I just spent the better half of my evening crawling under the stairwell, looking for the box that contains my old journals. I had a faint hope that I actually kept the one from this trip, but alas! I did find old journals dating all the way back to 1979, but the entry on the first page of the 1979 journal states that I burned all journals prior to that year. I was afraid of that.
I also pulled out the photo album and scanned some grainy photos from my trip, but I will have to do some photo shop on those and add them when I get to that part of the story. I didn’t take very many pictures: this was pre-35 mm SLR (for me) and my Brownie wasn’t convenient to pack, so I carried a 110 camera that took God-awful photos.
Oh, I need to add this: this *is* about how I ended up in Orygun. I didn’t set out to tell how I ended up here, but this trip was how I ended up here. Crazy.
Arwen probably wonders why Levi would relate to this tale more than she would: because he’s about to step off the edge of the world, too, and he needs to know his mother did it 31 years ago. You just take your chances and hope you draw a full house.
WHY did I decide I was going to see America? I had a thin excuse that I read this story in the Bible about the rich man that couldn’t give up his possessions. So I thought if I gave up all my possessions (except my cat, of course), then I would be – what? Holy? I don’t know. Maybe I would hear God. I also had a vague notion that if I dropped out of college to do a female version of John Steinbeck’s Travels With Charlie, I ought to start traveling. Only I was too chicken to hitchhike, so I bought a six week pass on Greyhound.
Don’t ask me if I ride the bus now. Not even Tri-Met.
Since I don’t have my journal to help, I can only guess at some of the dates. I’ll have to make up some names. Some names I remember. All the people I remember. And (fortunately), I dated the backs of the few photos I have. I traveled from May into June. I started in Winnemucca, NV and ended in Baker City, Oregon.
I had some things with me that I considered indispensable: a copy of Dante’s Inferno to read, a copy of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet to give away, and the Bible I’d earned in 5th Grade by memorizing the 23rd psalm. I’d never read it and I figured I’d have plenty of time to read on the bus. Even a person prone to car sickness can read on the bus, right?
Well, actually, no. I did most of my reading while waiting for buses. When I was not people watching.
Finally, everything was ready. I was moved out of my apartment, most of my possessions had been sold (I nearly cried when I parted with my Marty Robbins LP collection. But a collector picked it up, so I was certain it would be well cared for. I know you were dying to know that).
That’s true, you know: I really did own a collection of Marty Robbins’ western LPs. And I really prized them. He had a great voice, but only when he sang western songs like “Cool Water” or “El Paso.” I never cared for “You Gave Me a Mountain.” If you’re sniggering, I hope one of those songs gets stuck in your head.
Don’cha listen to him, Dan
He’s a devil, not a man
And he spreads the burning sands
With water. Cool water. Cool, clear water.
Happy now?
Norma’s husband drove me to the bus depot in downtown Winnemucca on the day I was to set out. I could have walked: that was the idea of a backpack, but Jim said he would drop me off. No fanfare. No friends to see me off. They all thought I was nuts.
The bus depot was on the main drag through town which was then the only way through town: the bypass was being built but had not opened. The Star Broiler and the Nixon Opera House (with its resident poltergeist) were still standing. The bus depot was a seedy affair (why are bus depots seedy?) and vacant except for the clerk, myself and a very drunk Indian. He wasn’t waiting for the bus; he was just passing time until he sobered up enough to find someone to buy him more drinks. It was very sad and I made a mental note to never forget him. For one thing, he wasn’t old enough to be such a raving alcoholic and I wondered what pain he was drinking to drown?
It seemed a rather depressing way to leave Winnemucca: a drunk who passed out on a bench and no one to say “good-bye” to me. But I was really going to do this. I was 20 (there, I confessed to how old I am!), footloose, and free. A free spirit on the road. I didn’t have a dog to travel with me and “Cat” (yes, I really named my cat that) had to wait for me, but I was doing it.
Next installation: Salt Lake City and Wasatch Academy.
Jaci Dawn 