Roadtrip ’99 part 6: Halfway Point

Hotel painted in Mount Hood, Oregon

I am publishing the first draft of my world travels as I write it, starting as a solo road trip from Minnesota. It all begins here.

Leaving Holden Village and needing to find a place to stay was not so fun. I was feeling alone, missing community already, processing the wilderness and community over the last week. It was Sabbath again. I didn’t want to be traveling on Sabbath so I looked for a quick solution.

I found a campsite, some Mexican children were riding around on bikes, literally “riding around,” they were just circling in the gravel parking lot, stopping to talk to each other now and again. They followed me, pointed out the registration office. When I found out it was $20 to camp I decided to keep moving. One of the kids was really more of an older teenager. He rode a bike that looked too small for him but it had a leopard print banana seat and was all chromed out. He had me follow him to a cabin, asked inside, I assume he lived there, and then told me I could sleep on their covered porch for free. It was perfect.

Well, mostly perfect. The young man slept outside with me and snuggled up next to me while I wrapped myself tight in my sleeping bag. Although I had the fear that all guys are out to rape me I was actually ok with him sleeping next to me. It meant I wasn’t completely alone. Also, my virgin brain believed he couldn’t have sex with me as long as I was laying face down. So, by sleeping on my stomach I prevented unwelcome sex. Clever.

The next day I called home on the payphone. One of my travel assets was a long distance calling card my parents had gotten me for my trip. I didn’t have to pay for the phone calls home. There was only 2 rules for this trip, I had to call to check in every Friday and no picking up hitchhikers, and yes, I would have picked up hitchhikers if Dad hadn’t said I wasn’t allowed to. Good job, Dad. It’s like he knows me.

There was a couple that sat out on the porch of a cabin across from the payphones during my entire phone call. I could feel myself talking louder while I told my parents all the news and being low on money and food. I tried to curb my voice but it’s like it had a mind of it’s own and just projected while I told all the stories. I felt like I was manipulating eavesdroppers.

This is another reason I wanted to write my story, as a confession. I have a lot to confess. I was on my own with no repercussions. I could move from town to town, return home, and just tell the highlights with no record of events but mine. Who would know anything different? I hear often how brave and wild I am and I’ve come to believe a lot of that hype but really, I was highly aware of the advantage of being a single young female traveling. Sure, you are more defenseless and maybe look like an easy target - I don’t mind debunking that belief when someone tests me. But there’s this other relationship I would come across in my travels: Discovering people that wanted to assure my safety and well-being. I saw a New Yorker comic of “passive aggressive violence” and the caption is a man being robbed and the thief saying “Give me your wallet or I’ll abandon these box of kittens.” Except in my travels I made myself the box of kittens.

“Take care of me or I’m going to do something really crazy!” You know, like hitchhike, sleep at an abandoned dock, not eat for a few days. Try me. I had money, I had a way home. I was just trying to go as far as possible on a limited budget. The choices I made I did to myself and yet I would meet people that would offer their help or time, a ride, a meal, a place to sleep. Like crowd surfing, from one experience to the next. The guilt piled on. I did not deserve this help, I often did not earn this help. There are others out there that are truly suffering that need a hand more than I do. I was just working on a really big idea. It was something that amazed me every time I came across it in my travels and I sought it out, this help. It’s so humbling when you find a good person that cares for you out of nothing you did for them. I don’t know how I can return that kindness. I don’t know if singing it from the rooftops does it any justice. I had a fantasy of tracking down all those that had helped me and giving them a copy of my travel book so they could witness the impact they had on my life, another incentive for writing my story: I want to show people what is possible when we help each other out. I hope they know. I hope you know that your kindness can make a lasting difference in someone’s life. It really can.

Well, the overheard conversation worked. It turns out the heavyset woman on the porch was the caretaker of the camp. When I got off the phone she invited me to take a shower for no charge and gave me loads of leftover shampoos and soaps, products forgotten in the camp showers. It was a glorious shower. Holden Village was all eco-friendly, it was there that I learned to quit using paper towels for drying my hands, it was also there that the showers were low pressure, luke warm, and we were encouraged to keep them short.

Travel Playlist: Everclear

Side note about my travel music: I fantasized about going crazy so I would be delusional enough to wear prom dresses or olden costumes everywhere and not care what people thought. It’s too bad I thought I needed to be mentally ill in order not to care what people think. As an Art School alumni, I also thought I needed to be mentally ill in order to be a “real artist”. A real artist smokes too much, drinks too much, wears black turtlenecks and is a tormented soul. I, on the other hand, was doing illustrations of life in a cabin with 4 other girlfriends, a lifelong storybook project and I hate wearing black. I also usually avoid it in my art and I definitely didn’t brood enough. I thought life was pretty great. What I did have was Everclear’s CD “So Much for the Afterglow” memorized and would sing it all day long at work. My drive to work was long enough to listen to the first half on the way to work and the second half on the way home. Now it was on repeat almost daily during the hours on the road.

Yeah they said you called me maybe yesterday
I don’t even have the strength to pick up the phone
You wouldn’t even know me since you went away
The Prozac doesn’t do it for me anymore
Yeah you ought to take your medication every day
Be a good dog, live life in a wonderful way

Tell me why you want to be blind
I don’t want to be normal like you
I know now every day
I get closer to the place inside
Where I can be normal too

I heard those stupid people talk about you again
I just have to laugh to keep from hurting bad
Their simple minds just cannot seem to understand
You are neurotic and depressed
It doesn’t mean that you’re sad

You walk around oblivious to everything
You wear that party dress, black mascara
Like you’re queen for the day
I will never be normal like you
You walk around oblivious to everyone
I see you walking slow and simple underneath the big black sun

Tell me why you want to be blind
I don’t want to be normal like you
I know now every day
I get closer to the place inside
Where I can be complacent
I get closer to the place inside

Where I can be sedated
Yes I get closer to the place inside
Where I can be normal too, I can be normal too
I can be normal like you

It’s a lot of fun screaming out the tiny window of a VW Bug “I will never be normal like you!” After you’ve slept outside and aren’t sure where you’re headed.

Mt. Hood, Oregan

I had been to Mt. Hood with my family a year ago. So I was in familiar territory. We had gone to snowboard. Yeah, my brothers and I all took up snowboarding and learned the sport in flat Minnesota. One of the first adult things we siblings did together was plan out a family trip and make our case for this destination. It was for a yearly holy week that we keep. The purpose of Feast of Tabernacles is all about family and staying in a temporary dwelling to celebrate the coming kingdom, celebrate the harvest, being called by God, and to bond with family. I’ll get more into it later. “Temporary dwelling” is up to loose interpretation. In Church days that meant hotels. Anyways, that’s why we had a family trip to Mt. Hood for a week of skiing in October one year.

Now I was back in Mt. Hood. I slept completely undisturbed in a church yard then painted the church and left it as a thank you at their door, telling my story. I also had the memory of my family Feast time and it had me feeling like a rockstar once again. I was in territory I was vaguely familiar with, I felt connected to my family and it was a new feeling to be here on my own and independent. I saw how far I had come, literally. Mt. Hood is a 3 day train ride from Minnesota.

I was striding down the main street side walk with a bounce in my step, I was on top of the world as I scoped out my next place to paint. A man stopped me mid stride with a nod, “Hey,” he said. I beamed at him out of my happy world, “Those two guys totally turned around to check you out,” He said nodding behind me where I had passed a couple of other pedestrians. I hadn’t even realized I had walked by them. I guffawed, he smiled, and kept walking. That was all. Except Wow. That made my day, and as you can see, I never forgot that. In that moment I was so happy and so proud of myself for this journey I was on and I was feeling like the center of the universe and then this stranger just walked up to me and validated everything I was feeling. My hair was this bright blonde wild curly mess. I didn’t wear it down too often but this day I had it out in it’s fullness — results of a good shower and conditioner! It was my shining glory, a golden fuzzy halo, marching along with authority. I am the sunshine. I draw attention just by shining, I thought as I continued down the sidewalk.

I was ready to really commit to a painting. I pulled out a larger sheet of watercolor paper and painted for hours in front of this old hotel. I had an early start. People stopped and commented on my work, watched, and offered to buy it when it was done but they never came back.

The day was almost over but there was still time for one more smaller painting. I could sell 2 pieces in a day! I had to make money. I am the sun! So, I painted an ice cream shop but the owner wasn’t there and the person couldn’t authorize a sale. “How about $5 and a large ice cream cone?” I asked. They accepted the exchange and I got my 2 scoops to eat on my catwalk/sidewalk. It wasn’t the greatest outcome but I still had my best piece to sell at the hotel.

I walked into the Hotel to sell my watercolor and there, in the entrance was a giant very professional watercolor hanging at reception. The painting layout was almost from the same view point I had chosen. I only half heartedly tried to sell my piece. “I need gas,” I mumbled as my selling point. Bonus, I guess, I did get to speak to the owner but his hurried professionalism was intimidating. I felt like such a bumpkin with my misshapen watercolor paper. This was before the times when I would partition and measure to cut my giant sheets of paper down to an even size. At this time, I just folded and hacked my paper.

As I was accepting ice cream as my small success for the day, I arrived at my Bug to a parking ticket, even though I had moved my car a couple spaces down. I was done with Mt. Hood. I set out to find a campground in the area. It was $13 to camp I drove past a trail head that we had gone on a horseback ride. In the end I slept under a park sign “on some rocks” says my travel log but I don’t really remember that night, was it by a lake with a rocky shore? It was one of the few places that didn’t say there was no camping. I was greeted in the morning by a giant barn spider in the crook of the sign.

Sweet Home, Oregan

Sweet Home was my next destination. I had met this girl on one of my trips, I think it was the same train ride out to Mount Hood, the same train ride where I met the Amish that I had stopped to visit in Montana. She was another devout Christian. Her family lived the simple life, big garden, home schooled, all that. She wasn’t home when I arrived so I painted around town. Sweet Home did not live up to it’s name. People didn’t return a hello, I think I was even glared at. I was not ready for this reaction. I painted smaller paintings of businesses for $5. It did allow me the opportunity to sit in a little hair salon for awhile, listen to the dryers and gossip. It was nice to witness this part of town life. Still, not one sale. The hairdresser was saying she needed to save for a concert. I was being mighty stubborn about spending money. Gas was the #1 priority. Food was last and this is probably where my neglectful eating habits began. Needing nutrition was just a matter of will, right? People live on less, I could too. I was actually light headed as I wandered Sweet Home.

For my sleeping arrangement, I found some sort of school sports field with walking trails to “camp” in. What I did was find a pine tree with branches touching the ground and then crawled in under that with my sleeping bag. My sleeping bag was a perfect green camouflage. I went mostly undetected except for a man walking his small snitch of a dog that went ballistic when it found me. He didn’t understand what the dog was so frantic about until I poked my head out from under some pine branches. “Oh! Oh, sorry!” He exclaimed and hurried away with his dog. It was a cozy and peaceful night otherwise.

My friend was sweet and generous. I spent the night and we caught up. We had really connected on our long train ride. We stayed “up all night talking milk goat sleep on futon”, and that’s a direct quote from my travel log. As I stood in the doorway to leave the next day I not-so-subtly hinted that people had been giving me food for my travels. Actually, that wasn’t a hint, I said exactly that and hoped she would get the heavy hint. I was still trying to live off what I had bought in North Dakota, I was down to potatoes that were going bad. She went back and grabbed some preserves and pickled things they had made and breakfast leftovers. I scuttled away with my travel treasures, feeling shame for my near begging. I never saw her again. I sent her my travel email updates until she married and moved away. Her email had been a family shared email account so she actually moved away from her email address.

Sweet Home was the low point of my trip as well as the turnaround point of my trip. I had already been to the coast with my family the year before. Even though I had no ending date yet I would later calculate out that this was also the halfway point of my road trip. I drove back to Parma, Idaho. I debated driving down the coast of California a bit but I just wanted to rest. In 8 days I was going to meet Weird Al Yankonvic. I didn’t know how that was going to happen but it was on my itinerary. He was playing at the state fair in Boise and Parma was a small town outside of Boise. I was ready to camp out there, figure out a way to make some money, and wait.

Next. Part 7: Meeting Weird Al at the Idaho State Fair (keep reading)

Rachael Shores is posting her travel story to encourage those that don’t fit in, to explore the world and their inner desires. Your path can be different than the standard options layed out for us. Follow current travel,art, and life on Instagram @sparrowshand.

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