign that looked important, so I took a picture.

* * * * * * *

What is it that people do that make them important to history? If I go up to the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and without any permission build an oil well, start a prosperous community and make a bundle of money before getting shot dead by Greenpeace, will that garner me a historical plaque 150 years from now? (That comparison might be a little unfair to Whitman, but so be it.)

I think that's part of our fascination with historical markers. We all want to be worth one some day. We all want our lives to have meant something. Perhaps that's part of the reason I'm out here to begin with--I'm sick of the meaninglessness of my life.

If people want their lives to be meaningful, why then do most people settle for something less? Most people live through their children because they weren't able to find value in their own lives, so they hope their children will redeem them, the way being the mother of a basketball player can get you onto national television; for those who live long enough to see their children fail, they transfer the hope onto their grandchildren.

But why do people settle for something less in themselves? Perhaps we're all just selfish inside? Or lazy? Is ambition really so hard as to leave all people sitting at home at ease instead? Or perhaps other things distract us, and we settle for something different?

Or maybe there is meaning in the little things, and I just haven't found it yet?

* * * * * * *

The sights just keep getting stranger. I just saw... wild bamboo. Growing in Washington state. It appears someone has planted it by the ponds in front of his house. It appears to be growing like an annual here--it gets killed off by the frost in winter, before returning to life in the spring--so it isn't very thick. But there is plenty of it. It seems to be absolutely thriving in it's new niche.

This is bamboo, growing in Washington state. I would see much more of it in Oregon. Did not know wild bamboo could grow here.

I pass into Oregon. The only marker that tells me I'm now in Oregon is yellow piece of paper, stapled to the back of a sign: "Keep Oregon Green." On the opposite side of the road is a "Entering Walla Walla County" sign, which confirms that I am in fact crossing the state line.

The bamboo apparently isn't a unique occurrence--it is growing wildly in Oregon, all over the place. I wonder if there's any animals here that eat it; and if not, perhaps they ought to import some Pandas from China? I wonder how the Pandas would do without predators? Or perhaps the Cougars would try and take them on too?

Just across the border, I see "Camp Kiwanis." The things you find in the middle of nowhere. There's a suspension bridge made of wood and wires across the creek to my right, and a locked gate about a third of the way across the bridge; with mesh further around the gate, to prevent intruders. It appears to be deserted, and rather small.

The road becomes a dirt road, filled with potholes galore. It begins pouring rain, filling up the potholes and turning them into lakes. I see what first looks to be a turkey, running across the road in front of me. It climbs the steep on the left, spreading its wings when it needs help. It looks absolutely ridiculous hopping from rock to rock. Then once it reaches a certain height it spreads its wings and takes off flying as if it could fly gracefully all along and was just trying to fool me. At this point, I get confused and wonder if it was a vulture all along, as opposed to turkey. I still think it was a turkey though.

I meet a couple walking along the road in the opposite direction. This is notable because this is the first time all day I've passed someone walking, and it's now 6pm. We nod in greeting to each other.

* * * * * * *

After seeing a dead deer, and taking a few pictures, I wonder--is it right to be taking pictures of all these dead things? Should I be fascinated at all by these things that recently were living, and now no longer? Is this kind of morbid?

I mean, in one sense, there's absolutely no way I'd ever get to see a wild deer this close up unless it were dead. Its eyeballs have been completely eaten out by I suspect flies, but otherwise it's intact. It has a horrid expression on its face, as if it is comprehending death for the first time in its existence.

Maybe I'm just fascinated by my own mortality? Confused by death? I've always tried to imagine what it would be like to be dead: to not exist. It's always eluded me. I can't imagine not thinking. I can't imagine being unconscious and never waking up. I keep trying and it keeps not happening. I wonder if consciousness can comprehend unconsciousness? Can darkness comprehend light?

* * * * * * *

I look up the road a bit, and discover to my horror a "dead end" sign. I'm a little confused, however: aren't dead end signs supposed to happen at the last intersection before? All I see is maybe a tiny residential street ahead. I hold judgment until I get closer.

Upon further inspection, that is no residential street, but some road labelled "65" in bright orange, with a sign directly below it saying "no off-road vehicles." Could this be? Umatilla National Forest? But I thought I was on the wrong road... Further, there is what looks like a public campsite/ranger station on the other side of the bridge, with a picnic table and possibly outhouses.

After deciding it's getting late and there's little point pursuing the dead end, I go down "65" and confront another oddity: a dirt bridge. If you're going to build a bridge, would it have been that much harder to pave it? Was it really necessary to shovel dirt over it?

This would be a dirt bridge. Would it really have been that hard to pave the bridge, as opposed to shovelling dirt over it?

The downpour has turned the bridge to mud, and not just normal mud: very thick mud, with deep mud puddles, probably ankle-deep at least. I have no intention of getting my shoes wet--at least, wetter than they already are, which is not very--and so I climb up the side of the bridge and walk along the guardrail, above a raging torrent of a stream. It certainly did not feel very safe, but to me, at least this had the possibility of not being too wet afterwards.

I get to the "campsite" and discover it is indeed a campsite--a private one. All locked up, with the standard "no trespassing" signs I've grown accustomed to. I'm a little disappointed, but I continue up the road, as it appears to continue for quite some ways. Maybe fifty yards further, I discover three condoms on the road. I don't care to check closely enough if they're used. Apparently someone thought this was a private spot.

I walk for maybe a mile, as the road begins to ascend above a quickly moving stream to my right. It is then that I see it: "Umatilla National Forest regulations"--I've made it! I've made it!

I'm tempted to take a picture of myself with the sign indicating victory, but it's pouring rain hard enough that I don't want to risk my camera; so I take a quick picture from under my poncho, which is now developing a little tear in the neck area.

I walk a little further before I come across the official "Umatilla National Forest" sign. This time I do decide to venture to risk my camera for one quick picture. The lens gets covered in a few water droplets before the timer finishes, so the picture doesn't quite turn out.

I'm also noticing a buildup of snow. Lots of it. The road is completely snowed over. I see a few snowcapped mountains ahead of me. However, it is also sunset. I need to turn in somewhere for the night, soon; and there is a noticable lack of trees on the trail; there are plenty of trees to my right, but all of them are on the steep decline towards the river. On the left is a cliff, which would ordinarily be a safe spot, if not for the frequent loose rocks on the road I run across, indicating frequent rockslides. As I am in no mood to die tonight, I continue walking, in search of a pine tree that might provide some decent shelter against the elements.

I finally find my tree. It's a little close to the valley edge for my tastes, and it's a tad small, but it's the best I can find, and it's getting dark very quickly. I try, many times, to make as best a tent out of my poncho as I can, so that it will cover my things and prevent them from getting (too) wet. After achieving some sort of negotiated settlement with my compass, I find an arrangement that has me curled up as tightly as I can get, with my feet barely under the poncho. Sadly, the tree provides little shelter, as it has been raining hard and long enough that the entire tree is dripping wet.

I spend the next hour trying to sleep, as the hole in my poncho starts leaking and soaking my shoulder. I start shivering violently. Thoughts of hypothermia and cougars dominate my thinking--there were animal tracks in the snow. I look at my watch--8:30pm. An exit strategy forms in my head--what if I were to walk down the mountain, flag down a car, and call for someone to pick me up and rescue me from this mess?

I fold. I get up, gather my things, and take off down the mountain. The first thing that hits me as I exit my prepared place is how dark it is outside. I could probably yell at the top of my lungs and not be heard by a soul--there probably wasn't another person for a mile in any direction. It was very, very dark; only a few remnants of light could be seen across the horizon, which barely lit the road. I felt vulnerable. I felt mortal. I felt alone.

I spent the next half an hour walking back down the mountain. Most of the time I could see the road, but only barely; the rest of the time the only thing I could see was outline of trees against the sky, which was stormy, cloud-covered, and most definitely preventing any moonlight or starlight from coming through. I worry about a sharp right turn I will have to make part way down, except this time in the dark. I start singing the first verse of Amazing Grace over and over again to keep my spirits up.

I eventually make it back to Mill Creek Road. I pull off the guardrail/bridge thing in the dark. From there, I begin walking back to civilization, figuring that the further down the road I get, the better the chances I will run into a car. Mill Creek appears even darker than the forest road--many trees are over the road, and houses are few and far between. I'm dressed completely in dark clothing, save for the poncho; I'm more or less invisible. The only light I have to guide my steps comes from the houses; and without those, the faintest of glows reflects off of the moisture on the road, occasionally allowing me to see my way, and occasionally not.

By some miracle, I walk the entire way back to the Washington/Oregon border without stepping off of the road. I do, however, step in quite a few potholes, soaking my feet considerably. The dogs that had troubled me earlier do not trouble me now--I'm not sure if it is too dark for them to see me, or too wet for them to care. I also fail to see a single vehicle. A few houses have open windows and garages; I pause to try and wave at them, but see no people inside. I don't dare walk up to them, as "trespass and get shot" signs were so prevalent in these parts to just assume they were there.

My entire body wants rest. The pain I had described earlier in my feet, legs, back and shoulders is now just about killing me. I'm also quite wet. The tear in the neck of the poncho has completely torn all the way down, so that it now opens in the front. I see the bridge at Camp Kiwanis, and decide that that would make a safe place to stop for the night. If I leaned right up against the locked gate, people and animals would onlly be able to approach me from one direction; and further, the bridge was very well lit.

A random camp, out in the middle of nowhere.

I place my backpack on the ground; pull the poncho over my head; then sit on my back pack, tuck down as low as I can get, and use the poncho to drape over both, so as to prevent either from getting soaked. I use a hand to close the hole. It works--some of the time. Every now and then a shoulder gets soaked before I notice; or my feet. In a brief moment of reprieve from the rain, I notice how violently I'm shaking, and I take the second change of clothes I had brought, and pull those on over my first change, taking nothing off but my socks. It grants me warmth for about an hour, until the second change gets moist.

Thus I remain for the next nine hours, getting up every half an hour or so to readjust position, trying to find some sort of comfort. Dry spells are few and far between. At 3am, the first cars I've seen since descending from the mountain pass by; one of them stops in front of the camp, possibly to gawk at me, though I can't see inside the car from my vantage point, so I assume they can't see me. The car appears completely full, and possibly a bit drunk, so I don't move. I fail to sleep for the entire night. The one time I nearly fall asleep, I sense my body fall away to the left, and quickly throw my arm out to catch myself, randomly making contact with a bridge support: and thus avoid falling into the raging river below. After that incident, I have little desire to sleep.

If the previous night wasn't quite the worst night of my life, this night was.

* * * * * * *

At 7am, sunrise, I get up, seeing no point in continuing to just sit there hiding from the rain, and begin walking home. I surprise myself at my walking pace; in only 45 minutes, I'm back to the junction where the mountain road meets the valley road; this time I choose the valley road, because my memory suggests there's more traffic on it, and fewer wild animals. Yes, at this point, I'm hoping to hitchhike.

I see four deer; one adult (mother?) and three fawns. Two run out across the road in front of me; the remaining two fawns stay where they were before and don't move. I get to see them rather close.

I see a pond of ducks swimming in some rather green water. The greenness of the water disturbs me. It can't possibly be healthy for the ducks.

I see a police officer that is accosting two people, one on an air mattress, under a tree by the road. I hear very angry yelling from quite a distance away--I think it was "don't bring up that wife-beater ****." As I near and they see me approach, they quiet down. I pass without eye contact.

My poncho continues to tear. After the hood is nearly torn off by another random tear, I take off the hood and merely wear the rest of the poncho; after a tear in the back causes the poncho to nearly fall off my shoulders, I take the whole thing off--it's just about useless at this point anyways. The rain is only a mist; and even if it was more than that, the poncho wouldn't save me.

Finally, about 9:30am, I get picked up by a couple and their five-year old daughter going to church. They drive me to 4th and College, beyond where they had intended to go; and I gratefully accept a premature ending to this adventure.

* * * * * * *

Overall, I got about three hours of sleep spread across 72 hours. As this followed up 23 hours of sleep across six days of exam week, I am quite exhausted. I badly, badly need a massage.

I checked the maps once I got home. I had apparently taken the exact route I had planned to take, whether I was aware of it or not. According to both Yahoo and Google maps, the best guess as to how far I walked (I don't know exactly where I got picked up) is a little over thirty miles. About six miles the first day; nearly twenty miles the next day; and about seven miles on the last day.

* * * * * * *

As I have some innate need to have everything I do make sense, or at least provide life lessons, I try to come up with conclusions regarding this trip for closure purposes.

1. It was probably foolish for a kid raised his entire life in the city, for whom College Place was the most rural place he's ever lived (arguably Calamba, Philippines was about as rural as College Place, though I only "lived" there two months); who has only gone camping four times, and never in a group smaller than 18 people; to try to go fend for himself in the wilderness with basically no experience in doing so.

2. God does not fix our mistakes. He forgives us. For example, a pregnant unmarried couple may pray for forgiveness, and he will forgive; but he will not take away the baby. In my case, I might foolishly try to brave the wilderness without supplies for no other reason than "I am stressed"; and He'll help me get through it, and even give advice on where to go, when the decision has already been made to go; but He won't stop the mistake from bearing it's fruit once it comes time for that.

3. There is enough pain and suffering in the world. There is no reason to needlessly add to that through self-inflicted journeys into who knows where that could have gotten me killed.

4. In Grade 12, I read a book called "The Chosen." In it I discovered the concept of the "tzaddik," where the other main character was trained by his father to bear the suffering of the world, as a sort of religious duty. And for these past few years I have tried to do the same. I now disagree--it should not be a goal in life to bear others' pain, but rather to ease it.

5. What is the purpose of doing crazy stunts? To prove that I am strong? Invincible? Is it a competition with past stunts to see if I can up the ante? Is it a cry for attention? Maybe it's related to some sort of male macho thing to see how tough you are--to be able to look yourself in the mirror and say "me is cro-magnon!" Is it a test of limits, to know one's capacity, and therefore know oneself? Either way, it's foolish and needs to stop. Men are not strong. God is strong.

6. Just as it doesn't make you a better person to listen to vinyl records as opposed to MP3s, it doesn't make you a better person to go camping with nothing versus camping with actual camping supplies. Supplies exist to be used! And failing to consider the possibility of rain, despite heavily overclouded skies for the entire duration of this trip, is just stupid.

7. Adam probably needs a common sense judge to follow him around and say things like "no, Adam, that's a stupid idea; don't even think about it" or "that might not be the best way to do things; but if you alter your idea slightly right here, it could work out."

8. I hate being alone.

9. I am never, ever buying a poncho from Wal-mart again. One camping trip, virtual destruction. And to think this was the most expensive poncho they had.

10. The travelling adventures might just have to come to an end. The intentional ones, anyways. Sure purposely not booking a connection in the midst of travelling to and from home might be exciting, and spice up your life, and certainly give something to write about; but this trip was probably the most exciting one yet, and did I enjoy it? On the contrary, it probably almost gave me a heart attack. Excitement is not a prerequisite to happiness.

I have, over the years, written several volumes of travelling adventures to entertain you with the foibles of myself and the various travelling agencies on which I deigned to ride. Throughout these adventures, I have walked from Sea-Tac Airport to Renton in pouring rain for no other reason than to save fifty cents; hitchhiked with an ex-con; showed up unannounced on multiple occasions to visit friends; slept in bus terminals; missed several connections; snuck badly overweight luggage onto buses; had my luggage (with my computer in it) nearly left behind at a station; been robbed; grounded on a tarmac for three hours; and other delightful excursions. I suspect these will continue: but I hope I can bring myself to cease the self-inflict ones. Travelling is hard enough in today's world--why make it harder?

So comes to an end the latest adventure. I think I may spend the rest of this week sleeping.

Adam's Performance Schedule

Only performances in which I played oboe count--performances with choir left off

January 31--Solo with Orchestra and Choir in church

February 8--Winter Quarter Jury

February 10--Walla Walla Symphony concert

February 14--Solo for church (offertory)

February 28--Solo for Young Artists Night

March 7--Wind Symphony in church; Wind Symphony concert in afternoon

March 10--Walla Walla Symphony concert

===========

March 28--Solo at Umapine church

April 5--Prism Concert (University Days)

April 7--Prism Concert (Chapel)

April 25--Orchestra Concert

April 21--Walla Walla Symphony concert

April 24--Prism Concert (Alumni Weekend)

May 4*--Solo recital

May 12--Walla Walla Symphony concert

May 15-17--Solo with Orchestra

May 21--Wind Symphony concert

June 7--Spring Quarter jury

*tentative

Further performances to be added as I learn about them.

And I wondered why I felt so busy last quarter.

Amazon Fails

Identity

The less identity, the more violence. --Marshall McLuhan

I've used this quote before. It's one of my favourites. So it's amazing to me that it still holds unlearned lessons.

I ask this as I'm walking to Wal-Mart around 12:30AM last Thursday night (Friday morning by then), having just finished a library work shift, doing violence to myself. No, I'm not harming myself--in a suicidal or depressive manner. But I ought to be at home sleeping, and to spend these next two hours doing violence to my health--is that any different? Most people are too afraid of the stigma of suicide, so they do violence to themselves in other ways--overwork being foremost in my mind. Is all of this just a search for identity?

As for me, I'm walking to Wal-Mart to get a fishing pole and peanuts, which I absolutely need for tomorrow. (Don't ask.) (Yet.) And this is only the second two-hour slot I've had free all day. (The first I used to make an oboe reed. The reed ended up failing, so I played Saturday's band concert on a reed that was far too hard, and had my lips die on the second number.) Thus, I have a very legitimate reason to go.

Still, this is violence to myself, for whatever "reasons" I may use to justify--so I propose the question: Who the heck am I?

Well, a student for one, though not a very good one. In which case, I'm not actually a student; merely a guy who pays lots of money to pose as one. I could be a musician--though I've yet to have a performance lately in which I haven't had something to criticize myself for at the end. Which brings up a point--we get our identities from what validates us.

Where do I seek validation? Internet forums? Ouch. But true. I am somehow valid if a comment I post online is replied to. Positively, that is; having your comment utterly debunked usually has the opposite effect. Computer games? Amazing how outwitting an artificial intelligence makes one a man. Even having a fantasy hockey team ranked in the upper 100s in all of Yahoo! makes me feel like I belong as a person. Then when half of my team gets injured and it drops to the 1000s, I make excuses for being less of a person.

Of course, these things cannot last. Eventually we learn the system completely, see it as shallow, and move on to something else. Maybe novels, maybe relationships, maybe even random acts of kindness.

All is vanity.

What about the answer to everything in life? God? "Child of God" sounds like a pretty decent identity to me. But how does God validate us? Most of our validation systems work like a simple feedback device--push the button and you get fed. Maybe that's why they're so shallow? But there is no button with God. Is it then possible for Him to validate us?

No answer this time. Just an open question. I can't progress any further rationally at this time, so I must end here. Such a beautiful feeling, this recognition of the shallowness of life, without a solution. Just uncertainty. Simplistic, beautiful, uncertainty. All is vanity.

Worshipping the Random Number Generator God

I admit it. I've been too guilty of that lately.

I have long been a computer game addict. I can admit that now. Computer gaming, at its simplest, boils down to worship of a random number generator god.

Facebook games simplified the logic for me. Whether it was sitting in the desert, searching for metals, and clicking the button over and over again until I got Mithril Ore; or whether I sounded the horn for a mouse hunt, and hoped to get a gold mouse; or whether I was playing scramble and played through board after board trying to set a new personal best or find a new longest word; or whether I was playing Wordscraper/Scrabble and the luck of the tiles got me; Facebook games are gaming at their simplest--rolling dice.

Many non-internet games I used to play were of like mind. I can't tell you how many levels of Angband I went through just trying to find Ringil; I think the odds of finding it on level 100 were less than 0.1%. Even the complex games are likewise--you get an Age of Empires game going where you spawn surrounded by two other empires, few resources, and an indefensible position, while the third AI has plenty of space to expand and resources to destroy you with. In Madden, you hit the guy hard enough then hope that the computer gave you a RNG high enough to force a fumble; or on offense, break a tackle. In Spore, your nest gets built right beside the giant eyeball creature. Granted, you can't actually lose that game.

And what about those games, the ones you can't lose? It's like a RNG game where you're guaranteed to roll a six every time. Think the Sims. About the only RNG aspect of the game would be finding the right job in the newspaper quickly. Once you have that, you do all the right moves and victory is essentially guaranteed; that is, at whatever you call victory in the game. Just click the mouse enough times in the right places, and satisfaction is yours.

So my question is, why are we worshipping a RNG god? Are we really that obsessed with being lucky? Is the stress of the world so great that we're all reduced to playing some giant game of Russian Roulette?

Sigh.

Juvenile Alzheimers

So today, after class, I walked to the SAC to pick up a Griller and cheese sticks for lunch. After pondering the juice aisle, I decide it's been a while since I've had real fruit juice, and get a Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple. After paying for it, I walk home, eating two of the cheese sticks on the way. I plop down in front of my computer, where I hungrily devour my lunch (it was 2pm).

When I finish (now 2:15), I notice that I'm really thirsty. I especially want to drink something with flavour. I ponder the Guava juice carton in my fridge, but I pass. Suddenly, I think "didn't I buy a juice at the SAC?" It slowly starts coming back to me. It was a Kiwi-Strawberry Snapple. I look around my desk, but fail to come up with the juice. As I start to remember more details, I distinctly notice not remembering carrying the juice while walking back home.

I put on a coat and walk back to the SAC. After getting there, I ask the cashier if I left a juice behind. She points at my drink sitting behind some paper bags.

All in all, this pretty much proves what I've been telling people--I have the first recorded case of juvenile alzheimers.

A Trip to the Hospital

Last week, one morning, I woke up with fairly bad back pain. This has been a fairly chronic thing, dating back to about last October. But last Wednesday, it was the worst it's ever been, so I went to Campus Health about it.

I got looked over by a nurse, she said come back Friday when the doctor was in.

So I came back Friday. Doctor put pressure on spots in my back, in places causing a lot of pain. So he sent me for X-Rays. Personally I thought X-Rays were an overreaction, but I was stuck at this point.

So on Monday, I went to the hospital. Walla Walla General. I left home about 4:15. I spent the next thirty minutes looking for a bus stop. I wasn't sure whether I should go, because I knew I had an appointment with my accompanist, and I didn't know when it was that day. I waited at the bus stop until 5:00, then walked back to the music building to attempt to call my accompanist again. Having just spent 45 minutes outside, including much of that time standing still, I was now frozen. But I got a hold of her and cancelled the appointment.

Now it was 5:15pm. I got on the bus at 5:30. Got to the Hospital about 6:00. Went to admitting, they sent me to emergency. Went to emergency, waited in line for about twenty minutes, then got told that radiology closed at 6, but if I wanted to wait, the radiologist was in the Operating Room, and he could serve me once he got out. I asked how long that would be. "At most, an hour and a half." It was hinted at that I could go home, and come back tomorrow. So I did.

I walked down the road, and, as I expected, the buses were no longer running. (Or so I thought.) So I began the long process of walking home.

The temperature had notably dipped since I left. When I had left home I was not sure whether I should bring a scarf and hat, so I put it in my backpack. They proved useful when I got frozen the first time. Now they were merely hurdles for the cold to jump through.

At first, the scarf was quite useful. But the problem with scarves, when worn like I do and have them cover the mouth, is that it prevents the breath from going anywhere. The warm, moist breath--and as such, it simply rises, onto my glasses, where it condenses. If I forcefully exhale, I avoid this problem; but it can get quite annoying to forcefully exhale every breath you take; and eventually you forget once, and your glasses fog up for the next 10-15 seconds.

After a while, my glasses were no longer fogging up for 10-15 seconds--the condensation was freezing on the glasses. So I'd take my gloves, wipe off my glasses, then walk for a couple of minutes with good vision, then walk for five or ten minutes with fogged vision bad enough that I could only see headlights and stop lights, with shadows telling me where the sidewalk was. While this was happening, my legs froze, my knees froze, everything froze, and I was generally miserable. On the plus side, I kept myself going by humming the first few measures of Liszt's Totentanz. My feet and legs certainly felt like the piano part.

An hour and a half later, I made it back to campus. This would be about 8pm. You will note the irony that this was the time by which the doctor would have been out. (On the flip side, this would have meant me returning home by 9:30.) I proceeded directly to the music building, where I had the most productive oboe practice I've had all quarter, despite only being able to play for half an hour due to everything thawing out. (Meaning: if you are in desperate need of a good practice, go outside and freeze yourself to near frostnip.)

The next day, my oboe teacher gave me a ride to the hospital after my lesson, meaning I got there around 2:30. I waited for a little bit, then got to see a receptionist in the radiology department. She asked for my insurance. I gave it to her. She said this wasn't insurance, it was a drug plan. I said, "I have a drug plan?" I then spent five minutes digging through my wallet for anything that resembled a health insurance card, coming up short. She then picked up my drug plan card again, flipped it over and said, "Oh wait, I think it's right here. That's odd. I've never seen a medical plan and a drug plan printed on the same card. Hey, _____, have you ever seen this?"

She goes on to ask for my billing information. I ask, "but I have health insurance, so why do I need to be billed?" She replies that the company I use (the school's plan, btw) has one of two plans; either they pay the full up to $700, then 80% after that; or they pay 80% flat. And what you're getting today will certainly be more than $700. I quickly do the math in my head--20% of $700 is $140. Curing my back pain is not worth $140.

I then ask myself "if health insurance doesn't pay all your medical bills, what is the point of it?" Followed by "does it really cost $700+ to run an X-Ray machine for a few minutes?" Because I'm pretty sure doctors don't make $800 an hour, and there was a steady stream of people in the waiting room.

After waiting a half hour or so, I get in. I have to change into a medical gown. Very odd and cold little device. Then I make it in. There are two radiologists. It doesn't take me long to realize that the one working with me is a student. "Well, that last X-Ray didn't turn out, so let's try again." "This one didn't turn out; what happened?" Other person: "Try making him raise his arm more like this." "Ah, I see." I ended up getting 5 X-Rays done of my head (neck) and 4 of my chest. I hope my brain didn't get irradiated.

Took the bus back. Half froze once again sitting on the metal bus stop bench. Got back a little past 5, or barely in time for band. A wonderful adventure, wouldn't you say?

Unsettled

You know how they say that you're not supposed to rush the journey?

When you're in school and all you want is to be done? When you're dating and you want to skip to the married part? When you're looking for work and you want to have work? When you have work and you just want to be retired?

Well, I'm stuck in that waiting period. And I can attest that the journey is making me horribly unsettled. Just take me back to certainty, please... as long as it's a good certainty.

Top 10 Ways to Give Your Senior Recital "Oomph"

10. Serve Haystacks at your reception.

9. Play a Webern piece as your final number.

8. Get your recital to be worth CommUnity credit. (Or for those in other colleges, just think "chapel" credit or some equivalent.)

7. Make a personal ad detailing all of your "outstanding and desirable qualities" to cover an entire page of your program. Make it preposterously cocky.

6. Prepare 4 encores; then hire some friends to stand at the back and clap until you've performed them all.

5. Propose to your significant other in a program insert.

4. Tape a $50 gift certificate to Starbucks under one of the seats of the auditorium, then announce that it's there during the intermission.

3. Spike the punch.

2. Change your shirt & tie/dress between every number.

1. Write a book about your life, then set up a table at the close of the program and sell copies for $39.95. Offer autographs.


Bonus: Serve wheatgrass juice as your punch.

Bonus #2: Spike the wheatgrass juice.


Disclaimer: The help of friends was enlisted to create this list, so I cannot account for everything that you see here.

Travelling Adventures, Vol. III

I woke up around 3:30AM Thursday morning (New Year's Day), having stayed up till past midnight the previous night--it was New Years Eve, so obviously I stayed up and watched Evel Knievel's son jump over some artificial volcano. My flight was leaving at 7, so I had to be gone by 4--in theory, anyways. I took a shower, taking me to about 3:45ish, then I began packing my things, figuring I didn't need long. Given that I finished packing by 4:30, I'd say I was justified. (And given that I forgot my USB stick, I'd say I was proven wrong.)

My Dad drove me to the airport, which was an hour away. My mother made me a wonderful lunch. Unfortunately, I forgot it in the car. Perhaps it was a function of getting only two hours of sleep the previous night. Besides forgetting lunch, the airport went quite smoothly, and I made it to the gate with 30-45 minutes to spare.

Landed in Vancouver about 9:15AM. The Greyhound to Seattle left at 10:45AM. I figured I had plenty of time to make it. I was one of the first ones off the plane, as I was sitting in the first row (no first class on this plane for some reason), and quickly made it to baggage claim. Around 10AM, I got tired of waiting, and was getting hungry, so I went to the Harvey's and ordered a Veggieburger, Poutine, Fries, and a bottled water. I tried to pay in such a way that I would retain at least one five, one ten, and one twenty, in the event occasion ever arose to show off "monopoly money." After paying, I retained one five, two tens, and a twenty.

While waiting for that, I went back to check for my bags, and thankfully they had finally come through. So I grabbed my blue roller and went back to the Harvey's, and collected my meal in a paper to-go bag, and started rushing to the bus stop, as I realized that I now only had half an hour to make it to the bus terminal--which, though not impossible, would now present a challenge.

After getting to the bus stop, I noted the fare, and reached into my wallet to have it ready... and realized I didn't have enough coins. So I ran back in the terminal, found a change machine, and inserted a ten. Then I noticed the "out of change" light was on. So I ran deeper into the terminal to a convenience store/newsstand, and bought a BreathSavers while asking for at least four quarters in return from the cashier. (If you're keeping count, this gives me one twenty, one ten, and two fives.)

At this point, I should mention that this entire time, I'm carrying an oboe inside my coat. I'm carrying it inside my coat because it is wooden, and a rental, and because twice two years prior, I had cracked rental oboes from the same company for unknown reasons, but presumed to be exposure to cold temperatures. When you crack two oboes in the space of a few months, you make sure you don't crack a third. So I'm carrying this thing inside my coat anytime I go outside, and it's rather awkward, because it makes me look like a pregnant woman--if I shift it up, emphasis on woman; shift it down, emphasis on pregnant--and in order to keep it there, I'm clutching at my supposed abdomen. I get many, many, many looks.

Made it back to the bus stop. Bus pulled up five or ten minutes later. Rode a few minutes, got off at the transfer point, and waited for another bus, waiting another ten minutes. This bus carried me into downtown Vancouver. Once there, I ran across the street to the SkyWay station, and while taking an escalator underground, walking down the escalator, my paper bag ripped open. My fries magically stayed in the bag, the veggieburger stayed wrapped... but the poutine fell out, the top popped off, and all that glorious gravy and cheesiness landed face down on the escalator. After staring at it in shock for ten seconds, I became grateful that it was a rather long escalator, giving me time to clean up before reaching the bottom. Not that this prevented me from cursing life, over and over again for the next few minutes.

Finally made it to the combined bus/train station at 11:25. I went up to the ticket counter and asked if the bus to Seattle had left yet. He said yes while giving me a look that said "why would that bus ever be late?" Evidently, he hasn't seen what I've seen. He then told me that CanTrail, a rival bus line, had a bus to Seattle leaving in three minutes--11:30--and that if I ran out and caught the driver, I might be able to see if there was still space on board the bus.

It took me three minutes just to find the bus--it was a rather large terminal. Once there, the bus door was already closed, but the driver opened it for me, and I asked if there was room. There was. I asked the price. The fare was $38. He only accepted cash. I quickly pulled out all the Canadian bills I had carefully saved up and handed them over. (Oh, the irony.) He quizzically asked how I didn't have a reservation. I answered that some plans got cancelled. (Quite true, in fact--my plan was to buy Greyhound tickets at the terminal, and those plans got cancelled when the stupid baggage carosel took nearly an hour to get me my luggage. It wasn't the first time in Vancouver my Greyhound plans had been messed up because of slow baggage workers.)

So I make the bus. I was grateful when over the next three minutes, the scene I had just created forcing the busload of passengers to wait was recreated twice, by a couple and then by another guy. The lady behind me started grumbling loudly about the wait. I was to hear her grumble about anything and everything for much of the rest of that bus ride. It was actually entertaining to listen to her grumble. (At this point in the story, I finally have a chance to eat my veggieburger and fries.)

After crossing the American border, an hour and a half into the bus ride, I pull out Anna Karenina, which I had bought earlier in the Christmas break when I found it for only $10, and start reading.

I get to Seattle at 3pm, getting dropped off in the Amtrak station. Never been there before--it's by Qwest Field--but a helpful information sign was nearby to provide direction. The Greyhound station appeared to be a mile away, but as the bus to Walla Walla wasn't leaving until 5pm, I thought I had plenty of time. There was a light mist of a rain.

I get to the Greyhound station about 4pm. I get to the ticket counter, and ask for tickets to Walla Walla. The ticket guy points out a sign saying all buses eastbound have been cancelled because Snoqualmie Pass is closed. I ask if the pass will be open tomorrow. He says 50-50.

So at this point, I start thinking. I had originally planned to work Friday and get a head start on practice hours on Sunday. If I couldn't get back tonight, I might not get the opportunity to get that work done; and even if I did, I'd lose some practice hours.

I start looking at alternatives. I call up Alaska Airlines. They say they have a flight leaving at 7pm. Cheapest fare is $178. I say thanks but no thanks. I go back to the ticket counter and ask if I could get a ticket through Portland, then Hermiston, then Pasco, then Walla Walla. He says that buses going east from Portland have been cancelled as well, as that road was also closed.

I formulate an idea. I call some rental car companies; bset price for a day is $130, if I'm willing to return the car to Pasco airport the next day. I figure I could borrow my roommate's bicycle and bike back from Pasco. I then call a friend who lives nearby, and ask her to look some things up on the internet for me--specifically, if any parts of British Columbia highway #3 go over passes, and therefore could be closed due to weather. She says no. I thus plan to drive back up to Vancouver (irony strikes again), across to Cranbrook, south to Spokane, and into Walla Walla.

I figure staying in Seattle costs $40 a night at the hostel I frequent; the Greyhound ticket is $60. If the pass is closed tomorrow (Friday), renting a car is cheapest.

I call the rental car company again. I reserve the car. As the only agency open is at the airport, I must try to get to Sea-Tac airport myself, most likely by bus. It turns out the car is actually $160. But as I've already made the decision in my head, and I have a tendency to stick to decisions I've made, I accept the increased price. It's now 5:30. I agree to pick up the car by 7.

At this point, I decide I'm tired of looking like a pregnant woman, so I rearrange the oboe. I put it on my back, between my backpack and my back. This sets the stage for the next two hours of utter agony, as the oboe case constantly shifts position between my shoulderblades, and up and down my spine, resulting in what I think is a bone bruise on my lower back. Further, the addition of something between myself and my backpack resulted in the straps tightening, bruising my collarbones.

Why was I walking about for two hours? I couldn't find the bus to the airport. I stop by a coffeeshop, order a marshmallow brownie thing, then ask what bus route goes to the airport. I get told 174/194. I follow his directions to the bus stop, and when I get there, I don't see 174 or 194 as a bus that stops there. This begins the process for the next two hours of walking, through the rain, visiting what feels like every bus stop in downtown Seattle looking for the magic numbers, while stopping countless numbers of people to ask if they knew where I could find a bus to the airport. I didn't get a good answer until the last guy I asked--"you have to go to 2nd street"--which was odd, because all the major bus lines ran down 3rd and 4th streets, which I had been walking up and down, even asking several passing bus drivers who were also clueless.

So I finally find a bus stop with both 174 and 194 on it, and set down under the shelter and wait 15 minutes for the bus to show up. Since the phone call, I had plenty of opportunity to reconsider my plan. My regrets were two-fold--$160 wasn't much better than a plane fare, especially given the price of gas I had failed to consider in my initial calculations; and a journey by car, back to Vancouver, across to Cranbrook, down to Spokane, Pasco, and finally Walla Walla could easily take upwards of ten hours. It was now 7pm. Ten hours away would be 5AM, which would be 8AM in Eastern Standard Time, which I had begun the day with; and on top of that, I was operating on two hours of sleep. Further, the roads conditions would likely be terrible. So to attempt this journey would be a significant risk to my life.

After waiting at the bus stop for 15 minutes, I walk away, go to the hostel and get a bed for the night.

At the hostel, I go online, and try to cancel the reservation; but, according to my best guess, they got my name wrong, and so I was unable to figure out what name they had me down as (I tried Party, Hardy and Pardee) and gave up, grateful that I hadn't given them my credit card number over the phone. (When I had booked the car, I gave them my name, and the guy on the other end goes "your name is Party, huh?" with disbelief in his voice. Serves him right for thinking I was a prank caller.)

The hostel served free dinner that evening (and every evening, which is why I love them so much), consisting of burritos. Quite good. After that experience, I think I can make myself a burrito now. (Took me long enough to learn :-)

The next morning I woke up, too late for the free breakfast they served, but with plenty of time to get to the Greyhound station. First thing I hear when I get to the front desk is "Five O'Clock World" playing loudly. It made me smile. Snoqualmie had opened up, and so I managed to get passage onto a quite full bus going east.

The rest of the trip was rather uneventful. I switched back to carrying the oboe on my front, deciding that personal comfort trumped looks. The bus was delayed for 30 minutes as the driver first put on chains before Snoqualmie, then took off chains after the pass; the bus was delayed another 15 minutes when the wheelchair ramp broke, so the driver had to operate it by hand-pump in order to get the guy out of the bus. This turned a one-hour layover in Pasco into a 15 minute one. I managed to get to page 348 of Anna Karenina, which was quite an accomplishment for me, reading speed-wise. So far I'm quite enjoying it. (The book being Anna Karenina, I only have 615 pages to go!)

Somewhere around Wallula, I was inspired to come up with this quote: All words are lies, because they conform reality. While thinking of this, I reached down, and drank half the remaining water in my water bottle, saving the rest for when I might need another drink, and that drink inspired this poem.

Dying of thirst, I drink
a draught of water which
tumbles down, leaving
my mouth and throat
parched, no memory of
its existence, except
a quake in my belly.

And I thought that my original quote was so correct--this poem was so much better before I had to destroy its beauty by turning it into words. Words only approximated the thought.

I got to College Place to discover snow, everywhere. Well, slush, anyways. I noted with disgust that, besides the University and Davis Elementary, there were only two sidewalks shovelled in the entire town. I wanted to get a bullhorn and excoriate the people by telling them about how in my hometown, a law was passed requiring all sidewalks to be shovelled within 24 hours of a snowfall, in order to protect the senior citizens who might otherwise slip and fall trying to walk on the ice/snow; and that the general response to that law was not that it was communist, but rather "finally the 10% of the population that's too lazy to shovel their own sidewalks is being forced to do their part." (My roommate later informed me the snowfall was fresh, so my strong feelings were rather undeserved, even if College Place is still the laziest town for snow-shovelling that I have ever seen.)

And so I returned home to the view of the setting sun on the horizon.