I got off tour in the UK about 3 weeks ago. We'll get back to that. It was lovely. But it's hard to come home. Always is. So this time I didnt. I stopped home, sure. I got some supplies. And some knives. And a frying pan. And i hit the road again.

I started on the Puget Sound. Went south. Followed the Pioneer Trail through Oregon to the Idaho border. Then i took Goodale's Cutoff north from the main trail. It was originally used to hide from Shoshone marauders who kept attacking the white devils. The trail goes north to a place called Craters of the Moon, Idaho. Calvin Coolidge called it a "weird and beautiful place." It was a terrifying mess of blackened badlands and hollow chasms meant to swallow any curious fool who would stray even mildly from the path. That was me of course, and on several occasions my feet went through the brittle crust into the smokey interior. I was going to spend the night on those barren rocks. But it was cold. So i went south.

Late that night I arrived at Promontory Point, Utah. A place I've spent years meaning to go. This is where the two ends of the first trans-continental railroad came together. It's where the East met the West. It meant the Irish could stop poisoning the Chinese, and the Chinese could stop blowing up the Irish. It was peace driven with a golden spike. But it was 150 years ago. Someone stole the spike.

The morning was cold and wet. So I continued south. 300 miles till I reached the staggering beauty and doom of Capitol Reef, Utah. If it's raining in the mountains, you can die here like an earthworm, with the sun shining brightly on your back. Paths cut by violent water weave randomly through the desert. Red Sandstone spikes shoot 1000 feet into the air. It rains 7 inches a year. Butch Cassidy had a hideout here. No one has found it. I tried.

After a few days drying out i started following the sun west into Nevada. On the border i found the Great Basin. It was late when I turned off the main road. I went up. And up again. by the time i made camp i was at 7500 feet. Freezing. No moon and the brightest stars i've ever seen. I've never seen them closer or clearer. Shadows from stars. I still can't find the big dipper.

In the morning I found out where i was. Under a classic peak, crested in white and 13000 feet in the air. It was obvious what had to happen. I was at the top 3 hours later, in the terrifying icy wind, looking to the East at the salt planes of Utah, and to the West at the brown bottomlands of Nevada. Good and Evil. The wind in a swirl, but clearly blowing West, towards evil. That is, towards Reno.

It was 400 miles away. On Highway 50. The Loneliest Road in America. It parallels the original Pony Express Trail. There are no speed limits. No cars. No anything. Just open range, tumbleweeds, sunrises, sunsets.

And when it did set i was halfway through. In Austin, Nevada. I drove slowly through the town. All boardwalks and narrow, following eyes. I had no business being there. But then, neither did they. No one ever had cause for Austin, Nevada. That's why High Planes Drifters exist. It's a place you pass through and get scowled at. I slept indoors for the first time in a week, and was out at dawn.

Made Reno by noon. The real Vegas. They may sweep a few things under the rug in Vegas, but that's because they care. There are no caretakers in Reno. No one to give a damn what happens to the dirty laundry. It'll just get stolen like the souls of all those that stop here for more than a few days. Careful. Dick Clark got out in a hurry. He left the giant shell of his nightclub towering 30 stories in the air. a 40 foot ageless smile on the front, proclaiming the good times that might have been. 

But at night, without a light on that smile inside or out, its the largest tombstone you've ever seen.

I'd been there before. I knew what was coming. I got out before nightfall and made camp on Bitter Lake, Ca, in the Shadow of Mt Shasta. The campground was closed for the season. If i was the only one there It would have been a little creepy. But i wasn't. There was a trailer with a dog attached to it, and no people anywhere.

That was a lot creepier.

I watched the sun go down over an old railroad bridge and made my last fire-fueled meal of the trip. It was getting colder every night, and i hadn't counted on it. The dog barked occasionally. I hadnt missed a sunrise in a week. I was asleep by 8pm.

I woke at dawn. The lake was shrouded in an icy mist. It looked like a murder would happen any minute. I was spooked. I tore down camp and took off in a hurry.

As i ascended into the mountains, out above of the clouds, the sun rose beside Mt Shasta. It was a warm stoic peace. It was a reason. It was good.

I had not talked to anyone since departing ten days prior, so that night, i came out of the wilderness, and into Portland. Where old friends greeted me with warm hearts and cold beers. I indulged fully in both. But in the morning I still woke at dawn. Hours before they would rise. I remembered the tumbleweed i had stashed in my car. I left it on my pillow and quietly left. I wasnt home yet. I wasnt ready. But there was no place else to go. So here I am.