Dispatches from the Road, Pt. 1
Pack light and let it go
I’ve got hella agita
But I’m with Fela Kuti
Speakin’ with those eardrums
Or else you’ll miss the movie
Whenever the weight of the world becomes too much to bear, a global pandemic renders ordinary human relations defunct, and the frigid Charleston winter drives me to a quiet sort of desperation, I take to the road in my blue Subaru, surrounded by good friends and cheer. I’d highly recommend it. All it takes is a good attitude and a bit of privilege.
Also, among other things: lightweight camping gear, stainless steel cookware, Google Maps, a Coleman, fuel, a cooler, camp clothes, clout clothes, old shoes, sick hats, sunglasses, toothpicks, a fly rod, surfboards, a box of wisdom texts, whiskey, rolling materials, Spotify Premium, a sprinkling of fairy dust, and all the requisite tech (tequisite) to tie, strap, contain, separate, and hold all the shit.
When we arrived at each campsite, or worse, Airbnb, there was always a great unspooling, as our dread tech expanded into the new space, almost of its own volition: tents on that flat ground, fire ring here, workout rings on that limb over there, headlamp within hand’s reach. Everything found its place, things got settled. Then morning came, and the previous night’s expansion was followed by an equally stunning contraction, as we labored in the predawn light, gathering our seemingly endless tech and stuff-tie-strapping it all down in just such a way that got us crammed in the car and sending elsewhere — to do it all over again. This routine has been a constant, from the Palmetto State into ATL through Birmingham down the Natchez down further to New Orleans across a snowy Texas along the Rio Grande through New Mexico around Sedona into the high desert east of Los Angeles up the Pacific cliffs down the Central Valley up again into Twin Peaks country and, next, into the heart of Big Sky Country.
That was the first lesson, learned too late: Pack light. It was only a matter of time before the most inessential items were weeded out and jettisoned: excess clothing, the 1-gallon whey protein powder, the filters, the ego. Soon, we were very, very streamlined. A great example of the pragmatism behind the Beans and Sardines Principle.1 That said, if there is the option, always get the All Star Special at Waffle House with your hash browns smothered, covered, diced, peppered, and capped. And eat it outside on the hood of your car, dripping cheesy syrup fat, because everyone else eats inside and that one big dude at the counter has a suspicious-sounding cough.
If you want to see America and aren’t near a Waffle House, just head on over to your local campground. Things really start getting interesting. You wouldn’t think it’d be hard to pitch your tent on some public land for twelve hours and beat it outta there in the morning, all while minding your own business and leaving not a trace… But, but, but!
The legal subtleties, the jurisdictional differences, the advanced booking windows, the fees, the permits, the passes, the COVID closures, in short, the Kafkaeseque -- it was almost too much for a gaggle of Beatnik millennials more concerned with a line from Basho than Pfeiffer State Park signage. Yes, that’s right, in Big Sur we took the advise of some hippies (pictured below), slipped past the signs, and traipsed down onto the cliffs above the crashing Pacific, yeah, yeah, yeah. The State Park Peace Officer came down on his regular rounds, found us there in the midst of meaning, and yanked us back out, shrieking of misdemeanors and citations. And then there were all the state and national parks (from New Mexico, west) closed for camping because, Lord knows, that’s where the curve is really getting exponential. And the local yokel Mississippi vigilante who objected to the 10 mph top speed of our dreadmobile in her campground and pulled up in full camo to intimate that we with the puffy vests were, in fact, not welcome. That said, when you can finagle, worm, and wriggle your way into some kind of amenable campground situation, it’s all more than worth it.
At one dispersed campground outside of Sedona, we ran into a group of houseless men who were making the most of the Bureau of Land Management’s 14-day stay limit, bumping around from one national forest to the next. One of them came over to our fire with his dog when night fell, two long shapes under his arms. When he entered the ring of light, we saw that these were not, indeed, rifles or clubs but big pieces of firewood, which he proceeded to gift us. He introduced himself, he hung around chatting, we offered him some sustenance. He showed us the scars on his forearm. He’d been ten years on heroin. He’d come to Jesus and decided life was about giving to others. He gave us a ring he’d welded and a patch from the movie Cars. He left, but more men from his campground, whose fire was visible across the open space a quarter mile away, trickled over throughout the night, as word spread of the generous newbies. Everyone was great. They brought firewood, guitars, songs, and stories. The only thing missing was a sense of total security, but security’s overrated. You just got to know what you’re doing.
That’s what I thought to myself some time later at Carpinteria State Beach as a car pulled into the adjacent campsite, past dark, blasting music, and two raucous voices made themselves heard in the peaceful, nighttime air. You gotta know what you’re doing, I thought, satisfied with my tent setup, my solar-powered lamp, my Upanishads. What idiots.
I got out of my tent to go pee and was hailed by a heavy accent: “Come, my friend!” I walked over and a man greeted me with a full-on, germ-laden dap, the likes of which I’d not experienced with a total stranger since B.C. (before COVID). Well, that was that. Soon I was over at their fire, sharing drinks and food. They were both from Mongolia. It was better here, they said. John, the man who’d dapped me up, was incredibly talkative and couldn’t speak English beyond a few key words and phrases, mostly: Very nice, My friend, Beautiful, God, Yes. He had a large abstract tattoo across his left shoulder and dreamed of starting a Mongolian food franchise (he’d been a chef back home). Tim, younger, though also in his thirties, lived in Las Vegas and was getting an online degree in software engineering from Arizona State while working at a sushi restaurant/club and driving food delivery. John drove food delivery full-time in Santa Barbara.
We proceeded to spend three days together at the campground, on and off. The communication was rarely verbal, more in the realm of body language, eye contact, and laughter. By day we loafed by the beach, and we made fires by night, them roasting various meats above the flames, me dredging up vegetables from my cooler. What God? John would ask, standing over the fire. Then he’d spread his arms wide and look to the stars. I’d give him a knowing look, and we’d have a nice chuckle. If we tried shuttling anything more complicated across the void, things got lost in translation, and mine and Tim’s joke became: Let it go, let it go. Just let it go.
I thought my stay in Carpinteria was going to end on a sour note when I came down from the beach on my last afternoon to find a new RV parked by my campsite. It had metallic lightning bolts all over it with “Sandstorm” or something in a huge, agro font. A man emerged from Sandstorm and told me I was in his tent spot. Um? I stalled. Yeah, you’ve got to move. Could he take that one? I asked, pointing to a free campsite twenty yards away. (The campground was nearly empty.) Nope, he said, had to be this one. So I moved all my gear, all my tech, in a brief contraction, and resettled on the other side of John and Tim. I was stewing, but decided to take my own advice and let it go.
Later that night the man who’d evicted me came over to our campfire, bringing firewood. Here you guys go, he said. Of course, John went up to him and, while the man protested about COVID, proceeded to give him a bear hug; a few minutes later, he’d pulled up a log and popped a squat, saying he had beer, did we want some? His name was Gus, he was a retired fireman. What is life? John asked him. John liked the big questions. It was also all he could express with his limited English.2 Life is very simple, Gus replied, there’s karma, and you gotta be nice to people. I loled. On the inside. He was nice to bring us firewood, though.
You never know who your neighbor might be. Later that night Gus’ cousin came over. He told us that Gus was the head of the union of California firefighters. Huh. Busy job. He hadn’t told us that, just that he was a retired firefighter. Yeah, his cousin said, he doesn’t like to talk about it. I guess with his RV, his family, and his attitude, Gus was out on the road, camping, looking for something too. We hope he finds it.
I.e., asceticism. For more, see Floyd, Esq. and Dr. Medical’s papyrus scroll.
“The more limited [your] knowledge, the more extensive [your] dictionary.” Rousseau, Discourse on Origins of Inequality, etc, etc, blah, blah, blah.
Hi Dylan! Love to read your words! Best to you amigo!
Exc! Loved the legal subtleties, John’s BIG questions, and the Peace Officer busting you in the midst of meaning;) Keep ‘Em coming! 🙌🏽