My Way Out West

(A Sojourn in May)

By Mark Lowe

 

Part I: Toward Wyoming

The page on the calendar had not been turned to May 2002 for very long. I was living in Chicago for the second time in my life having returned from San Francisco in 1997. I'd already made up my mind to go back to California , but I'd just recently decided to move to Los Angeles to start a new business instead of moving back to San Francisco .

Even with such promising changes ahead of me, I was tired and in need of some time to myself. I thought a good remedy might be to spend at least a week or more on the road in the West. I could be alone with my thoughts, and away from civilization – or at least as far away from civilization as I am ever likely to get. I needed time and distance in order to sort through everything in my life that wasn't making much sense. At least that's what I thought when I started.

The first day's drive out of Chicago was tedium, as it always seemed to be. Passing through the familiar Illinois prairie, on into Iowa , and out into the Great Plains , I couldn't help but reflect on other times when I had passed that way. Driving west on Interstate 80 in Illinois, scenes from my youth appeared like old home movies as I passed by the off-ramps to towns with familiar names. Crossing the Mississippi on the southern bypass around the Quad Cities, I couldn't even begin to recount the number of times I had traversed that mighty and formidable river.

By early afternoon I reached Omaha . Two hours later I passed the turnoff to Grand Island , looking for the spot where my '67 Mustang broke down when I moved to San Francisco in October of 1976. It happened around midnight a couple of miles east of the exit to the town of Alda .

The wind chill that late October night went through me as I walked from my disabled car toward the lights of the Alda exit looking for help. Once I got there no mechanics or tow trucks were to be found. I also had no luck at a pay phone trying to find someone who would come out from Grand Island to help me.

Not knowing what to do, I began the hike back to my car. Snow flurries mixed with sleet began. Peeking up into the sleet and snow as I walked, the blinking lights of my car's emergency flashers slowly grew closer. The walk back to the car definitely seemed longer, and I looked forward to getting there just to get out of the wind. Once inside, as I sat there the clicking of the emergency flashers sounded like a metronome, hypnotizing me. I was getting cold too, real cold.

Around 3 am , a Nebraska state patrolman pulled up and asked if I needed help. I explained what I'd been through, and he was kind enough to invite me to sit up front with him in his cruiser to get warm while he radioed Grand Island for help. A soft-spoken man, the officer radiated a quiet strength. His physical stature merely underscored that. And he was handsome, disarmingly so. I felt like a giddy teenager next to him. I found him so appealing that just being near him was unnerving.

We spoke casually while the patrolman caught up on his paperwork. After about thirty minutes passed, the officer told me he needed to get back on the road. He assured me the tow truck would come soon, and he'd check back in an hour or so just to confirm it had. About twenty minutes later it did, and the details of the remainder of that night are not important. What remains is the memory of that night out on a nearly deserted stretch of interstate and the brief yet unforgettable time I spent with one of the most impressive men I've ever met.

By early evening I reached Ogallala, just east of the I-80/I-76 split. Here most of the traffic turned southwest, headed toward Denver . Turning northwest, I could see dark thunderstorms on the distant horizon, and I wondered how soon I would contend with them. It wasn't long. Soon I felt like I'd been swallowed by the fury of the downpour.

Near the Wyoming border, the rains began to ease, and the fading sunlight returned to the evening. The landscape around me became decidedly more western, and relieved I knew I'd finally put the Great Plains behind me.

The next morning, leaving Cheyenne it was chilly and drizzling. As I headed toward Laramie the drizzle subsided, and a dusting of snow appeared on the distant ridges. As the roadway climbed higher, I noticed snow along the shoulder. Road conditions worsened, and soon I hit a snow-packed stretch of roadway. As I began the descent into Laramie , things luckily began to improve.

Laramie is more than just a town along the way – at least to me. Remembering what happened that night in 1976, back near Grand Island , Laramie was as far as I got the next day. I traveled several hundred miles the next morning before I began to calm down from the experience of being towed into Grand Island while having to leave a U-Haul trailer full of my possessions behind, unhitched alongside I80. Never mind the fact I had allowed my time spent with the Nebraska state patrolman to also unhinge me. Well, almost. And I don't even have a thing for uniforms! Uh, not really. No more than any other self-respecting gay man.

Back in 1976, I hadn't had much money so I'd found the cheapest motel in Laramie . Located near the interstate, I slept there for at least six or seven hours and woke around 8 pm. Recharged, I was more than ready to get rolling despite what the clock read.

On this visit to Laramie , I decided to see if I could locate the old cheap motel where I stayed in 1976. I think I found the place, but I wasn't sure it was the right one. The place I found looked sad and very run down. It was clear the passing of time had not been kind.

Heading back onto the main street through Laramie . I didn't detour to take a look at the University of Wyoming campus, although the thought crossed my mind. Instead, I just wanted to take a quick look at the town where Matthew Shepherd spent his last days. Re-entering the interstate, heading for Rawlins, I looked toward the hills north of Laramie . I wondered where it might have been, the place where Matthew Shepherd was beaten, tied up, and left to die.

Beyond Laramie , I could see the snow-lined peaks of the Snowy Range to the south. The subtle changes in the hues of grey, blue, and white fascinated me. The mountains seemed to be so far off, yet their elevation didn't seem to be any higher than where I was. Driving in the West can teach you about perspective and relative distance. In other instances, a road you may be traveling will crest a ridge and the next ridge ahead can look very far away. Yet lost in your own thoughts as you drive between the ridges, you crest what was that next ridge, have another before you, and not remember much about what occupied your mind in the space between.

Between Laramie and Rawlins, I've always noticed ranches that appear barely operational and wondered how anyone could eke out a living from them. Yet, I think I know how people live there. They are the kind of people who could not live in the environment I'm accustomed to – large cities, hundreds of thousands of people, tall buildings, overcrowded roadways, and sirens which scream during the night. I guess those hardscrabble ranchers identify so closely with the land they share it becomes as integral to their life as the color of their eyes or the patterns of their fingerprints.

I've always had great respect for anyone who has a strong sense of place, people who define themselves not only by a role in their family, or by their occupation or pastimes, but by the places where they live. In our country it's easy to move on and seek a better life elsewhere. It's ingrained in our national psyche. I recognize it as an affliction of mine as well. Finding myself to be something of a wanderer, I am also fascinated by people, generations of people, who remain in the same place. They are those who give whole regions their identities. A bonding occurs. They live where they do simply because they wouldn't think of living anywhere else. Their identity and sense of self are inextricably tied to everything surrounding them, including the land itself.

Driving along that morning, my own troubles drifted back into my mind. I knew they eventually would reappear, though I wished they hadn't so early in the trip. I'd slept well the night before, but I grew drowsy at the wheel. Just being out in the open space of Wyoming provided its own kind of relaxation. I decided to find a place to stop. I needed to get out of the car and walk around or sit for a moment and close my eyes.

I found an exit and stopped on the shoulder at the bottom of the ramp. Closing my eyes, I hoped I'd be able to have one of those brief but energizing naps a person can have if all the conditions are right. Drowsy as I was, a nap would not come. My mind rewound its tapes to a point where playback was going to be mandatory, but I didn't want to deal with those thoughts. I got out of the car and walked around in the clear brisk air. I was unconcerned if passers by thought I was some kind of lunatic pacing back and forth, obviously talking to myself, complete with gestures which made me appear less sane. I continued pacing.

I wasn't able to shake what was on my mind, so I got back in the car. I wasn't drowsy anymore, but I was more than irritated. My troubles encroached on me when I wasn't ready for them. Only fifty or sixty miles from a turnoff which would take me down a road I'd never driven before, I always found that kind of prospect exciting. Yet all the disappointment, discontentment, and frustration I was coping with in Chicago kept invading my head. Like it or not, I'd assigned myself this task, this effort at self-analysis, out in the seemingly infinite landscape of the West, hoping the distances would help my perspective.

I knew I'd charted a new course for myself. Still, I wondered why I couldn't get on with things and leave the past alone. But I'm not one of those people who are prone to having epiphanies. Sometimes the proverbial light bulb pops on for me, but usually it's more like when a fluorescent tube comes on - there's some spastic flickering before illumination becomes full.

I planned to head north on US 287, bypassing Rawlins on its east side, because I've stopped in Rawlins before. Memories of my last visit filled my mind. When I moved to San Francisco in 1976, I left Laramie at the sensible hour of 9 pm. Around 11 pm, I arrived in Rawlins. I was hungry and had trouble finding a place to eat which was open. But I did find a bar & restaurant open on the western edge of town. It was in that roadhouse where I first encountered a few of the people of Rawlins.

As I walked into the place, it was as though I had stepped into another world. It all looked so authentically western to me, so much so I felt like an alien with its third eye showing. I half expected the room to grow silent and heads to spin a full 180 degrees as I stepped into the place. But that didn't happen. Though I may have had “stranger” stamped on my forehead, no one paid much attention to me. Relieved, maybe I didn't look as out of place as I felt. Even if I did, those people must not have been in the habit of bothering people they didn't know.

Sitting at the corner of the bar closest to where I'd entered, after the waitress took my order, I couldn't help looking at the other patrons. I didn't stare. At least I don't think I did. I tried to avert my eyes from anyone's attention, especially the men. I didn't want any trouble stemming from a misunderstood glance. But even when my gaze did connect with someone else's, nothing resulted. It was clear I had spent far too much time in gay bars where an exchanged glance meant so much more than it did in a place like that.

Part II: Toward Xanadu

North of Rawlins the land spreads out like an endless backdrop in a Hollywood western. For so long I'd wanted to head out across central Wyoming, yet at times I found the drive to be tedious. As I drove, the landscape surrounding me slowly changed, and I came across sights which ultimately recharged me.

Beyond Split Rock, US 287 headed through an almost featureless valley, but while driving I began to notice the Wind River Range in the distance. The view of the mountains became more tantalizing as the distance diminished, and just east of Lander the road began a gradual descent through a remarkable red rock canyon.

US 287 also passes through the Wind River Indian Reservation. At the time, I knew nothing about the significance of the reservation. Later I would learn it is the only one in the United States where Native Americans were allowed to remain on land they had inhabited for generations.

Leaving the reservation, the Wind River Range no longer was a sight in the distance. It towered before me. Beyond Dubois the fresh air grew intoxicating, and the road continued its climb until it reached an altitude high enough where the conifer forests were still blanketed with snow.

At Togwotee Pass , I knew it wouldn't long before I'd first see the perfect peaks of the Grand Tetons. Reaching the Grand Tetons was a goal eluding me for years. As I came within sight of the mountains, I felt like I was entering Xanadu.

Pulling off the road, alongside a meadow east of Moran Junction, The Tetons lay in full splendor before of me. The view was consuming. Making a left turn onto US 89, I headed south toward Jackson . With the magnificence of The Grand Tetons riding shotgun, the day became sublime - the kind of day when you can't help but lower the windows, open the sunroof, put the top down, take your top off, whatever. You get the idea. The simple thrill of driving down the highway, being blown to bits by the wind, can be so much better than any theme park ride. So what if you wind up looking like Don King?

That day Jackson was glorious in the warm sunshine. I know places like Jackson take on a different feel in the winter. Frankly, I don't like snow very much, and I was glad I was there on a sunny and warm day instead of being stuck there in the dead of winter waiting for a blizzard to end. Come to think of it though, being snowbound with the right person can have its advantages.

I had a bite to eat in Jackson then headed back toward The Grand Teton National Park. For most people, the park is a major destination all its own. Make no mistake, I was most assuredly enthralled by the place. But in all candor, I can be a car-oriented tourist. I'm not inclined to take off on long hikes, go canoeing, swimming, or do anything of the sort when I am traveling alone. At such times, I question my decision to remain single for so long – whether my enormous need for independence has come at the expense of an intimate relationship, one which could make visits to such places seem more meaningful.

As I left the Tetons, estimating the time it would take to reach West Yellowstone, Montana, I planned to drive through Yellowstone National Park , and find a place to stay in West Yellowstone . When situated there, I would map out the next day's activities in the park and decide how long I was going to stay in the area.

Heading into the Yellowstone high country, the temperature dipped and snow reappeared alongside the roadway. At the park entrance I learned the road had only been open for the season a short time. Upon entering West Yellowstone , it was clear I'd arrived long before the crowds of summer. The place was nearly deserted, but that suited me. I'd planned it that way. I had no intention of fighting crowds at Yellowstone .

Like Jackson , West Yellowstone is a town which caters to tourists, and I was surprised by the number of hotel and motor inns obviously erected recently. Sadly, most were far from unique. Several of the national franchises were represented displaying all of the design sensitivity they offer alongside any interstate highway. I couldn't imagine myself staying in a place like that. Not in West Yellowstone . Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

Exhausting what I thought my options were, I came upon a cozy looking collection of cabins on the southern edge of West Yellowstone . I found the office, walked in, and was greeted by an affable young man who explained the features of the cabins available that evening. While registering, I asked the young desk clerk about places to eat in town. He recommended a restaurant which turned out to be nice. But some places aren't right for people dining alone and I felt uncomfortable all during dinner.

At dawn the next morning I began my tour of Yellowstone . My first stop was at the geyser basins north of Old Faithful . While climbing along the wooden walkway, I noticed how the sun had risen far enough to illuminate the subtle colors in the terraced rock lying a few inches beneath the surface of the water. In other spots, super-heated water bubbled up, hissing as it sprayed into the air. Near the end of the walkway, a few small waterfalls fed directly into the Firehole River . Steam rose as the heated water met with the cooler water from upstream. Occasionally I'd find myself walking through a small cloud of steam, an inviting sensation in the cool morning air. I was enamored with the spot. With no one else around, I lingered and reflected on its special beauty. When I returned to my car, something told me I'd like it there better than I would at my next stop, Old Faithful .

From the information signs posted near Old Faithful , I determined it would be more than thirty minutes before the geyser's next eruption, so I wandered into the visitor center. I looked around then found a chair in front of a huge plate glass window facing directly toward Old Faithful . I waited there until its eruption was imminent.

Soon the thing started spurting intermittently. I had learned this was a harbinger of the big show. I went outside and found a spot on the perimeter walkway. In few minutes, the world famous geyser erupted shooting a column of water approximately 150 feet into the air – a feat it sustains for less than two minutes. Then it's over. I wouldn't want anyone to think I felt gypped by the experience. I wasn't totally disappointed, but it was anticlimactic.

Resuming my drive around the park, I headed for the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone River . Enjoying my lazy drive along the western shore of Yellowstone Lake , it wasn't long before I arrived at another site I'd wanted to see along the way. I'm a little quirky, so it isn't surprising the assortment of geothermal processes visible at Mud Volcanoes and Sulphur Caldron were substantially more interesting to me than Old Faithful was.

As I approached the canyon area, the first observation turnoff I came upon led to Artist's Point. Reaching the end of the pathway, the sight which lay before me was astounding. Rarely have I ever seen anything so overwhelming. I was mesmerized as I gazed into the canyon and up at the waterfalls. I experienced several moments of raw emotion wash over me. I was immersed in pure joy and had difficulty leaving.

 

Continuing my loop through the park, I headed north toward Mammoth Hot Springs. Along the way, I knew I'd be passing the Obsidian Cliffs, and I intended to stop there. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe some sparkling black glass version of Yosemite 's El Capitan , but I actually had a little trouble finding the place.

Before reaching the park headquarters at the old army post at Mammoth Hot Springs, I drove past the hot springs , and indeed, they are mammoth. But by then it was early afternoon, and there were far too many people there for my liking. As a result, my “see-it-from-the-road-if-you-can” mentality kicked in. At the headquarters area, I parked near a spot where it looked like the hot springs ' white travertine formations flowed directly toward me. I liked that spot and I was glad I chose to stop there. I told myself I didn't need to see any more hot gurgling water.

 

Contemplating which direction I would head next, I nearly drove to Livingston , Montana . Instead I chose to head back toward West Yellowstone . Although I felt a nap might be nice, I'd not yet traveled the road between Norris and Madison. Completing my loop through Yellowstone seemed a better idea. I'd seen signs indicating construction delays were to be expected. Sure enough, I soon landed in a road construction delay.

Unlike many impatient people, I don't mind being caught in construction zones if the conditions are right. First, it is important I am not in a hurry. Second, all automobile systems need to be working properly. Third, the delay should not last an inordinate amount of time. Fourth, I need something to look at. It is the fourth part which needs a little explaining.

I can sit in the car waiting for traffic to be let through in a construction zone for about ten minutes. After that, mere scenery will become uninteresting. Ideally, I need some people to look at - construction workers to be exact. One might think I have lurid fantasies about big burly men who maneuver enormous Caterpillar equipment. I could say this idea couldn't be further from the truth, but I'd be lying. So once traffic does begin to move, as I drive along trying to spot the best male specimen on the construction site, I'm careful not to contort my neck into unnatural positions or allow the car to go careening down some embankment. There are easier ways to meet people.

I managed to get back to West Yellowstone in one piece, and I had my nap.

I hadn't enjoyed a decent meal all day, so when I woke from my nap I decided to find an innocuous restaurant that served good old American comfort food. I found such a place in the rear of a corridor of shops located across from the old West Yellowstone railroad station. Meeting a delightful waitress, that didn't make me feel like some weird stranger eating alone, I topped my hearty meat loaf dinner off with a generous helping of apple pie a la mode. I left the place feeling ten months pregnant.

I needed to walk off some of that dinner, so I started scouting around the old railroad buildings preserved in West Yellowstone . I learned that for many years most visitors to the park arrived by rail. Being a child of the automobile age, it isn't surprising this hadn't occurred to me before. In fact, much of the area around the old station, the area which had once been the rail yards, was the area which now sprouted the new hotels I'd noticed upon my arrival.

Although the main terminal building was converted into a museum, it was closed by the time I got there that evening. While exploring around the old terminal grounds, I came across another visitor, a man who had to be in his eighties. He hadn't been to West Yellowstone since the early 1940's when he was in the army stationed in the Northwest. His memories fascinated me as he told of the activity that once surrounded the old station. The man was sad to find the excitement missing, but he knew times changed and he accepted this change. However accidental it may have been, my casual meeting with that man shaded my experience in West Yellowstone in a light I wouldn't have noticed had I not met him.

The sky grew cloudier that evening. Rain was predicted for the next day. The thought of being indoors for an entire day was not appealing, nor was the prospect of getting drenched while attempting to see a few sights that still held interest for me. By that time, I'd also had about enough of my own company. All during my drive from Old Faithful to Mammoth Hot Springs, I'd done far too much wrestling with my own thoughts, much the same as I had the day before, and I didn't care to rehash everything again the next day while cooped up in a cabin.

I considered spending a few days in southern Utah as an alternative. It was an easy day's drive, so with any luck, after a few hours of driving, I'd be out of the path of the predicted rainstorm.

Part III: Toward Safe Harbor

The rain hadn't begun the next morning as I readied myself to leave, but the sky looked ominous. When I arrived in Idaho Falls the deluge began, and as I headed south on Interstate 15 it continued to pour. I wondered if I ever would get beyond the storm. Near Pocatello however, the rain began to subside.

Toying with the idea of heading west toward Twin Falls, then cutting south into Nevada, and continuing to San Francisco, maybe what I needed was to go to San Francisco. Spending time with friends instead of spending more time alone with my thoughts seemed a good plan B. When I reached Pocatello , I fought with myself not to make the exit to westbound Interstate 86. As soon as I passed it by, I had second thoughts.

Entering northern Utah , I decided to call my friend Jerry in the Bay Area. He knew I was on vacation somewhere near Yellowstone but was surprised when I told him I'd left the area. I explained about the rain and my change in plans. I also told him I had this crazy idea about coming to San Francisco . I only needed to make up my mind. I told him I would decide by the time I reached the I-15/I-80 interchange at Salt Lake City .

I'll confess I short-circuit in my ability to comprehend distance. After I've been driving for three or four hours, especially in the West, adding a few hundred miles to a day's itinerary doesn't make much of a difference. I get further into a trance-like state each time another 50 miles ticks off on the odometer. By the time I approached Salt Lake City that day, the additional distance to San Francisco didn't matter.

Arriving the Salt Lake City area at noon , I observed sun was out, complete with billowy white clouds in the sky. The Wasatch Range east of Interstate 15 exemplified purple mountain majesty. Soon the Interstate 80 exit loomed ahead of me. At the last possible moment, I made my decision and nudged the steering wheel gently to the right. I was on the way to San Francisco !

Calling Jerry, I told him what I had decided, but I warned him I wouldn't arrive until late that night. Southern Utah could wait. In a few short months I'd be relocating to Los Angeles . I could work in the sightseeing I wanted to do in Utah during my move to southern California .

The emotional tug to the Bay Area was too great. Instead of more time to myself, I needed to be in San Francisco around familiar people and places. The city felt like home even after five years in Chicago . I needed a familiar refuge, and I could think of no better place than Jerry's home in Marin County . Spending the day in the city while he was working, I could lunch with friends or visit some of my favorite haunts, then return and relax with Jerry in the evening. I could almost hear Jeanette MacDonald singing:

“Sa-a-a-an Fra-a-a-ancisco, open your Golden Gate

You'll let nobody wait outside your door

Sa-a-a-an Fra-a-a-ancisco, here is your wanderin' one

Saying I'll wander no more.”

“Other places only make me love you best

Tell me you're the one in all the Golden West

Sa-a-a-an Fra-a-a-ancisco, I'm coming home again

Never to roam again…”

 

It didn't matter that seven hundred miles of highway lay ahead of me. I knew the road, and it was one of my favorite stretches of Interstate. Full of many memories, the route was an old friend, and I looked forward to its company. I positioned myself comfortably in my seat and set the cruise control stretching the speed limit as much as I dared.

Sixty miles east of the Nevada border, the weather worsened. Rain quickly turned to snow. Within minutes, snow accumulated on the road forming a thick and heavy slush. Fortunately, by the time I neared Wendover the snow and rain stopped. Arriving in Nevada rejuvenated, I enjoy few drives more than Interstate 80 across Nevada . I love the sheer vastness of the state – a wilderness punctuated only by parallel mountain ranges and a few far flung high desert towns.

The broad valley leading toward the Goshute Mountains looked splendid and green despite the overcast skies. Ascending toward Silver Zone Pass , rain began once again turning to snow flurries as the road climbed higher. The car cruised effortlessly up the long incline. I vividly remembered my move to San Francisco in 1976 and recalled how my Mustang with U-Haul in tow struggled in the right lanes along with the trucks and other laden vehicles.

I started to examine my life in 2002 and compare it to my life in 1976. I never imagined the travels I‘d take, the places I would live and work, the people I would meet, the friends I would lose, the wonderful experiences I would have, the disappointments I would encounter, and the simple joy I would come to know - the joy of being healthy and alive. If I'd had a crystal ball in 1976, I wouldn't have been completely unhappy about what I'd have seen in my future. Was I beginning to regain the perspective I sought? Perhaps so.

Maybe the trip on I-80 across Nevada offered the prescription I needed all along. To some people it may be an ordinary highway, but for me it is an avenue filled with reminders of my hopes, my dreams, and my memories. It's a thoroughfare where most of my adult life can be grasped and embraced more fully. Each journey on that route reintroduces the promise of my youth, and it reminds me how grateful I am for the life I have been given. I may be a wanderer, but in my wanderings I have made the most valuable discoveries.

I adjusted to the inclement weather, even though I knew it would impede my progress reaching the Bay Area. I cozied up inside the car along with my thoughts – thoughts which thankfully became more comforting by then. I felt freer to reflect on my more recent experiences and measure them against the experiences of the past. As I immersed myself in my many memories of trips across northern Nevada , I was finally able to distance myself from my life in Chicago .

When I emerged from the weather system, I could see the snow on the peaks at the north end of the Ruby Mountains . It was exhilarating. I felt like I could keep driving forever. I would love to stay suspended in time, lost in those carefree moments when the rest of the world seemed very far away. The idea of living on one of those mountainsides away from big city life, far from anyone else, was so appealing.

Passing Carlin, I saw the impact the storm had on the Tuscarora Mountains . Freshly fallen snow covered the mountainsides to within perhaps 1000 feet above their base. The snow was unimaginably beautiful, so clean and white against a cloud-studded sky. I crested Emigrant Pass and was awed by the view of the expansive valley lying beyond. It's one of the things I find captivating about I-80 in Nevada . At the crest of a mountain pass, no valley below is more beautiful than another, and the views are always stunningly different. The climb to the summit of each pass is unique too, making the repetition of climbing Nevada 's passes and descending into her valleys feel like God's roller coaster ride. If you pay attention, you can learn something about time and space.

I passed through Reno at the tail end of rush hour. By the time I reached Donner Summit the evening was glorious, and I was sure I'd be out of the Sierra Nevada before it got dark. Not that I minded driving I-80 in the dark. I sure knew the route well enough. But I never tire of nature's spectacle in the Sierra, and I didn't want to miss anything.

At dusk, I nearing Sacramento , I stopped for a break and readied myself for the final leg of my journey. I'd arrive at Jerry's in less than two hours, and after the drive I'd had that day, the ninety remaining miles seemed like a trip to the corner store. I was tired, but I was buoyed by the prospect of seeing old friends and familiar places. I was going home.

Knowing how early Jerry goes to bed, I was surprised to find him waiting up for me. We soon turned in for the night, but I was too wound up from my long drive so I switched the TV on in the guest bedroom. I don't remember dropping off to sleep. In the middle of the night, I woke up, shut the TV off, and didn't wake again until after Jerry had left for work the next morning.

Sitting at the kitchen table that morning, I thought about all I had seen and done during the previous four days. I'd traveled more than 2500 miles, but no part of the trip was a blur. I'd become suitably intimate with the places I'd visited, and I had seen a large part of the West I'd not seen before.

Being out in the open spaces helped me put many aspects of my life in perspective. I could gaze back at Chicago , more than a half continent away, and see my life there more objectively. Despite of all the inertia and dissatisfaction I was coping with in Chicago , I learned an important lesson about compromises, especially the kind you make with yourself. Sometimes they work, but all too frequently they don't.

My attempt to rebuild my life in Chicago didn't work. During the twenty-one years I'd lived in San Francisco I had always moved forward, but that movement was never fluid or smooth. Instead, my progress was always like the jerking strike-slip movement of the San Andreas Fault . My return to Chicago appeared now as time suspended. I saw no real progress, yet there was no regress either. I'd accomplished things I was proud of in my work, but my most important revelation was about the people I knew there. My family and friends moved on with their lives in ways I'd not expected, and in ways I'd not observed during my periodic visits from year to year. Twenty-one years had changed them and the way they went about their daily lives just as my twenty-one years in San Francisco had changed me.

I finally accepted I had gone back to Chicago for the wrong reasons, foolishly expecting much to be the same as when I'd left in 1976. I shouldn't have made such a decision. Grieving the loss of too many friends, I terribly missed the life I once knew in San Francisco – in an era before AIDS. I thought I would be able to rekindle the happiness and carefree spirit I knew when I'd originally lived in Chicago , that so long ago first time. Instead, I often found myself involuntarily cast in the role of an expatriate, the Californian. I felt like an outsider.

My trip that May provided me with the perspective I sought, and I learned the value I place on my solitude and independence needs tempering on an ongoing basis. I cannot discount or ignore the need to be around other people, and I cannot underestimate the calm that familiar places bring. It's a paradox I'll always contend with - my need to get away and be alone in contrast with my need to be among friends and feel at home.

Emotionally, I had run the gamut. I'd been in just about any and every mood or state of mind a person can experience. However, I'd encountered more pleasant surprises than disappointments, and I had a treasury of anecdotes ready to tell anyone who would listen. Most importantly, my trip through the West had done exactly what I wanted and needed. Although I was uncertain of my progress at many intervals along the way, I had indeed reached an accord with myself. It isn't that I'd reached any life-altering decisions. I had already made those decisions before I'd even left Chicago . I just needed to come to grips with the circumstances which predicated those decisions, and I had to stop berating myself about the outcome of events which couldn't have been changed no matter how hard I tried.

A long drive in the West - I can think of no better solution when faced with the need for some soul-searching. It's medicinal and helps clear the mind. I have an unquenchable thirst for solitude, but intense introspection risks being a self-indulgent, counterproductive exercise. The need for the peace and quiet nature offers always exists, however I also realized there is a need to place a limit on the amount of time I allow for such retreats. The input of others is often necessary to help jump-start and reorient my thinking when I get bogged down and confused. After four days alone with my thoughts, even amidst the grandeur of the West, I found the need for safe harbor, a place where people knew me, a place that would welcome me with open arms and make me feel at home.

Sorting through numerous problems, I'd unraveled many of my own inner entanglements. Pleasantly surprised at times by how others perceived me, often differently than I perceived myself. And, I'd become easily engaged in conversations with total strangers. Conversations which weren't strained, but that flowed natural with the exchange of shared experiences, ideas, or interests, even if it was something as simple as the taste of an apple pie.

I also concluded I'm no hermit. I put that notion to rest – well almost. As much as I've fantasized about running away and living a solitary existence on a remote Nevada mountainside, I instinctively began to understand it would not bring the kind of happiness or satisfaction I sought. For me, happiness is an achieved state of mind.

Everyone has choices. We make choices about how we will conduct our lives. We make choices with regard to the friends we make and the places where we live and work. And, we make choices when we need to deal with difficulty. Sure, some decisions are made for us, but our response is a choice we make nonetheless. And, it is a given some of us make better choices than others. I happen to be among the fortunate who learn things the hard way. Yet my many mistakes have often provided the best lessons.

One of the most important things I've learned is to never make decisions that involve looking back. Instead, use past experiences as reference material. Always look ahead. Hunt for opportunities. Seek challenges. Search for honest fulfillment, and it will come.

We all take our journeys, even if we never leave the place where we were born. Essentially, our lives are one continuing journey, and the need will always exist for sojourns along our way. We need to plan our direction as best we can and understand there is a limit to what we can control. With any luck and a lot of perseverance, we'll enjoy the paths our lives take. We'll test our limits, we'll endure hardship, and we'll find joy. And if we keep our eyes on the horizon, we'll find our safe harbors when they are most needed.