Up Mt. Washington

Boston, Massachusetts, USA

July 29, 2007



"Yes, Blake was right: Discretion was nothing but a "rich, ugly old maid wooed by incapacity." How much more entertaining it was to woo Folly."

-Richard Halliburton, The Royal Road to Romance

This is the ridge that we walked to get to Mt. Washington. Why climb only one peak when you can climb five?

After a long week of working out in the hot sun with a boss complaining about how bad I smell, Steve and I were not looking forward to a weekend of sitting around a crowded summer-time campsite in Eastern Massachusetts. So we jumped into his 1987 beater van and drove the Interstate 93 up to New Hampshire for a weekend of climbing. Mt. Washington, the highest peak in the Northeastern USA, was our beacon. We left after work on Friday and drove into the village of Twin Mountains just as night was falling. A conspicuous campground was located right in the middle of town, and as we were not in a mood for searching around in the wilderness for another place to camp in praise of frugality, we paid the exurbanite twenty four dollars for a site. After quickly assembling our tents and "making camp" we went out for a little walk about town to stretch our legs.

Sign that warns of impending dangers on the summit.


The only place that was open at the late hour of 9PM was a local dive bar that looked as if it could be a place of unwanted excitement. As I have written previously, I do not really like bars in the United States; they tend make me feel a little caged and, in general, antsy. But on this night there was no place else to go, so we went in for a couple of beers. We gave the doorman our IDs, and after he finished checking our ages he rolled mine up like a tube and held it out in front of me. With a big smile on his face he queried, "Do you know what is good about these?" As I did not, he promptly answered for me, "They make good straws." He then dove into a pit of laughter and acted as if we were part of the same "club." I did not want to disappoint him by saying that I do not snort cocaine, so I just gave him a weak smile and walked past towards the bar. The night at the bar was a little uneventful; just locals singing karaoke. A man in a Romones t-shirt sang a Hank Williams song and then came up to the bar and sat next to me. He complimented me on my tattoos and I complimented him on his good taste in music. He then went into an unsaturated tale of woe that proved to be the barman's usual story from any country- divorce, a little girl, away from home. But he did have an interesting yarn outside of this brief run through of his disappointment. He was from Boston and said that he use to play drums with the bands Gang Green, Slapshot, and the Mighty Mighty Bosstones before they went famous. I again initially took this to be more barman's tales, but there was something convincing in the way he spoke; he did not seem to be looking for empathy or respect. He was just telling what he thought was a funny story. "I was the Bosstones drummer when I was fifteen years old but my parents made me quit because I was doing bad in school. Now look at them! Look where going to school has gotten me!" Was this a barman's tale? I'll never know. If a story is told well enough for me to consider its veracity, I usually choose to believe it on principle. I love stories so why would I slay one because I can not verify it. Who cares? The world cannot be verified.

An awesome trail through the pine forests.

After our second beer we felt that our time in the local dive was up, neither Steve nor I are big drinkers, so with a goodbye to the bartender we quickly exited and began walking back to our campsite. We soon noticed the large array of funny looking ply board moose lawn orniments that lined the road. One was even painted up as a football playing moose. So figuring that they would make an adequate cover for me to urinate behind, I ran over to one and let go. Steve laughed a little at my choice of toilet and kept walking on towards camp. Once finished I ran up to re-join him and began making jokes about how there were not any cops in that little no horse town. But as soon as the words were out of my mouth I looked up to find a couple of state troopers sitting placidly in their idling police vehicle looking right back at me. How was I to explain this? "Well, officer, I though that the football playing moose was a public urinal." No, this probably would not work so well. So as we walked past them sitting on the side of the road in a parking lot, I laughed a little nervous giggle and Steve said something to the effect of, "Law enforcement makes me . . . scared." The troopers let us walk a little ways form them, and just when we thought that we were in the clear they began creeping up behind us. Show time. They pulled up next to us, flipped on their lights, and rolled down the window. We stopped walking and stood at attention. "What were you doing running from that yard down there?" Figuring that the truth was not really any good and that the New Hampshire law would not take to kindly to an outsider peeing on one of their ply board mooses, I explained that I was "just playing around," and laughed as if I were embarrassed, as an attempt to make a ridiculous explanation slightly more convincing. "What do you mean by 'playing around,' the officer inquired further.

"I mean I was just joking with my friend and running around a little," I replied with seeming innocence.

"So what did you do on the lawn," scorned the officer.

"Oh nothing," I began, and then added, "well, I did tie my shoe," before I could think better of it. Steve could barely restrain his laughter at such a moronic line. At this the police promptly exited their vehicle and walked over to us. They asked us for our IDs and then interrogated us with a few questions to attempt to determine if we were scum bags or simply morons. At this point I began to assume that the officers did not directly observe me urinating on the moose- I suppose it really did serve as adequate cover- and solely utilized my running to catch up with my friend as probably cause to question us (the real reason was probably that they were growing weary of sitting in a dark car with each other all night long doing nothing). They then tried to catch us up in police school question traps, in which a leading question is asked that is know to be false in an attempt to catch a suspect in a lie- which would create enough suspicion to arrest them.

"You guys weren't drinking tonight, were you," the officer asked, knowing fully that there was not anything else that we could be doing in that roadside town at that hour.

"Yes, we had a couple beers at the bar down the road," we both said in unison. The officer just nodded his head at our honest escape from his trickery. We all then just stood on the sidewalk making small talk about how we were planning on climbing up Mt. Washington while our IDs were being checked. When it was confirmed that neither of us had any warrants for our arrest the police bade us goodbye and drove off into the night. We laughed at the silliness of the encounter, and determined that I had better not pee on any more mooses for the rest of our trip.

Lake near the apex of Mt. Washington.

The next morning we woke early to begin our ascent of Mt.Washington, which is reputed to have the worst weather in the world. This is attested to by the fact that its summit was the site of the highest wind ever recorded- 230 miles per hour. We were excited. So we choose a trail that went over the ridge and that lead up to the highest summit in this part of the country. This trail lead to the tops of five peaks, so figuring that five summits are better than one we chose this longer route. It was worth it. The hike was full of beauty and the alpine scree was other worldly. Alpine areas look the same on every continent. Once you get up over a certain elevation latitude and longitude no longer hold much sway- high elevations are the third dimension of the earth. To travel in the mountains is to experience a complete view of the world. There is nothing that I love to do more.

After eight miles and a little over four hours of serious hiking- we were trying to outrun a storm that was brewing on nearly every horizon- we summited Mt.Washington to be blown about in an awesome force of wind. I stood on the edge of the peak with my arms outstretched and greeted the current blowing through me with maniacal laughter. To feel the force of nature so keenly is to become a bit undone. It was awesome.

We then walked back down from the summit completely spent from the hike up (what, you mean we have to climb back down the mountain too?) and debated as to what would be the quickest route of descent. We stopped in at the hiker's hut at the base of the summit to ask them what they thought. A jolly, bearded man kindly greeted us at the door and told us of our descent options which all sounded unappealing in our state of total weariness. So we asked how much it would cost to sleep in the hut- which was actually a very well maintained and provisioned little hostel. The man told us that it would be $90 a night! We did not have that nearly that much money. Observing our disappointment and perhaps feeling a little bad for us he added that we could sleep in the "dungeon" for eight dollars a piece. We brightened up at this and accepted. We were also told that we could eat the leftovers from dinner for five dollars- things could not seem to be better. So I walked around for a few hours in the beauty of the alpine terrain; napping by the little crystalline lakes, and running my hands over the delicate moss. It was an idyllic place; the perfect antidote to two weeks of working in the hot sun and Boston. I felt refreshed, and the web of needless complications that I wove for myself down below faded away.

But around dinner time Steve and I met up and went back into the hut for dinner. It was full of around fifty loud people who were also staying the night. They seemed to be on a different beat than us and we began to feel a little uncomfortable. Steve's social anxiety began kicking in and he kept going into the bathroom to get away from everybody. The hostel staff also went through little routine skits to the amusement of the eating hoardes who were "eating it up." It got to the point that Steve could not wait for his leftovers any longer, and he began hinting that he wanted to get out of there. It was now quarter after seven and dusk was already beginning to set upon the mountain. The night would be cold, the way down treacherous in the dark, and we had no clue how to get back to the van once we descended. It sounded completely ridiculous- we had a cheap bed and a warm meal coming to us. But there was an odd touch of appeal found in running down a mountain upon which "many have died" in the first breaths of night. As I pondered it Discretion quickly gave way to Folly and I wooped a decisive, "Lets go!" We then quickly snatched up our bags out of the "dungeon," which was seriously a dungeon, and began running down a ravine that went right to the base of the mountain. We made off at great speed, leaping form boulder to boulder, occasionally sliding down the watery corridor- ever knowing that one mis-step meant potential disaster. We were now not only racing the storm that had been brewing all day but also nightfall, and we could not have been more please.

"Adventure only happens when things go wrong," I once read in a book. There is truth to that; and in an age where it is ordinary for societies to attempt to calculate every minute detail to ward of "things going wrong" adventure has become a little more difficult to find. The world is amazing, vast, and abundant, but I feel that we have come upon a time where our base need for real excitement has been dulled a little by cellphones, good roads, and GPS. In these times I feel that engaging in the occasional stupid act- like quickly descending a rocky mountain ravine at dusk before an impending storm- becomes a necessity. Perhaps humans are not mearly content with living, perhaps we have to go to great lenghts to make ourselves feel alive. This, I feel, is one of the great affairs of travel.

We made it down the ravine without incident, and at the bottom found ourselves alone on an empty road in the middle of the forest. Darkness soon set in and we did not really know where we were going. So we walked, and walked, laughed at our stupidity, and walked some more. The road was empty, dark, and dense forest stretched out from both of its flanks. It then began to rain in torrents. I began to think that it would be nice to be rescued. As if portended, a lone vehicle emerged from the darkness behind us. We stuck out our thumbs in excitement. A spotlight was shown upon us and the lights of a police vehicle suddenly blazed in the night. This was perhaps the first time that I felt relieved to be caught within the span of police lights. A window was rolled down and we told our story. Our IDs were run for the second time in as many days and we were rescued.

This incident has made me re-think hypothermia. Perhaps it would be prudent to tramp on with a good set of rain gear?

Boston, China Town, and the Columbian

Boston, MA, USA
July 22, 2007

"A vagabond life is the logical life to lead if one seeks the intimate knowledge of the world we were seeking."
-Richard Halliburton, The Royal Road to Romance

Entrance gate to Boston's China Town.China Town street scene.

So I hoped the train to take me to downtown Boston on Friday, and in a half hour stepped out into the city with no plan but to go to China Town and see what happens. Being around all the Chinos again got my heart pumping with excitement- I have a bit of a love affair for China- and I walked the streets with a big smile on my face. I was in search of a cheap place to stay. But even though I can read the Chinese signs and communicate with Mandarin speakers my attempt was in vain.

"China Towns are not created to keep the Chinese in, but rather to keep everybody else out," I read once somewhere, and I found that this is the truth. My English language (most people in North American China Towns speak English fairly well) questions of where one could find a bed were met with rudeness, my Mandarin attempts were usually answer with a slight smile and an explanation that they did not speak that dialect. As my Chinese was next to useless (most overseas Chinese communities speak Canto or Hakka) and my English was met with scorn, on top of the fact that I could not locate a hotel by reading the signs anyway, I concluded my search and gave up my romantic notion of staying the weekend in China Town.

So I was off to find a bed elsewhere. I stepped into the Boston Backpacker's youth hostel all the way across the city, and they gave me the best rate in town- which was far more than I have ever spent on a bed before. But alas, I was getting paid a big per-diem from the Archaeology project that I am working so I had no real reason not to sleep inside and upon a real bed. The hostel proved to be alright except for the fact that I got the impression that the guys running it would short change a pauper. But what could be expected? It was the cheapest bed in the city.

So I crashed at the hostel for a couple of nights reading books and watching the bands that were playing in the bar below. I think that bars are adequately named as, on those rioting free wine nights, they oftentimes feel like cages. I like my wine on the run- drinking with the moon and the stars, "with the sky as my only witness," thus spake Kerouac. But on such nights as those I spent at the hostel I was of a bit more mellower disposition, and a beer and a conversation I did not scorn.

This was where I met the Colombian. I had previously met him in passing earlier in the day as he was sleeping in the buck directly above me. We had the preliminary exchange of traveller dialogue: "Where are you from?" "Oh, where are you from?" "Where are you going?" "Oh, where are you going?" and so on into dead-end infinitum. In fear that I might have to keep this head beating charade up for the remainder of my beer I asked him a question that I was sure would take a while for him to answer: How did FARC become so powerful? He then lapsed into two hundred years of Colombian history and I was out Scot free of having to keep on coming up with empty questions to keep asking him for the sake of conversation. But he did say one thing that I liked. After going on and on about the problems of his country, about the conservative government, FARC, the paramilitaries who were suppose to have defended the people from FARC but became just as bad, he said, "but I live in Paradise." And he meant it. "In Columbia I choose my weather. If I grow tired of being cold in the mountains I drive down to the coast and sit on the beach." He smiled widely at this, seemingly proud that in a country so volatile he had complete control over something that few people of the world can boast of- he could choose his weather. I returned his smile.

Boston is a great city for walking. In my three days there that is all that I did- I walked from one end of the city to the other and back again. I can think of few things that I would rather be doing than this. In the course of my walks I stumbled into a vintage book store just before they closed. I walked through the scrambled shelves, turned around the corner of one, and nearly ran smack into a BARGAIN rack! Five dollars for each book, which is not so bad in the USA. I look upon the shelves and nearly as soon did Richard Halliburton's name pop up on the spine of a yellow book. I scooped it up and gave it a little hug. The Royal Road to Romance would be my new companion. I also found a little, very old hardcover called Tales of a Traveler that I cradled in my arms with near equal enthusiasm. Then as I was about ready to split with my spoils I noticed book called, Travels and Adventures in Many Lands by W. Lavallin Puxley, and figured that it was worth taking out of the shelf. As I did so an original black and white photograph fell out of it. I picked it up and and inspected it to find that it was of the author. On the back of it was written, "Miss Puxley aged 90 and three months, June 1957." I studied the book a little closer and I found that it was also signed by the author as well. Treasure! Then when I got the book back to my room I noticed that in the black and white photo the author is holing a copy of the book- a very good chance that it is the same book that I was holding! Treasure I tell you!

I did find a nice little restaurant in China Town, and most of my ideas happen to be born while eating rice. I have a funny little notion, it even makes me laugh.

The Ice King of Boston

Boston, MA, USA

July 22, 2007



"The romantic - that was what I wanted. I hungered for the romance of the sea, and foreign ports, and foreign smiles. I wanted to follow the prow of a ship, any ship, and sail away, perhaps to China, perhaps to Spain, perhaps to the South Sea Isles, there to do nothing all day but lie on a surf-swept beach and fling monkeys at the coconuts."

-Richard Haliburton, The Royal Road to Romance



After a week of clearing the vegetation out of fields the rest of the crew arrived and we finally broke ground on the Archaeology sites. Worked all day digging- just as I remember it. I swore that I was going to find a new way to work up my bean money last year, but I have been sucked back into this line of work, and it is too easy to just stay in it. It suites my lifestyle, I must say. I seem to be able to stomach no more than three months of work in any given year. Archaeology is project work: I sign on to a job and only work until its end, which is usually no more than a month or two. Then I am free to go wherever I choose to ramble. It is also road work, so I can hobo it around the USA (or other country for that matter) and weigh down my pockets all the while. Yet far I have worked on Archaeology projects in at least 15 US states and also in South America.



The job that I am on now is just to the North of Boston and is primarily focused on Pre-historic Native American sites



One of the kids that I am working with wears a kilt. But this is no ordinary kilt, it is a WORKING KILT. That is right, it is made for doing hard manual labor in. It has big pockets in it an all. I am envious of this attire. Though I am skeptical of how practical it is whilst working in the thick briars and poison ivy. Oh well, he looks cool.



Archaeologist tend to be their own breed. I mean this, but can not seem to put my finger on it. Most of us study anthropology in university, and what better line of study for a mis-anthrope than that of culture? Perhaps we are just trying to figure out the reasons why we seem to be unable to fit into any social pattern- I do. Anyone who spends over two seasons in the field tends to share this affliction. This is my seventh field season, and I think that I fit into my profession rather inconspicuously.




The above two photographs are from a culver that was once used by the Ice King of Boston to transport water to make ice. I am told that the tunnel that was boared through the bottom of it (shown in bottom photo) was an engineering marvel of its time.



Fredrick Tudor was a Bostonian dreamer who dropped out of school at the age of thirteen with the absolute assurance that he would make it big in business. While hanging out in the West Indies he pondered up the idea that he would make his money by shipping ice taken from the frozen winter lakes and ponds of New England and ship it to the Caribbean, where it would be viewed as a delicacy and, ideally, net a big profit. At this time, in the first half of the 19th century, there were not any refrigeration methods to keep the ice from melting during the long, hot ship journey down to the Caribbean, so people thought that he his idea was ludicrous. It was. His first load that he shipped melted on a Caribean dock because nobody knew what to do with it....or, possibly, what it even was. He failed at his attempt for twenty years! For twenty years he kept at it- designing new packing strategies, better shipping procedures, quicker handling methods- losing money the whole time. But he knew that he could do it, he knew that it was possible. Eventually he was put into debtors prison. Upon getting out he jumped right back into coming up with new means to get ice intact down to the tropics. After a while of borrowing even more money to make this dream a possibility he was again put into debtors prison for a second time. Upon his release he began shipping ice again! He knew that this was possible, and eventually he made it so. After twenty years of failing he struck upon a shipping method that worked- whereupon he became rich, and thus ice became available in the tropics for the first time since the ice age. What resolve, what absolute resolve!

I love crazy little tales.




Steve plays the guitar but does not know any songs. "Improvising is my favorite thing to do." I believe him, as it seems as if he improvises our way home from work each evening when he drives us in the wrong direction repeatedly. Just shaking things up, I am sure.

The Way to Boston

Boston, MA, USA
July 15, 2007


"How did I put myself here?" I asked myself after six hours of clearing briers and cutting down trees with only a machete in the hot summer sun. I had enough money in Asia to last me another eight months without work....a month later, I find myself in the USA with scarcely a dollar in my pocket toiling up a living by removing entire fields of vegetation by hand. What happened to put me in here? A month ago I was in the sun loafing, now I am in the sun grunting and sweating.

I often wonder about how quickly things happen. It is as if I need little explosions every few months which result in me immediately stopping anything that I may be involved in just to do the exact opposite. People always tell me that I do everything the hard way, and I am now beginning to think that they are correct. I don't know what makes me change everything so quickly.....but I think that I like it.

The Archaeology site is just getting underway, myself and a kid named Steve, and a couple of old salts began setting everything up. The rest of the crew should be arriving at the end of this week to begin excavating.

My Chinese sister, Meili; my parents picked her up straight out of China and took her home with them.
Amtrak train. I do not yet know how I really feel about the US rail service. If it was not in comparison to Greyhound's bus service I do not think that I would be too impressed...it is far too expensive and precarious. I just wish that more emphasis could be place on train transport in the USA. It is a country for trains- it is huge, geographically diverse, and needs fast methods of coast to coast travel. Other large countries, like China and India, have utalized the train to their advantage far beyond that of the USA.

I rode the Amtrak out of Rochester yesterday with my family waving farewell to me by the tracks. My train was already two hours late when it picked me up, but I did not mind- it just gave me more time to play around with the new little kids in my family (my sister's son and my parents' adopted Chinese daughter). I am usually far too busy with my own affairs whenever I visit my family to fully devote myself to their everyday life. When I leave I realize that what I was busying myself with for the brief duration of my visits is not as important as being with my family. I always feel a little regretful when I wave to them as I leave. The wisdom of retrospect.

I was enjoying my ride on the train for the way through to Albany when all of a sudden we stop still on the tracks. We remained there for two hours- a tree fell on the tracks and the engineer did not have the huevos to just run it over ha ha. So we sat there while the passengers became irate. I did not really care, except for the fact that a co-worker was picking me up from the Poughkeepsie station to give me a ride the rest of the way to Boston. I had no way to contact him either, as I do not carry a phone. But we were stopped right next to the Hudson River and I must say that I did not mind just sitting there watching the birds flying and the kayaks roving. I laughed to myself that people in row boats were making more ground than me in a train, and then dug into a random section of A Vagabond Journey Around the World; a book that I am constantly reading.

The difference between Amtrak and Greyhound is vast. Amtrak is more costly but the employees don't treat you like dirt because you are using their "lower class" transport service. There is a better chance that an Amtrak train will be delayed, but you don't have to squirm away from beggars. But although the train is a much nicer ride all round, you do not have nearly as much cultural exposure as with Greyhound. If someone from another country was travelling around the US and really wanted to experience the depths of the culture, I would have to recommend the bus. As for me, I suppose I am ultimately impartial; if the train is not too much more expensive than the bus then I will take it- mostly because I really enjoy riding on trains.

I think the bus or train question is interesting for another reason. Buses enter places from the front door, while trains come in through the back. I may have had this pointed out to me from a Theroux book, but nonetheless it is true. Everything in the USA is oriented towards the highway, towards automobile transportation. Train tracks run behind cities and cross their depths- to travel by train is to get a glimpse of a place from the behind. I prefer this perspective.

I think when this job that I am on now is finished I will have enough bean money to float me to Turkey. I do not really know why I want to go to Turkey, I just do. That is as good of a reason as any, I think. I have never been in that part of the world before and I think that I really need a new horizon to venture towards.

Or maybe I want to go to Mauritania??? I have always wanted to go to Mauritania.

Travels of Old/ New Website

Upstate New York
July 24, 2007



"He who does not travel does not know the value of men."
-Moorish proverb



"Our nature lies in movement; complete calm is death."
-Pascal



"To live in one land, is captivitie, to runne all countries, a wild roguery."
-Donne' third 'Elegie



The "Cancion del Vagabundo" website is now up. It can be visited at: http://canciondelvagabundo.googlepages.com/ I do not now know the specifics of web site construction, as this is my first site, so I figured that everything would be a little easier if I used the Google format that I have become familiar with through making this travelogue. Maybe when I become a little more familiar with making websites I will move everything over to a respectable .com domain. It is not the most spectacular looking site but I do believe that it is straight forward and easy to figure out. The focus of the site is on travelling (of course), my own travels in particular, and the philosophy behind the wandering life. I am also constructing a "Friends of the Open Road" section which provides brief bios, interviews, and photographs of my friends and companeros who have made their livelihood in perpetual travel. In all, like my travelogue, this website is an exercises for me to better consolidate my thoughts and writings, as well as communicate with my friends, family, and anyone else who may be interested in the travelling life. There is currently not much on the site, but I am going to try to add more to it in bits as pieces as I move along.



I leave to go and work on an Archaeology site near Boston tomorrow. I am going to ride the Amtrak to Poughkeepsie and then meet up with a co-worker and go the rest of the way in his van. I do not know the specifics of the job yet, but I will post photos and descriptions of the site here. I should also be out camping for the entirety of the project; so I may not be able to post writings as often as I would like to.


The below excerpts are from my notebooks from past travels:



The dry track to nowhere. Atacama Desert, Chile 2002.

La Serena, Chile, August 31, 2002:

I spent yesterday in Valparaiso and left on a night bus. Couples kissing everywhere. I know how it feels to depart from someone who you love. It is the most unnatural feeling that I have ever experienced. It just feels wrong. . .

Caldera, Chile

September 6, 2002:

This is my fourth day here and I could possibly be here for a week more. I tried to leave a few days ago, unsuccessfully. I began walking north along the PanAmerican Highway to the next town. I walked and walked through the Atacama's heat. trucks are flying past me, My feet begin to blister from the desert's dryness. Hours go by. I figure that I am closer to the next town than Caldera, so I keep walking. After a break out in the dunes watching a desert fox I finally arrive. It is a company town with no amenities for the traveller. For one of the few times in my life I crave the comfort of a nice room with a nice bed upon which I can just lay down and do nothing. I am beat, but can do nothing but keep on. . .

"I am the wanderer of many years who cannot tell if ever he were king or if ever kingdoms were."

Santiago, Chile, September 22, 2002:

She provided me with a warning of doom that I am going to be hit in the head by a Molotov cocktail if I go to Buenos Aires. Lets see what happens. . .

Mendoza, Argentina, September 25, 2002:

I am going to be missing that $250 I lost in the park in Santiago. I knew that walking home to my hotel through that park at the middle of the night was a bad idea. My Chilean friend, JessieAnne, suggested that I go that way, and my pride was too much to seem afraid. I watched two guys down the road as they stumbled around in long stretching arches on and off of the sidewalk. I took them to be drunk university students. But they turned out to armed with a knife and ready to take my money. I walked past one of them and he asked, "tiene un cigerillo?," as he coolly lean up against a lamp post. I knew I was in trouble immediately, and tried to get away. He reached for me- I began running- the other guy appeared from the shadows and grabbed my shirt- I saw the long kitchen knife flicker in the streetlights- I knew that I was beat. The knife quickly found its way to my throat and I released my grip on my bag and dug out some money. They then began walking away into the night when it occured to me that they were making off with my notebook, which was inside my bag. A thought jumped through my head- getting stabbed or losing my notebook? I took my chances. "To loose a passport, fine, to loose a notebook, unthinkable," wrote Bruce Chatwin. I took off running after them yelling, "nessisito mi libro!, nessisito mi libro!" The two muggers stopped walking and slowly turned to stared at me in seeming bewilderment. I was able to get a good look at them for the first time. The one who asked for the cigarette was skinny and rather small; I could have taken him. The other was big and dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket; I had no shot. The garb of both men seemed new and clean and seemed to have cost at least a respectable amount of money. The muggers oddly did not look their part. They stood there staring at me completely puzzled. "Yo escribo, yo escribo," I stammered. " They then walked up to me with my bag in the big guys out stretched hand. He returned my bag and I removed my book and proclaimed that it was devoid of money. I shook it and loose pages feel out over the empty sidewalk. The two muggers then stooped down and collected the paper for me and gently placed them in my hand. We stood there under a street light, where only a moment before they had be in a headlock with a knife poised ready to cut my throat, and just look at each other for a moment silently. Then suddenly spooked by something that I did not notice, they ran off at full sped across the street that bordered the park and away into the night. I watched them go and just stood for a few moments in the brutal street laughing to myself alone. . .

Archaeology Site where I learned the trade, Salango, Ecuador 2000.

Quilatoa Crator, Ecuador 2001.

Japanese country side, from "hitching 88 temple pilgrimage" post, 2004.

I would love to carry on writing these old yarns but real, outside of the computer life has intervened. I am leaving tomorrow and I just heard my mother mentioning to my father the fact that I have not yet packed. She is right, as usual.

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Things are hard in the USA

Upstate NY, USA

July 11, 2007



"A man sets out to draw the world. As the years go by, he peoples a space with images of provinces, kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fishes, rooms, instruments, stars, horses, and individuals. A short time before he dies, he discovers that the patient labyrinth of lines traces the lineaments of his own face."

-Jorge Luis Borges





Getting ideas on the shore of Lake Ontario.

I do not understand how people can stand living in the USA full time. It is expensive, you need a motor vehicle to work in most places, and there are hassles on top of hassles at every turn. It is funny for me to realize how hard life is here. You must work your whole life away even to squeak by on the meekest existence. Things are much harder living here (or anywhere for that matter) than travelling in even the most difficult country. I think that sedentist are also always travelling; though they travel through the hoops of their own sedentation: car-insurance, bills, telephones, friend and family expectations, lovers, pets, work, rather than countries. Sometimes I think that I travel just to be away from all of this. I truly respect anyone who sticks this life out. It is far too easy to run away.

When on the road it is just me and maybe a travel companion every once in a while. I have nothing nor want anything. Life is simple. I can think and read and walk, and I am usually not impeded by anyone. I am as free as I can imagine freedom being. I cherish this feeling.

I leave for Boston on Sunday to begin my work for the season. I am back working the Archaeology for a company called Northern Ecological Associates. I swore that last season would be my last, as I did the year before. All Archaeologist do this every year......but the season comes and we all find ourselves out in the woods with a shovel in our hands.

Excavation unit at Driftstone in Pennsylvania.

I think that I am going to begin a website today. I will post the address on here as soon as it is up. I do not have much time, as I have to leave Upstate NY in a couple of days for the month long project. When I return, I will probably be very busy preparing to go to Turkey. I do not know what exactly draws me to Turkey, I know nothing of the country- except I sometimes find myself singing a song that goes "Its Istanbul not Constantinople. . . " Other than this I do not know why I am going there. I do not know why I go anywhere. I guess I go just to not be here.
. . just to not be anywhere. . . and yet, be everywhere at the same time.

Back in the USA

Upstate New York
July 10, 2007

". . . even a rolling stone requires an occasional handful of moss."
-Harry Franck, Working North from Patagonia


Alpacas in Bosque de Piedras, Peru, 2001.


As I ended up back in the USA I figure that I am afforded the opportunity to think through some of my previous travels and dig into the old notebooks to write a little of how I arrived at this point. I try to visit my family as often as geographic proximity allows, as we all get along well and we need a couple of weeks every once in a while to recharge the ol' family spirit- email and periodic Skype calls wear a little thin after a year or so of being On the Road. Coming back to where I grew up also gives me the chance to think through my travels a little; a time for reflection and rest. Life is about balance. Too much sitting still causes the joints to creak, too much going forward causes the joints to break. I have come to love these Western NY moments. But The Road calls all too soon, and I find myself with a pack on my back venturing off again. My biggest regret is how little time I am able to spend with my family.

The cobblestone streets of Madrid, 2003.

So for the next few days I will be writing up some stories and anecdotes from my old notebooks- to clean myself of them, so to speak. I am also trying to make a homepage but I have absolutely no idea how to do it. I have always had a slight adversion to computers and the modern world, and I never built up much beyond a basic reckoning of computer technology. I just want a regular .com or .org website, so if anyone who reads this could give me even the smallest notion of how to purchase and build one I would be much appreciative.

Coast of Patagonia. Puerto Natales, Chile, 2002.

Much has been spoken of reverse culture shock, and yes, I do believe it is a real jolt to view your own culture from a lens that has been shattered by travel. But I believe the biggest shock is realizing how much you have changed as a result of travelling and dealing with people who can not realize that such a transformation has occurred. To remove oneself from the grips of socialization, to act on ones own outside of the context of friends, family, and familiar social structure is to be open to this transformation...it is to be free. With only yourself to rely on without the structure of your native social codes and framework is to be without "place." It is to be yourself. I feel that this is the main reason why travelling for long periods in solitude is such a major part of the practice of monks of many religious traditions. But the problem comes when the traveller returns home and their family cannot understand this great change that has occurred and treats them as they always have. The traveller looks the same, the traveller sounds the same, but they are a completely different person. Travelling changes a person to the extent that they are no longer the same entity they were before journeying. To return home is to be a stranger.

"Travel does not merely broaden the mind. It makes the mind." -Bruce Chatwin, The Songlines

I have also observed this transformation process happening in reverse. Like when a person realizes how different their culture is from all others, and constructs a new found appreciation of their own culture- and reveals in the contrast, and defines themselves ever further by this contrast. People explore who they are through the lens of who they are not. I do not believe that Australians speak with as much slang in Australia as they do while travelling. I do not believe that Europeans are as boastful about being European in Europe. I do not believe that Canadians try to distinguish themselves from Americans in Canada as they do abroad (I still think that those maple leaf patches that are stuck all over wandering Canadians are unnecessary- really, it is not much of a hassle for people from the USA to travel. The people of the world outside of Europe are generally intelligent enough to distinguish an individual of a country from the actions of their government). I find that I do this a little too. I am never more fond of Americans or of being American than while On The Road. I sometimes even find myself drawling my speech a little to sound a little more like a backcountry "American." I laugh when I catch myself doing this and then I do it some more. Nationality becomes an identity only in the context of foreign nations. It seems as if humans have a driving tendency to seek definitions.

Tibetan monastery in Yunnan province, 2005.

Best friend Erik on Volcan Villarica, Chile, 2002.

Andes Mountains, Ecuador, 2000.

Stubbs overlooking the Ganges on the Ghats of Varanasi, India, 2005.

Streets of Calcutta, 2005.

Pilgrim coming out of a temple along the 88 temple pilgrimage in Shikoku, Japan, 2004.

Thailand

"What I'd really like would be to have a couple of horses in one of the villages along the desert. And some girl who would be willing to ride...you know, she'd have her mustang, I'd have mine."
-from "The Drifters"

I arrive in Thailand with a heavy head. In a spurred moment I sent off an application to a forestry school in the Adirondacks, and was accepted with an offer of a big scholarship. Mira, my lady who at this point was back in the USA, was offered the same deal. Neither of us were really inclined to accept the offer, but a lingering thought keep nagging us. Perhaps we should check it out? What would be the harm? Mira was back in the USA with no prospect of really meeting me back in Asia as we planned, I was beginning to miss her, and my money was running low and I needed to find work somewhere anyway. I was planning on working on some archaeology sites if France for the summer to make up the bean money to set myself afloat again. But I suppose it does not really matter where in the world I am at this point. Roving around the USA from site to site again this summer did not appeal to me in the least, but I would have the opportunity to visit my family, which is something that I did not think would happen this year. I was also growing extremely weary of talking to Mira on sparse, expensive phone calls trying to arrange where and how she was going to meet me again. In a moment of annoyance I bought a ticket to New York.

I have now been visiting my family for the past couple of weeks and am fully ready to be back out on the road again. A couple months of hobo work and I should be off to Turkey. There is no way that I am going to Forestry school. My Wanderlust has been set in too deep to stay put for the next two or three years. It was a nice sounding idea when I was in the Khao San gutter of Bangkok though. But now that I am back in Upstate NY the romance of fresh air and mountains and rivers without end has given way to the callings of the Open Road. This unexpected return to my homeland may not be without benefit though. Mira, who has previously studied film, and I have began putting together the initial rudiments towards making a little documentary. In the States we have access to research and equipment outlets that we would not have had in Asia. So here I am, just sitting around reading old travel notebooks and looking through piles of photographs...just waiting for a Beacon to lay out a direction to tramp in.

In Thailand I kept a pretty low profile. I went to bed early (usually just to be woken up by drunks screwing in surrounding rooms), and worked out in a Muay Thai gym. Khao San seemed to have been gentrified a little bit since the last time I was there in 2005, but I could still find a cheap room and food. Other than this, I just enjoyed making jokes to taxi drivers and eating in the same restaurant three times a day.

Now I am just digging into my library of books that are strewn about my old bedroom and shooting my firearms in the surrounding fields....and loving on the fresh air and trees, lakes and rivers that I grew up with.

On Leaving Another Country

Halong Bay.

It is said that travelling is hard. If that is so then traveling with other people is even harder. In travel, everything about a person seems to come out of their deep recesses and flows up to the surface. Therefore, you must really love your travel companion. I have always found it extremely difficult to travel with other people. I know that I am mainly the problem. I have an undilutable idea of travel that is very difficult for me to alter to accommodate another person who does not approach travel in a similar way. After eight years of near continuous roving I also know that I am set in my ways. I do not know if I am even able to to speak of my idea of travelling....it is almost impossible to put it into words. It is just an essence, a spark, a romance for the Open Road that makes up the bones and bearing of a traveller. Some people have it, others do not. I do not think that either way is any better than the other. But I think that I confuse my friends who try to travel with me who have lives exterior to travel. I think that I let them down a little. I have fun when I travel, but I do not travel for fun. I find that I do not really care very much about "seeing sights" or "doing" anything. I hate tours and I do not want to be shown anything. I want to find; I want to discover for myself- this is the great affair of the Wanderlust. As the old Zen adage goes, "what comes in through the front gate is not family treasure." I roam the planet just to walk, think, joke and be free. For me travel is a process. It no longer matters very much to me what country I am in or where I am going; the process is always the same. When friends meet up with me on the road I find this very hard to explain, so I do not often try. I just suck it up as much as I can and enjoy doing things that I normally would not do on my own, as I know that they will soon be going home and that I will ultimately look back on the times with fond memories.

A tourist travels to arrive. A traveller never arrives.

So I sucked it up and went on a little tour to Halong Bay with Dave. I managed to convince him to stop making schedules and writing down our itinerary on paper and to just take things as they come. It was an enjoyable time, I must say, but I know that I would have been far more content just walking out on my on around the coast. So I took the trip as novelty and talked it up a little with the other tourist on board. I had to bribe the boat captain to allow me to hold on to my own passport (which has been a constant point of conflict throughout my time in Vietnam). Everywhere you stay the night in the country the hotel/ tour proprietors want to confiscate your passport. They tell me that it is the law; I do not care if it is. A long time traveller in the jungles of Peru once explained to me the logic of keeping your passport close to the body, and I have always remembered his words of caution. I outrightly refused, much to the dismay of my travelling companion, to let anyone in Vietnam take my passport away from me, and this steadfastness put me in a constant state of conflict. So it soon became high time to get up and out to another country.

My thought is that if I am hassled in one country I can easily go to another. So that is what I did. There is 191 other countries in the world besides Vietnam and I know that in most of them I do not have to deal with the arbitrary hassle of fighting to keep in possession of my own passport. So I went straight back to Hanoi and booked a $65 flight to Bangkok.

Once in Thailand I felt a heavy weight released from me. The bus ticket vendors at the airport laughed at my jokes rather than giving me the scowl that I became accustomed to receiving in Vietnam. I thought that at this point of my travels I was far beyond "liking" or "disliking" a particular country; I thought that I was beyond inconsequential value judgments. But Vietnam proved me wrong- it is the only country in the world that I can say that I do not like being in. The runners are just as persistent as those of India, but there seems to be a manner of scorn in their propositions rather than the hidden joy that Indians seem to take from purposefully annoying a transient. I did not feel as I would like in Vietnam, although it is a beautiful country, so I moved on.

I also must say that I was beginning to think that my travels with my companion were going to soon come to an end and I wanted this end to be as quick and clear cut as possible. He is from NYC and has money, his parents were funding his travels, and our intentions were far different. He wanted to party and live it up. I cannot blame him, that is what people do in SE Asia. I do not degrade his intentions at all. But that is just not for me. I am a simple walker and I take what comes.

So on to Thailand I went.

Hanoi, Vietnam

"How can you be a beggar if you have extra money?"
-Santoka Taneda


I rode out of Nanning on a posh tourist bus that would ferry me across the border and right on to Hanoi. I had to scourge the town to find this ride for a decent prices. The cost of things are rarely fixed in the travel world and if a price sounds like it could be cheaper it probably can be. So not satisfied with paying 200 kuai (24 dollars) for a bus to Hanoi, I sniffed around and found the same bus for 130.

The ride down was full of the high rising mountains that adorn much of Guangxi Province and the walls of every Chinese restaurant outside of China. I thought about the border crossing and knew that I would have problems. I figured that immigration officials are just sitting in their little boxes all day long just waiting for someone to come along that they can find a reason to hassle. I have a long beard on my face; I am clean shaven in my passport photo- I am an immigration officials dream.

So I passed out of China with only a modest hassle. The exit formalities just got me laughed at. "You look different." " I know."

Vietnam was a different story. I handed my passport to the officer inside of the plexiglass box and he looked at it looked at me and, as has become custom, repeated this action around ten times. "Take a seat," he said. I did. What could they do to me? Well, probably about anything they wished. Riding a bus across a border does not even secure you the very mild security of a connection with an airline that has already approved your travel documents. I was in no-man's land at the mercy of the immigration officials. So I tucked my tattoos away the best I could, drank a little water, dug out my addition identification cards that I keep on me just for these situations, and kept eye contact with the officials to attempt to seem as benign as possible.

So I sat there for a good half hour just watching the bus loads of Vietnamese and Chinese file past me. No problems for them as the border officials barely even looked at them. I was just thinking about what I would do if I missed my onward bus to Hanoi when I was called back up to the window by one of the officers. I promptly handed him my small stack of various other identification cards and he vigilantly compared their photos with that of my passport. He seemingly could not figure it all out himself so he called over the guy next to him to assist him in the photographic comparison. "I just got old and grew a beard," I tell them, not really understanding what was so out of the ordinary.

Finally they seemed to grow board of looking at me and and the photographic representation of my ageing/ beard growing process and they let me pass into the Socialist republic of Vietnam. The feel that I would carry with me for the duration of my time in the country fell upon me as I walked from the border garrison to my bus. I was immediately standoffish towards the Vietnamese. I even yanked my arm back as a bus attendant grabbed for it to look at my tattoos. I felt an immediate resentment towards the Vietnamese that I could not then figure out, as I am generally pretty jovial towards most people that I meet on the road. They simply rubbed me the wrong way, and I felt this from my first step in the country to my last.

I arrived in Hanoi with and stepped off of the bus into a slew of motorcycles, mopeds, and taxis. A hotel runner attached herself to me and began talking her jazz. I wanted to look at a map and she promised me one so I humored her and pretended to be interested in what she was trying to sell. But, as I walked around to the bus' luggage compartment I saw my university chum, Dave, walking my way with a smile spread all the way across his face. He met me where I told him to and was on time. We both seemed a little surprised that we met up with each other again. I came down from Mongolia and he is a lunatic. I got the thought that travelling with him may not be so bad after all. So I quickly dispatched myself from the hotel runner and gave my ol' buddy a big hug. We then set off into the city.

After sitting at a little roadside beer stall and watched Dave drink down both his and my drinks we battled through the Hanoi traffic and made it to a cheap hotel.

I stayed in Hanoi for a couple of days realizing that my punk rock days provided me with a sound appreciation for madness- and the Hanoi streets are madness. Few traffic rules and streets packed with motorcycles made the city very unsuitable for the walker...but their was something about it that I liked. Or perhaps I was just glad to have left China.

Dave wanted to plan and prepare and set dates and do all of that stuff that the traveller is unaccustomed to doing and I was already beginning to wonder how much of this I could take. He wanted to go on a tour to some bay, I realized that I was going to have to compromise my travel style to acquiesce with my friend's. He was on vacation and wanted to live it up; I did not want to damper his time with my peculiar way of happenstancially stumbling about the globe. I do not like tours, schedules make me uneasy, I live moments not days, I walk, I travel to be free. But I had to swallow myself a little bit and compromise. I am not very good at this.