Road Trip
A beautiful canopy of escape, the air is full of possibilities. Clean air, fresh waters, and the darkest greens. Hidden somewhere in these redwood archives lied truth; lied the secrets of centuries. Crunching needles and forest under every step was a veritable massage that tingled up my legs and through my back and spinal cord – tapping some primal urge to roam. No moment falls unnoticed here in nature’s crowning achievement. And I, being one traveler, set out to explore bravely this new world.
I knew where I was and where I wanted to go. I know, by now you’re wondering how I planned to return upstream after drifting down as far as could. But man and his universe is a one-way street: He knows not from whence he comes or where he goes. All we know is that it’s impossible to go anywhere and return untouched.
It’s the ultimate destination. Meandering my way under a canopy of storied trees, rushing over cascading waters – the blue arteries of mother earth – through unique territories of our vast continent, I thought, was the kind of adventure that Louis and Clark must have endured. Of course, I wasn’t planning on surveying the entire United States, I just wanted to crash her shores like the waves. For there, the skies would be bluer and the sunshine a little warmer and, somehow, I’d return to tell of it. Off I went in search of the unknown.
My inner tube was cheap to rent and, for certain, no stranger to these waters. So off we went. It wasn’t long before I had out-drifted the most spirited inner-tubers. Then, as the waters stilled, my sensitivity sharpened, the sounds of life whispered around me, as if I could hear her voice between heartbeats. I drifted in and out of the shadows. But now in virgin territory, this had become a maiden passage into the womb of humanity. There was no chance of aborting my mission now.
Determined, steady as she goes. I approximate my speed to be 3 miles per hour, which meant the five miles to the ocean would take one and two-thirds of an hour, about 100 minutes.
I’d bottom out where the river ran shallow – literally hit rock bottom – and have to walk part of the way to deeper waters to stay afloat. Flopping my inner tube back down, hopping aboard, I cannot know what lies ahead. Occasional directional changes as I inadvertently bounce off the river’s edge flings me spinning out of control; back out into the deepest parts of the river. Sometimes I would get tangled up in thirsty roots reaching out for a cool drink. This trip wasn’t going to be easy.
The waters are deeper and I’m imagining all kinds of things. What must it have been like for the early settlers? What was it like for the natives? Could I kick a bear’s ass if I really had to? How healthy the natives must have been with fish to eat and plenty of sunshine.
Nobody at the rental shack warned me about what was to come.
Stark naked river people lying on river rocks under the hot sun. And here I creep by at about three miles per hour. I mean honestly, I drive faster than that through the San Diego Zoo where speeds are reduced to ten miles an hour for safety reasons. That is unless the wildlife starts chasing you. But on this river, I wasn’t always in control of my destiny. So for the eternal minutes that passed like weeks I drifted along.
White Indians! I had never seen their kind before. Tanning themselves in Sequoia suns. I couldn’t tell if they were tonguing for flies and eating their own, but they looked normal enough. You know. But the river-people looked at me like I was crazy! They’re the ones runnin’ around the forest naked. They’re the ones sleeping on hot rocks. What balls? Unbelievable. I’m obviously floating to the ocean on holiday minding my own business. Sheesh. I could have done without the rude looks.
I wasn’t sure if they wanted to be seen or if this was restricted to other nudes or what. I felt like an idiot floating down the river with pants on. It didn’t fit. I was obviously in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was used to the no shirts, no shoes, no service way-of-life. These people were obviously morally free to try on other possibilities.
I was prepared to wave if I had to. But I got the feeling that they just wanted me to keep my pants on and stay cool if you know what I mean.
As it goes, I would not make it to the ocean. Fate had a different destination for my road trip that day.
Bam!
“What tha? Wha? Crap!” My rubber blew! Exploded on impact with a bush. My first thought of course was to eat the naked river people. No, seriously, I’m kidding. Ahg. Yuck. That’s immature.
My first thought was how much this damn inner tube ride was going to end up costing me and the second was how difficult was getting back to camp going to be. I had practically made it to the shore, meaning “almost” but not quite. I was far now. No trails to walk on. A somewhat shallow and rocky river, nudist colonies. No shoes. No shirt. This was my world. I recognized my plight par for the course.
I grabbed myself avast and drug my useless inner tube through poison ivy, thickets and sharp things. My feet were tender. No trail in sight. I thought oh great, I’m going to need the nudes and nothing to barter but my shorts and this useless, soggy clump of rubber. I have nothing to trade. What will I do? Will the naked river people try to eat me? Accept me into their land? I could jump up and down with flailing arms in an attempt to assert myself. But that might frighten them into over-reacting.
Anyway.
It was music to my ears. A car passes. A highway was near. I climbed my way threw the thick until I finally made it to the blazen asphalt. I’ll follow this road up stream and straight back to camp.
With my bare feet, flattened inner tube, no shirt, no shoes, and no service for miles, I walked the winding road alone. My feet hurt, the asphalt was hot, the rocks poked holes in my skin. I kept going.
At last, I started seeing people with clothes on. I had made it to a small outpost of sorts. Some kind of bong shop or sumthin’. And yet, I’m out in the middle of nowhere. What the hell kind of river is this I’m thinkin’. What a trip.
Should I ask the hippy chick for help?
Before I could say anything, “Wait!” she yells. Literally yells. Paralyzed by her outburst, what on this strange earth was happening to her I wondered.
She speaks, “you almost stepped on a cigarette butt.” And she flags me around like it were a freeway pile-up. My feet were bleeding, back was burning enough to wear the batteries out of a smoke detector, and I wanted to kill her. I think I just wasn’t feeling good.
My feet were a bloody pulp, I needed help yes, but saving the trees – whatever – and this three-day old cigarette butt were not on my nature-fearin’ agenda at that moment. I knew I wasn’t getting any other help from this ghost of sixties-past, so I drag my stupid inner tube on along. I think she cared more about the dead cigarette butt than me.
I made it all the way back to camp.
“Did you make it to the ocean” my sister asked.
No I had to admit, my journey towards happier shores ended in disappointment. My travels would take me through UV-tolerant tribes and through the lands of off-the-grid non-conformists, along lonely highways, under an ever-darkening sun. I return with a little more baggage than I set out with. At last, I have this to say. Our dreams, our lives are like a river. We may hit rock bottom at times, at others we swim in deep, cool waters, we may see things, strange things, and we’ll have to go much of it alone. And when we return from wherever we came from – when we return home – we’ll be weak, we’ll be weary, and we will have lived.
“oh,” she said.
