Nomadic Zen – A Vagabond’s Guide To Happiness

Everything told me not to go on this trip. Things were falling into place finally. Thing were taking off with my business and I was ready to launch my thshirt line. I even got a really great job offer. It was doing a promotion with Delta airlines engaging customers about the new wi-fi service rolling out into their flights. They were going to pay me $20 an hour and I’d work Monday-Friday for 6 hours a day. When they asked if I could commit to doing that for 2 months I thought about the rainbow gathering. I thought about how I felt last year when I set off to do the same thing and ended up gone for 6 months. I remember the joys I felt on the road and that feeling of uncertainty that kept pushing me further. I remember on that trip a sentence that I wrote into my notepad that I carried for just such an occasion. Looking at it always reminds me of the day I wrote it down. I feverishly pushed my pen into the paper as hard as I could as I stood on top of the world crying tears of joy for the blessings the universe laid forth for me. I wrote and I underlined and I circled the sentence, “never trade the present for the future.” I told the woman on the other end of the phone, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m a good fit for this position, but I certainly appreciate the offer.” I hung up the phone knowing that there will always be opportunities to make money. For now I’m dying for some chaos and insanity that only a 500 mile trip on foot can give.

The plan was to leave Monday. The plan was to not even be here. The plan was New Zealand and before that Hawaii and before that burning man and before that to live a life on the road and never look back. The plan was to grow up and be a fire fighter. The plans always seem to go out the window. I used to be under the impression that I don’t make plans. Every time someone tries to get me to commit to something I always tell them, “I don’t know, I don’t really make plans.” I thought it was true. I’ve recently come to realize though that contrary to what I’ve always thought about myself, I actually make too many plans. I make plans so quickly that I never have time to do any of them. I make plans and I update them and then I revise them and then I erase them and then I start over after a good night’s rest with a blank canvas. It was Tuesday by the time I left.

Instead of an early start, I’d rather trade that for a couple extra hours of sleep because by the end of this 2 week stint, I’ll be dying for a nap. No sense in taking it for granted today. I woke up and started packing my bag. I used to travel with an ALICE pack that was kicked down to me by a recon marine. That bag served him 3 tours in Afghanistan and myself a tour of the US. Today I pack a little lighter with a traditional backpack used by travelers. It’s smaller and sits on my body better. It’s a woman’s pack but at $14.47 it was quite a steal and in my opinion an upgrade from the ol’ ALICE. Packing a bag has been an ongoing process for me. I’ve upgraded stuff, left some stuff behind, and these days I need to figure out how to carry a DSLR and 3 lenses. The price I pay for a good photo sure does a number on my system of packing. Total clothing packed and worn was 2 T shirts, 2 pairs of those pants that you an unzip into shorts, 2 pairs of socks, 2 pairs of boxer briefs, long sleeve button down shirt, cold weather hat, military grade rain poncho, and a north face fleece vest that I scored from goodwill for less than $5. Packing clothes is pretty easy. It’s all the stuff that can’t be rolled into a tight ball that makes it a pain in the ass. Like myself, packing a bag gets closer to that endless quest for perfection with each trip I take. This time will be no exception in either category.

It’s always the first ride of the day that gets the momentum going. It’s only after that first ride do you know whether you should have stayed in bed until Wednesday or not. Jeremy showed me today was going to be a great day. I walked down the road from where I live to the nearest entrance ramp at I-75 and Schaeffer When I was growing up I knew better than to cross those tracks into Detroit. I thought it was dangerous and there were always tales of the white kids crossing over to those few blocks that still remained River Rouge but were clearly more akin to the ghettos of Detroit and them getting jumped. These days I’m older and I know better. I don’t know if I’ve wisened up or dumbed down, but you sure can’t argue with results. I make it to the freeway and I’m ready to go. I barely set down my pack before a dirty white work truck slowed down in front of me. I threw my pack in the back seat and off I go on another journey that nobody in their right mind would take.

Jeremy works locally in metro Detroit and lives in Monroe where he was heading. He tells me about his job and how he’s ready to retire. He asks where I’m from and after I tell him River Rouge he asks me if I know Rich Miller. Of course I know Rich Miller. I know him so well I would never call him Rich. He’s Jay to me. Where he got that name is beyond me, but I’ve known him as Jay for as long as I can remember knowing him. Jeremy works over Jay and his brother Rob. Both are good guys that I’ve grown up with. I remember Rob was really good at BMX and at a few years older than myself, my friends and I kind of looked up to him. Jeremy tells me about his wife who is working on her RN and works as a cardiovascular tech at a local hospital. He’s ready to retire from his job of cleaning blast furnaces and is hoping that once she finishes scool he’ll be able to be a stay at home dad for his 5 kids. He tells me about his son’s love for motocross and his desire to go to school so he doesn’t have to work so hard like his dad. I can’t help but wonder how I’ll raise my kids after knowing the things I do about the world.

Jeremy dropped me off in Monroe, Michigan at a Travel America on Dixie Hwy. I got out of the car, dropped my pack on the sidewalk, and I jotted down everything I could remember in my notepad. Sometimes I need proof of what I did. Not so I can selfishly brag to someone about my travels, but on the contrary I can remind myself with something tangible that what I did was in fact real. At least as real as reality can be.

I decided it was best not to slow down. That first ride was a good one and it was important to continue to ride out that energy for as long as it would hold out. With that in mind I walked back to the freeway and gave a thumbs up to the world. 10 minutes later I was with Andy. Andy drove a Toyota and listened to Bill O-Reilly. He was very soft spoken and released each syllable with such diligence. He wore a shirt that bore the label “maintenance” on it and told me he worked at the local nuclear plant, Fermie. He didn’t talk a whole lot and that was okay with me. I don’t much care for talking these days anyways. I’m more an observer in life than an active participant in it all. I fill in when needed and maybe with a few beers in my system I’ll spill my life philosophy, but otherwise I tend to remain invisible to those around me.

Andy drops me off just north of Toledo on Alexis Rd. It was another pretty standard ride. Not too short, not very long, and I didn’t end up in some weird place. It was one of those where you hop out of the car at the exit ramp, walk across the street to the next entrance ramp, and throw your thumb back in the air hoping to end up in a ride as soon as possible. As I was waiting for my next ride the crowd started getting hostile. There was that guy who laid on his horn and gave me the finger as he passed by. I can only imagine him telling his friends later that day that he flipped off a hitch hiker. I bet they were thoroughly impressed and there were high fives all around. The next one was a dodge charger that pulled up full of of several young black males. I fell for that one once before when I was hitching out of the south side of Chicago. This time I wasn’t moving. They pulled over, I turned and looked at them, and they squealed off probably patting each other on the back and having a laugh at me. I hope I made their day better, because I sure wasn’t letting them cloud my shine. You need to have thick skin to live like this.

Dell was the next ride that came into my life. He pulled his broken down beater of a pickup truck in front of me and showed me a toothless smile that could only be described as laughably welcoming. There’s an idea in hitch hiking that you always stay with your bag because without it, you’re done. It makes a lot of sense. You know, if you always have your bag, nobody is running off with it. I’ve never been much a stickler in terms of practicing that one though. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume that if they ran off with my bag, they needed that shit more than I do. It might even be a blessing. Less can be more. Sometimes I’m nervous about traveling with camera gear and a laptop and if that got stolen, I’d have nothing more to worry about. So Dell pulls up, meets me in the back, and opens the tail gate so I can throw my pack in with what appeared to be a bunch of empty trash cans. I hop in, buckle up, and away we go into the direction of south, and with expectations like mine, not much can go wrong.

Dell tells me that he lost his job awhile ago and has been hustling ever since. He collects bottles in Ohio where there is no deposit or refund and returns them to Michigan where they are worth 10 cents a piece. He assures me that he makes a good living and at $150 a day, I can’t much argue with him. Dell drops me off at I-75 and Miami Rd and was heading off to the bars to collect bottles from there. I was thankful for the ride and I hopped out of the truck only to to find out that the entrance ramp was closed. The only thing to do in a situation like that is to keep walking until you find one open. I hopped onto Oregon Rd and I walked a mile or so until the next entrance ramp. Sometimes you gotta hoof it once in awhile to get somewhere.

My next ride was Todd. He wasn’t going far but was willing to get me to I-80. He was super pumped that I was out hitchhiking and was really excited to help me get on me way. Sadly he wasn’t going very far so we didn’t have much time to chat. I told him I was going to the Ohio turnpike but I guess I should have explained to him that I’m not legally allowed to hitch on the interstate. We went a few miles and he dropped me off on the interchange for I-75 and I-80. I handed him a business card so hopefully he reads this (Hi Todd!). While walking down the ramp I was thinking “this isn’t going to end well.” It’s illegal in the state of Ohio to solicit a ride on the interstate. Today I was standing on the ramp where one interstate meets another. “This really isn’t going to end well.” I walked down the ramp and I could feel the cars blowing past me at their decelerated transitional speeds of around 50mph. In my mindset I knew that I was fucked but at the same time I couldn’t help but think about the last time I was fucked when I was dropped off in the middle of no where grand rapids but ended up in a ride for nearly 200 miles. Still the overwhelming sensations that I was fucked this time really stood out. I was on the the ramp between I-75 and I-80 and there wasn’t a car going less than 20 times the speed I was walking. I was fucked and there was nothing that was going to change my mind.

I’m always haunted by stories in the back of my head of people getting seriously messed with by the police. I figure the perception of a guy hitching on the side of the road doesn’t usually elicit a positive response and I don’t want to be that guy. The last thing I need is a cop with a boner for ruining people’s day. As always, things worked out fine. A small pickup pulled up after a bit and through the dirty windshield and dirty blond hair was a smiling face that was almost laughing with happiness. I pointed at him as if I knew him and with a chuckle to myself I realized I wasn’t fucked after all.

The truck was disheveled and I fit in nicely with the mess. Off with my pack and into the backseat it went. It was one of those trucks that didn’t really have a backseat so to speak. It was more like a vacant space behind the seats where you could stuff a body or in my case a large backpack. A friendly handshake later and I was riding with my new friend, Roger.

He tells me he was in Toledo helping his grandma paint her house. He stopped by to see a cousin while he was in town and walked away with a bunch of weed. He works cleaning a church for some nuns who never see the light of day. He likes his job, is jovial about life, and you can’t help but feel warm when you hang out with him. He lives on the other side of Cleveland and in a house that him and his 8 roommates have rehabbed. They have goats and a small farm and he is willing to give me a ride all the way there if I’m willing stop along the way and see some friends. I laugh in agreement as he turns up the bluegrass music telling me, “I always listen to this while I drive through the farm lands,” and he tops it off with a straw hat. With the sounds of a twangy banjo pumping through tinny speakers, I knew life was good.

Our first stop was to pick up Libby. She lives in Cleveland with her dog in a house across the street from the house that “A Christmas Story” was filmed in. Today it’s a museum and gift shopp. Thankfully it was closed because I don’t know how I would have carried a leg lamp. I love that movie and the greatest thing about x mas is the 24 hour marathon that allows me to spend an entire day watching the movie starting at different points. After several years of doing this I can still honestly say I’ve never seen the entire movie. Libby and her dog hop in the car and we were off to visit Jess.

Jess lives in a run down industrial part of Cleveland in a commercial space that her father runs his photography business out of. They used to live a little ways away and that building was just for the business, but he has since moved in his family and works in the back room. It was one of those situations that I wasn’t sure what to expect. We pulled up in front of this brick building that lacked windows and any sort of welcoming characteristics that could suggest a happy family is living in there. From the outside I expected chains and whips and all sorts of other dungeonesque supplies. While slightly disappointed that wasn’t the case, it was a beautiful place to live regardless. Walking in you’re surrounded my black brick walls with a single sky light in the center of the room reminding you that you’re not actually in a dungeon. There was photos hanging on the walls and a beautiful outdoor pavilion sitting in the center of the room wedged vertically between the 30 foot high ceilings and the dining room table. There was a balcony type thing that circled half the building. The beams were each colored a different shade of bright happy colors that contrasted well with the dreary black walls. The kitchen looked amazing and it was full of spices, utensils, and lots of counter space including the detached island that we would later eat cheese and fresh fruit at. As for now Jess wanted to take me on a tour of the neighborhood while she told me about her life and her studies at Ohio State where she is studying what she referred to as “environmental stuff.”

Jess decided no walk around town would be complete without the dog and since Libby had one has well, it was going to be a nice family outing with the hobo. She took me down her favorite block which reminded me a lot of Detroit. Derelict buildings that tell the stories of a city ravished by the downfall of the manufacturing industry. And like Detroit the backdrop of the walk only fueled a shift in consciousness more towards social awareness and taking the scraps of corporate America and turning into a feast for social reform and sustainability. The four of us continued our walk all the while passing in a circle a glass pipe and 2 dog leashes. “Here, let’s trade” someone would say and while one of us inhaled the other walked the dog. By the time it was said and done I had walked 2 dogs and smoked some home grown orange kush that I’ve decided to rename ‘Cleveland kush’ because it has a better ring to it anyways.

When I was in Denver my friend Cory talked about how he used to take a lot of photos. After a while he realized he was missing out on life by looking at the world through a view finder. From then on he started taking mental photos instead. I would stop and watch him gaze off at something and kind of smirk. I knew he was just taking pictures. On this walk was one of those times that I didn’t have the heart to bastardize the moment with a lens. Roger picked up a dandelion the size of a softball and held it to the sky just below the setting sun. I stared with a glazed over smile as I watched the seeds disperse into the air while being whisked away in a careless exhalation. My memory of that frame will probably outlive any digital representation I could have captured. With the mental photo I can close my eyes and remember what it feels like to walk a dog with new friends while the setting sun keeps you warm on a breezy day in Cleveland, Ohio.

We walk into the door at Jess’ and this time we are greeted by a large family reminding me once again that this isn’t just some warehouse in the ghetto – it’s a home full of loving people. There were young-ins running around using a large cardboard box for whatever their imaginations could conjure up. I was envious that all I saw was a big box that was still a little too small for me to play in. Jess’ mom was in the kitchen working on something that smelled delicious and I could only hope it was going to be done before we left. Her father, whom was being withered away with cancer, was meandering about holding on to his last bit of pride as he stumbled to remember everyone’s names. He apologized profusely with each lapse in memory and assured me that he was much sharper before he got sick. You could see in his eyes his soul was on fire despite the decaying stage of his body. It showed in his work too that was hung about the various rooms including the back room where he was currently proofing shots from a recent calendar shoot – red markers adorning the spots where the bikini was twisted or hair was slightly out of place – letting himself know where the corrections needed to be made in order to provide the highest level of quality he could still muster. I excused myself to the room below the bright red neon sign reading “restrooms.”

By this time we had stayed our welcome and it was time to go. Jess was a rocking chick and it’s always sad when you genuinely tell someone “it was really nice meeting you” knowing in your heart that it’s goodbye forever. I suppose this is the life I signed up for and it’s always a blessing to meet cool people along the way, no matter how fleeting the encounter may be. Every now and then you find people worth going back for. I’ve had this silly romantic notion that one day I’ll find someone worth stopping for. Or better yet someone willing to come along and become a character that lasts more than a single paragraph.

We loaded the puppy in the truck and I hopped in to what would be considered a back seat had there been anything more than a square foot of plastic to rest my tush on. I put on Roger’s straw hat because I didn’t want to sit on it and east we headed to the city of Painsville, Ohio. We got on I-90 and while speeding along lake Erie I watched from the back window, the sun signaling an end to a beautiful day of life. The sun was letting off a splendid orange glow that refleced on the water. It was a beautiful sunset that rivaled anything I saw on the oceans of the west coast. I watched this from behind watery eyes and laughed as I questioned myself, “how the hell did I get here today wearing this silly hat in the back of a pickup truck watching something as glorious as this exist over the skies of Cleveland?” The front of the truck was filled with conversation and it triggered a sense of melancholy over me. All I wanted was to look over and see the orange hue cast over someone else’s glazed eyes to remind myself that I wasn’t imagining this. Maybe I did, and maybe it doesn’t really matter anyways. Before I could dwell on it any longer, Roger was organizing a party and inviting me to crash at his place.

He started calling friends and every conversation had the sentence, “yeah, I picked up this cool hitch hiker,” and I felt like the welcoming party was well under way before I even got there. We pull into the driveway behind the house and he walks me through the farm, past the goats, and into the backroom. There are musical instruments laying all over, people hanging out in every room, and the smell of ganja wafting through the air amongst the laughter and conversations. He offers me some food and tells me they never go grocery shopping. “I think it just falls from the sky,” he chuckles. I dined on a delicious concoction of rice, broccoli and, “a shit load of cheese” the roommate who cooked it tells me. I topped it with some sri racha out from the fridge and had a second helping. I never turn down the offer help myself to the food.

The night went great and I met a lot of really awesome people. I traded stories of the road with Roger who had done some hitching in Europe and I shared some with anyone else who seemed the least bit interested. A lot of people told me I was living a life they wish they had the balls to do, and I told them they’re doing the same thing. I sometimes wish I had the courage to commit to setting roots somewhere. It truly scares the hell out of me, but I’m trying my best to overcome those fears. The night was coming to an end and I rolled out my mat on the floor in the back room. I had a hard time falling asleep knowing that even in the dream world life isn’t this magical. Sometimes I find myself pinching my arm to see if I’m awake. This time though I merely smiled to myself and once again questioned, “how the hell did I get here?” before my eyelids were too heavy to remain open.

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