Day of firsts: a momentous occasion getting to use a “Touchless-Infrared-Push-Free-thing-of-the-future” drinking fountain that automatically spewed water; and got to handle the new canon 5d camera that shoots video and stills. Craig got a wonderful print at the benefit auction, and afterwards, I got a tour of the city.

Beautiful people (inside and out) getting married at sunset, in a thriving city, what more could you ask for; well, how about a real photo booth with wet chemicals (we got to see them tear it down at the end of the night), or maybe NPR correspondent, Susan Stamberg, officiating the wedding, or maybe having two hours before the groom started getting dressed to meander through the city, or maybe not worrying about missing “the shot” and being the second shooter and using only a 28mm and a 85mm 1.8 lenses, or maybe the night before during the rehearsal dinner stalking a rooster who hated my guts and by nights end getting to kiss him on the beak. Ahh Portland, Oregon, what a place.

$450 for new rubber, Lorenzo and Micah heading out for supper, a vegetable oil bus and an amazing couple moving to the woods in NY to live inside their bus and homeschool their kids (there’s a stove in there, furnace, beds, toy shelf…everything), and bicycle polo under a bridge.

An ewok forest lined with ferns and light, moss grows green like fluorescent scabs. Canon ball river rocks freckled like the moon, a fairytale stream, goliath in strength but to touch would wake beauty asleep. Face burnt red like the fresh picked plum squashed by pear while caught in a love triangle with apricot. Pine trees upright like crayons waiting to color the sky. Finally able to answer the nagging question, “where am I,” I am here.

Pine cone land mines threaten toes freshly dipped in a coat of cold. Trails written in floral scriptina font invite exploration on the sofa cushion wrapped in grass. Sawed off tree stumps, a frog’s paradise or a squatter’s dream. Blood spilt on wooden beak, dragon fly landing pad, ants drift like confetti, kayaks echo observations, home grown tomato gushes on teeth unbrushed. Camp fees paid, phone calls made, a whole day with only one thing to do – breathe.

Elevator music hums like bees, audible but location impercievable. Welcomed the short knap of aqua-marine carpet flooring stiff on asphalt floor, lit by an ivory lamp glowing with refuge. Forced to play game of cat and mouse with elevator bell, sitting up with each door opening. It’s warm here, no creatures, and there’s light. Five-o-clock wake up to Phyllis and her husband first in line for surgery at six. Forget the dream: no swimsuits, no floating bottles of beer, no boat driven by an old man maneuvering through flooded streets and building roofs, no girl with adventure braids. Just big ears pinned to salty hair, topped with bushy perms or derby hats. TV awakes; I feel violated. Why must we doctor coffee before drinking it. Sun peaks over mountain rises. No one in the crowded waiting room seems to notice the moment I’ve waited for all night. Volunteer walking on white panted stilts scrubbing holes into disinfectant wipes sees it like a cat waiting to pounce. Blinds close with a flip of a switch, “don’t want people to feel like pheasant cooking under the sun.” I don’t belong here in Surgical Waiting.

I’d give anything right now to be wrapped in a quilt, tucked into a nook, and able to feel my toes. I memorized every bump in the night this building makes: the slow drawl of wind whistling through the tooth-gapped boards, to the creature upstairs systematically leaving and coming with nuts, seeds, and berries for winter. I’m glad I never saw it, but the five hops from board to board and the trickling noise of what sounded like a copper penny bouncing off nails, will stay with me. So will the coyotes who got the little calf which the mother is till belloring for. Gloved fingers write, toes triple wrapped fight for friction, moist breath gives temporary relief to a red nose. Sun where are you, devour this fog and cold, melt the ice from the motorcycle seat.

Black rainbows of grime outlined in white sit at my finger tips. No deodorant for six days. My face does not look the same in the mirror, each whisker coated in a memory of beauty and newness. Face burnt by autumn wind and sleepless nights. The sky seems closer here but the moon and stars have been shy. I’m nearing the destination, a bit frightened this book flap will close. I wish you could have been on this adventure, felt the awe, rejuvenated by space, parched by moments.

Long ride through half the state of Idaho. Stopped near the Pickleville Playhouse and got a hearty ham sandwich at a gas station that is the luckiest lottery ticket seller in the state. Got stuck in a storm towards evening and couldn’t find shelter. Henry was the nearest city about 20 miles away on a little used byway. Had to dodge lightning, cow pies, and heffers before finally finding an abandoned school house, decrepit but sporting a good roof.

Up to Flaming Gorge and one of the scariest parts of the trip. Parked the bike on the shoulder to get a photo of the massive blue opal nestled in the red rock, and the bike started rolling down the hill while I’m standing behind it taking photos. A short break next to a stream turned into a wonderful campsite, vigorous climb at sunset, and refreshing morning soak in sun, water, and air. Called 911 for the first time ever when a vehicle ahead of me went off the road, plowed through a sign, and hit a tree.

Long day of driving trying to get out of Colorado. Almost got smoked by a truck as I was laying on the asphalt getting a timed photo set up when he came flying over the top of a hill. Stopped at a grocery store to get an apple, and in the checkout line in front of me was the police officer with the kitten on his shoulder buying kitty liter and cat food. Walked 10 minutes from an unused dirt road before pitching the tent on top of the world, where crickets tickle the underbelly of clouds, and mesas layered like uneven spice bottles in the kitchen. Silence.

Third day of riding brought me to Cheyenne Whyoming and the welcomed addition of a pair of Carhartt quit-lined pants (which stayed on for the next 14 days). Found shelter for the night and a sofa in a college dorm study area. Floor RA named Zane found me around 2:00am, began asking questions, and I ended up sleeping on a mattress.

First day of the motorcycle trip led me to the Calamus State Recreation area and a night sleeping outside in a cold, windy, foreign tent freshly bought off ebay. Second night was freezing; ended up asking a church if I could sleep on a pew. The youth minister took me in instead and offered a sofa at his home. That evening, played basketball with him and his friends then a match of frisbee golf in the morning.

“Banana Boat II” (aka “The Raft”) fulfilled its purpose. Thanks for the memories dear friend, and thank you to the crew (Heidi, Micah, and Erin) for building her, sailin her, lugging her down that ridiculous slope, taking photos, and pulling her back out.