Saturday, February 11, 2012
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Guitar Workshop - Saskatchewan, Canada
By now most of you know that a considerable amount of time has gone by since my Alaska travels, and that I'm already on to another country and more adventures. I have realized that keeping up with the blogging had been far harder than I thought, so I thought it would be fair to jump ahead a bit, with the intention of finishing up my Alaska stories as soon as I can make time (I will, I swear!)
In the meantime, I thought the best way to convey that which came after Alaska would be with pictures, mostly, and not so much with words. It would be far too hard to recap every detail of the seven week guitar building workshop I attended in Saskatchewan, Canada from August 29th to October 14th and, frankly, unless you have a burning desire to know every step involved in hand-making a guitar, it probably wouldn't be that exciting, anyway.
What I can tell you, as succinctly as I can, is that it was perhaps one of the most difficult things I have ever set my mind on accomplishing. For seven weeks straight, seven days a week, I spent ten to fourteen hours a day in the studio, and even though I have some woodworking experience, most of what I experienced I was doing for the first time. The long hours, the solitude (Saskatchewan is about as far in the middle of nowhere as you can get), and the constant frustrations of the invariable mistakes that were made all along the way; there were a few times when I honestly thought that I wasn't going to make it. (One student actually did quit, for pretty much all the reasons I just mentioned.) But finish I did, and the following pictures should give you at least a small glimpse into what my seven weeks involved. Enjoy!
As a side note, for all of the flatness and desolation that was Saskatchewan, I was constantly amazed at the sunrises, sunsets, and crazy cloud formations that I saw in my seven weeks there. Here are a few examples, in no order other than chronological...
In the meantime, I thought the best way to convey that which came after Alaska would be with pictures, mostly, and not so much with words. It would be far too hard to recap every detail of the seven week guitar building workshop I attended in Saskatchewan, Canada from August 29th to October 14th and, frankly, unless you have a burning desire to know every step involved in hand-making a guitar, it probably wouldn't be that exciting, anyway.
What I can tell you, as succinctly as I can, is that it was perhaps one of the most difficult things I have ever set my mind on accomplishing. For seven weeks straight, seven days a week, I spent ten to fourteen hours a day in the studio, and even though I have some woodworking experience, most of what I experienced I was doing for the first time. The long hours, the solitude (Saskatchewan is about as far in the middle of nowhere as you can get), and the constant frustrations of the invariable mistakes that were made all along the way; there were a few times when I honestly thought that I wasn't going to make it. (One student actually did quit, for pretty much all the reasons I just mentioned.) But finish I did, and the following pictures should give you at least a small glimpse into what my seven weeks involved. Enjoy!
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| Yup, this is pretty much what Saskatchewan looks like... |
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| This is the house that all seven students shared. I don't think I have to tell you things were a little tight... |
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| The studio is off to the right - it doesn't look like much, but this was where the magic happened! |
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| Starting at the beginning: cutting, fitting and gluing the beginnings of the neck. |
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| The old school way of joining the two halves of the back - wooden wedges and rope. |
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| Gluing another piece of mahogany to the neck. |
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| Carving that block to make what will eventually be the toe and heel of the neck. |
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| Scraping the back with a metal scraper to bring it to it's final thickness - ninety thousandths of an inch. |
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| Using a "go-stick" shelf to put pressure on the wooden binding strip being glued into the center seem. |
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| A handy jig that I made in order to accurately sand the pieces of abalone (decorative shell) that will be inlayed around the sound hole to make the rosette. |
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| Bringing the spruce top down to proper thickness the old fashioned way - with a hand planer. |
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| Working out the dimensions for the bracing of the guitar top. |
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| Go-sticks again; this time to hold down the bracing. |
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| The sides, binding and purfling after bending. |
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| The torch and pipe used to make small changes to the bends on the sides. |
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| Hand carving the bracing to sweeten the sound... |
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| On go the sides. All those little pieces you see lined up at the joining point have to be placed and glued one at a time... |
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| Clamping the butt block. |
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| Go sticks again! This time for the bracing on the back. |
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| Just after the sides were cut to the proper measurements. |
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| All cleaned up and ready for the back to be glued down. |
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| Another old school technique - this is to hold the back down after gluing. |
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| The rope comes in handy for gluing in the binding and purfling, too. |
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| It's starting to look like a guitar... |
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| Installing the truss rod to allow for adjustment of the neck later on. |
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| Gluing down the ebony fingerboard. |
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| In the midst of gluing in the abalone inlay on the fingerboard. |
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| Keeping the mess at bay... |
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| Gluing in the fingerboard binding. |
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| Shaping the neck with a spoke shave. |
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| Installing the butt block veneer. |
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| Hammering in the frets. |
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| Masked off and ready for the spray booth. By the time I'm done, it will have eight coats of lacquer, with sanding in between almost every coat. |
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| Starting to get shiny... |
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| More shine... |
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| Gluing and clamping the bridge. |
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| And there you have it - almost seven hundred hours of work condensed into 34 pictures - piece of cake! |
McCarthy, Alaska Part 3
Trying to take hold of the fear and turn it in to something useful, I
found myself moving into action, propelled by a sense of purpose that
gave me a sudden clarity in my thoughts and movements. I explained what
had happened to Elizabeth, telling her that I would have to ride back to
Anchorage with her and order the part along the way, knowing that there
was no guarantee that anyone would be in stock or could order it
quickly enough to arrive in time for me to fix the bike and get back to
Haines in time to catch the ferry by Monday. Otherwise, I would just
have to accept that I wouldn't make it to Saskatchewan in time for the
guitar-building workshop, and like so many other times during the course
of this trip, I would have to stay open to the unplanned.
I changed out of my riding gear, quickly deciding on the least amount of gear I would need for the next several days, stuffing it into my backpack and headed to Elizabeth's truck to squeeze the pack in amongst the piles of boxes and bags she had already loaded in the enclosed bed. After one last ditch effort to find the missing cap from the motorcycle on the wagon road where I collided with the rock (we did actually manage to find it; broken beyond repair), we hopped in the truck and made our way out of town, bobbing and weaving through the potholes and gravel I remembered so well from my ride in. It was a certainty now; I would have to try to order the part and hope that the rest fell into place. Having the actual part in hand at least gave me a better chance of describing it to any store that I called, because I certainly didn't have anything as specific as a part number to give them.
Just as we had started to settle into the drive, resigning ourselves to two hours of bumpy road, I spotted two figures standing by the side of the road near the McCarthy footbridge, backpacks on and thumbs out. I refocused my eyes and looked again, utterly disbelieving that coincidence could strike again like this; but for as much as my brain tried to deny such a thing could happen yet again, there they were - Ido and Shira!
The truck didn't even come to a full stop before I opened the passenger door, half hanging out of the cab while shouting and waving - and it took a moment for them to fully register who I was before we fell into our now regular routine of hugs, handshakes and smiling faces shaking in disbelief. They had been hiking and camping along the glacier for the entire time that I had stayed with Elizabeth and the kids, our paths never crossing once; but they had packed up their belongings and stepped out onto the road to start hitchhiking just moments before our truck drove up. As we stuffed their backpacks in the already overloaded truck bed to give them a ride for as long as we could take them along our route, I realized that if I had left on my motorcycle when I had planned, I would never have seen them; it was my misfortune with the bike that allowed us to the opportunity to see each other again.
Partially out of guilt for once again setting Elizabeth back from her schedule in arriving in Anchorage when she had planned, I offered to drive. After the exchanging of stories with Ido and Shira about what we had been doing since we had seen each other last, we fell into a content quite for the rest of the ride, interrupted only by Owen's discontent over the long haul ahead, his weapon of choice being a low, monotone moan that carried through the cab of the truck like the faint buzz of a bee that everyone can hear but no one can quite locate. I couldn't help but feel partially responsible, but I also knew that the moaning probably would have taken place at the beginning of the three and a half hour drive with or without my delaying their departure, so I tried instead to focus all my energy on driving the McCarthy road as quickly as I could while still avoiding the potholes, bumps and loose gravel. If I was eight years old and had woken up at the crack of dawn only to be crammed in the back seat of a truck with my sister, a dog and two strangers, I would probably have moaned, too...
After an hour and a half of driving, we reached the final stretch, passing through the rocky pass that designated the start (and in this case, the end) of the McCarthy road. With only pavement ahead of us, I stepped on the accelerator, feeling the same relief that I had experienced when I had reached the end of the eighty miles of gravel out of Manley. The miles rushed by, and before I was ready to acknowledge it, we had reached an intersection that would have to be where we dropped off Ido and Shira, as they had there sites set on hitchhiking south to Valdez. While we said out goodbyes on the side of the road, I knew with certainty that this would be the last time that I would see them in Alaska. We all had plans for travel in other parts of the world in the near future, though, so I could only hope that, with the way things had been going, our paths were going to cross again. I took one last look at them in the side-view mirror as we pulled back out on the highway, watching them shrink in size as they put their thumbs out to a car heading in their direction. When I could no longer see them anymore, the side view mirror catching only the reflection of empty highway receding behind us, I realized how profoundly sad I was to see them go...
The rest of the drive was long but enjoyable, and with the clear skies around us I realized how much scenery I had missed with all the bad weather I had experienced while driving up. Impressive mountain ranges jutted up from both sides of the road, and I once again felt the awe for nature that Alaska inspired. The kids had settled in to the reality of the length of the drive (no more moaning), and I made a phone call to a store in Eagle, Alaska; the only motorcycle dealership within reasonable driving distance of Anchorage that could order the part I needed by next-day-air. Without even discussing it, Elizabeth and I knew that there was no way that she could take another trip to McCarthy to get me back to the bike; I would have to make other arrangements.
As we rolled into the now familiar setting of Anchorage, I asked Elizabeth to drop me off at the hostel after a quick stop at her house. I had already imposed enough (and if things were to go as we planned, I was going to be imposing a bit more before it was all said and done), and I certainly wasn't going to ask to stay with her and her family. I did get the opportunity to finally meet Howard, but with it being late Sunday afternoon and the school year starting the next morning for both him and the kids, I made a quick exit to allow everyone the time to settle in to their new routines. I noticed (but wasn't shocked) that things hadn't changed much at the 26th Street International hostel when I arrived; the same group of characters were there, some of them appearing to have not moved at all since I had left a week ago. I settled in, making phone calls to let people at home know my status.
When Elizabeth drove me the fifteen miles to the motorcycle dealership the next day, I felt a wave of relief when the kid behind the counter put the replacement part in my hand - the plan was coming together... But after removing the cap from its plastic bag for a quick inspection, I realized that they had ordered the wrong part. I allowed the anger and frustration to bubble up only so far, as I knew that all the negative emotions in the world weren't going to get me what I needed, and time not solving the problem would only be time wasted. After establishing with certainly what the correct part actually was, the owner apologetically explained that the best he could do was have it delivered by Thursday - but with no guarantees. The plan, it now seemed, was taking its first turn, and all I could do was roll with the changes as they presented themselves.
I found ways to entertain myself the following day in the city, but when Thursday rolled around, I was more than ready to go. Elizabeth picked me up in the afternoon with the kids in tow, and after a quick phone call to confirm that the part actually did make it, we headed out for our second trip to the motorcycle dealership in Eagle. With part in hand, the second phase of the plan was about to be put in motion; I had decided to hitchhike the 265 miles back to McCarthy.
We drove the 30 extra miles north to the town of Palmer, the most logical place for me to begin hitching east. Pulling over at what looked like the location with the most potential to get started, we said our goodbyes on the side of the road. I thanked Elizabeth for both her hospitality and her willingness to help me get out of my jamb, and with a final hug, some laughs and a wave from the kids in the car, she was off, and I was on my own.
Over an hour went by with a few unsuccessful offers to take me to the next intersection (a mere quarter of a mile down the road). It wasn't until after 5 pm when a middle-aged woman pulled over in an old, beat up pickup truck, offering a more substantial ride. I climbed in, the back already overstuffed with boxes and bags of undetermined contents, and we set off. The ride went quickly, as she was only going about twenty miles in my direction, but she was full of stories about her family and children, and it felt like no time had gone by at all when she pulled over to let me out. Knowing that I may have trouble getting picked up again, she wrote her name and number on a piece of paper, telling me to call her the next day if I was still in the area tomorrow and stuck for a ride. The bar across the street, she explained, had rooms in the back, and was always willing to take in a stray hitchhiker. As she pulled away, I stared at the building, a dilapidated wooden structure with a single neon sign in the front, and I hoped that I wasn't going to have to resort to finding out what those rooms in the back actually looked like.
I stood on the side of the road with barely a car passing in either direction, when a sleek, tan SUV zoomed past, hesitating slightly just beyond were I stood. The car slowed to a stop, swinging a u-turn on the empty road and turning one more time to again face in the direction it had been going. Pulling up to me, the power window on the passenger side lowered slowly, revealing a small Asian woman with large sunglasses and braces on her teeth. She looked at me nervously, and then blurted out "I don't usually pick up hitchhikers... but something told me that I should pick you up... I hope that your a good person... please be a good person..."
The only response I could think to give to both ease her mind and secure a ride was "I'm a good person - I'm a teacher!" Apparently that (and perhaps the desperation in my voice) was sufficient, because before I knew it, my pack was loaded in the back of the car and we were on the road. Sherry was her name, originally from the Philippines, but she had met a man from Alaska when he had come to visit her country on business. Sherry had been in the military at the time, a young single mother of two who didn't possess a whole lot of desire to be wooed by a foreigner. Her husband, as she explained, was persistent, and after many long plane rides to visit her she relented, finally deciding to move herself and her children to Alaska to be with him. The gamble had paid off, as they had been happily married for over a decade.
We talked enjoyably for the entire length of the 120 mile ride, until we finally reached the Hub, the gas station at the crossroads of the Glennallen and Edgerton highways; the place I had stopped on my motorcycle before making the rest of the trip to McCarthy. I said my thank yous and goodbyes to Sherry, taking a much needed bathroom break and a refueling of coffee before stepping outside. Night was already setting in, and I had to decide quickly; do I find a place to pitch my tent for the night and start fresh in the morning, or do I press on and see how much further I could go? Almost without hesitation I threw my pack on my back and walked out to the intersection of the two highways, the thumb of my right hand back to its now familiar position. It was final without any deliberation; I would take my chances and keep moving.
Darkness had fallen, and a fine mist of rain had started again. I tightened the drawstring of my Gore-Tex jacket hood tighter to keep my head from getting wet. In the half hour that I had stood there the few cars that did pass now had their headlights on, obscuring my view of them until they were practically next to me. I glanced at my watch; well past nine thirty. I gave thought again to the idea of pitching my tent and calling it quits until morning, but just then the twin beam of headlights caught my attention. Automatically I extended my thumb, expecting the car to drive by like all the others. Instead it slowed down and pulled over, and I was able to get a better look at both the car and its driver.
The car, at least what I could see of it in the dark, was an early model Subaru station wagon, beat up and rusted with mismatched parts of various colors. The engine sputtered loudly, even while it idled on the side of the road, making me assume that the muffler was either in serious need of repair or just missing altogether. The driver, a young kid with an intense gaze and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, stared at me without saying a word. Suddenly the crossroads I stood on felt more like a metaphor for the decision I needed to make; do I decline and take my chances that another ride will show up? Or do I get in to a car that, at first glance, had all the makings of a Steven King novel?
The moment passed and the decision, wherever it came from, was made. I threw my pack on the empty back seat, and settled in to the passenger's seat. The driver quietly flicked his cigarette out the window, jammed the car into first gear, and pulled the Subaru out on to the road. The piercing roar of the engine almost making me forget that part of me was already regretting my decision...
I changed out of my riding gear, quickly deciding on the least amount of gear I would need for the next several days, stuffing it into my backpack and headed to Elizabeth's truck to squeeze the pack in amongst the piles of boxes and bags she had already loaded in the enclosed bed. After one last ditch effort to find the missing cap from the motorcycle on the wagon road where I collided with the rock (we did actually manage to find it; broken beyond repair), we hopped in the truck and made our way out of town, bobbing and weaving through the potholes and gravel I remembered so well from my ride in. It was a certainty now; I would have to try to order the part and hope that the rest fell into place. Having the actual part in hand at least gave me a better chance of describing it to any store that I called, because I certainly didn't have anything as specific as a part number to give them.
Just as we had started to settle into the drive, resigning ourselves to two hours of bumpy road, I spotted two figures standing by the side of the road near the McCarthy footbridge, backpacks on and thumbs out. I refocused my eyes and looked again, utterly disbelieving that coincidence could strike again like this; but for as much as my brain tried to deny such a thing could happen yet again, there they were - Ido and Shira!
The truck didn't even come to a full stop before I opened the passenger door, half hanging out of the cab while shouting and waving - and it took a moment for them to fully register who I was before we fell into our now regular routine of hugs, handshakes and smiling faces shaking in disbelief. They had been hiking and camping along the glacier for the entire time that I had stayed with Elizabeth and the kids, our paths never crossing once; but they had packed up their belongings and stepped out onto the road to start hitchhiking just moments before our truck drove up. As we stuffed their backpacks in the already overloaded truck bed to give them a ride for as long as we could take them along our route, I realized that if I had left on my motorcycle when I had planned, I would never have seen them; it was my misfortune with the bike that allowed us to the opportunity to see each other again.
Partially out of guilt for once again setting Elizabeth back from her schedule in arriving in Anchorage when she had planned, I offered to drive. After the exchanging of stories with Ido and Shira about what we had been doing since we had seen each other last, we fell into a content quite for the rest of the ride, interrupted only by Owen's discontent over the long haul ahead, his weapon of choice being a low, monotone moan that carried through the cab of the truck like the faint buzz of a bee that everyone can hear but no one can quite locate. I couldn't help but feel partially responsible, but I also knew that the moaning probably would have taken place at the beginning of the three and a half hour drive with or without my delaying their departure, so I tried instead to focus all my energy on driving the McCarthy road as quickly as I could while still avoiding the potholes, bumps and loose gravel. If I was eight years old and had woken up at the crack of dawn only to be crammed in the back seat of a truck with my sister, a dog and two strangers, I would probably have moaned, too...
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| I realized that this is the only picture I have of Ido and Shira. We stopped on the Kuskulana bridge on the McCarthy road for what Elizabeth explained is a ritual with the kids every time they cross - the ceremonial throwing of the stones... |
After an hour and a half of driving, we reached the final stretch, passing through the rocky pass that designated the start (and in this case, the end) of the McCarthy road. With only pavement ahead of us, I stepped on the accelerator, feeling the same relief that I had experienced when I had reached the end of the eighty miles of gravel out of Manley. The miles rushed by, and before I was ready to acknowledge it, we had reached an intersection that would have to be where we dropped off Ido and Shira, as they had there sites set on hitchhiking south to Valdez. While we said out goodbyes on the side of the road, I knew with certainty that this would be the last time that I would see them in Alaska. We all had plans for travel in other parts of the world in the near future, though, so I could only hope that, with the way things had been going, our paths were going to cross again. I took one last look at them in the side-view mirror as we pulled back out on the highway, watching them shrink in size as they put their thumbs out to a car heading in their direction. When I could no longer see them anymore, the side view mirror catching only the reflection of empty highway receding behind us, I realized how profoundly sad I was to see them go...
The rest of the drive was long but enjoyable, and with the clear skies around us I realized how much scenery I had missed with all the bad weather I had experienced while driving up. Impressive mountain ranges jutted up from both sides of the road, and I once again felt the awe for nature that Alaska inspired. The kids had settled in to the reality of the length of the drive (no more moaning), and I made a phone call to a store in Eagle, Alaska; the only motorcycle dealership within reasonable driving distance of Anchorage that could order the part I needed by next-day-air. Without even discussing it, Elizabeth and I knew that there was no way that she could take another trip to McCarthy to get me back to the bike; I would have to make other arrangements.
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| One of the views from the passenger's side after Elizabeth took over driving again. |
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| Dori taking a stroll during one of our pit stops... |
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| ...and a little goat petting during one of our others. |
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| Some rusted-out tractors at the same location as the goats. |
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| Dori, who probably looked the best out of all of us after three and a half hours in the truck. |
As we rolled into the now familiar setting of Anchorage, I asked Elizabeth to drop me off at the hostel after a quick stop at her house. I had already imposed enough (and if things were to go as we planned, I was going to be imposing a bit more before it was all said and done), and I certainly wasn't going to ask to stay with her and her family. I did get the opportunity to finally meet Howard, but with it being late Sunday afternoon and the school year starting the next morning for both him and the kids, I made a quick exit to allow everyone the time to settle in to their new routines. I noticed (but wasn't shocked) that things hadn't changed much at the 26th Street International hostel when I arrived; the same group of characters were there, some of them appearing to have not moved at all since I had left a week ago. I settled in, making phone calls to let people at home know my status.
When Elizabeth drove me the fifteen miles to the motorcycle dealership the next day, I felt a wave of relief when the kid behind the counter put the replacement part in my hand - the plan was coming together... But after removing the cap from its plastic bag for a quick inspection, I realized that they had ordered the wrong part. I allowed the anger and frustration to bubble up only so far, as I knew that all the negative emotions in the world weren't going to get me what I needed, and time not solving the problem would only be time wasted. After establishing with certainly what the correct part actually was, the owner apologetically explained that the best he could do was have it delivered by Thursday - but with no guarantees. The plan, it now seemed, was taking its first turn, and all I could do was roll with the changes as they presented themselves.
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| I have no idea why there was a windmill at the end of the street of the hostel, and even less of a clue as to why it would be decorated with neon lights... but I like the shot - sort of David Lynch goes to Kansas... |
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| A Russian Orthodox church I passed by on one of my walks. I've always loved those onion dome tops. |
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| Industry and nature - perfect together. |
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| The funny thing about this picture is, if I lowered the camera and turned it slightly to the right, you's see the local Walmart - all of a sudden, not so dramatic... |
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| I've seen some beat-up VW vans in my day, but damn... |
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| There's a space to put your shoes as you walk in to the hostel - I'd never seen red leather Russian Converse Chucks before, so I had to take a pic... Red... get it? Red... |
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| Some dusk shots around the southern part of the city... |
I found ways to entertain myself the following day in the city, but when Thursday rolled around, I was more than ready to go. Elizabeth picked me up in the afternoon with the kids in tow, and after a quick phone call to confirm that the part actually did make it, we headed out for our second trip to the motorcycle dealership in Eagle. With part in hand, the second phase of the plan was about to be put in motion; I had decided to hitchhike the 265 miles back to McCarthy.
We drove the 30 extra miles north to the town of Palmer, the most logical place for me to begin hitching east. Pulling over at what looked like the location with the most potential to get started, we said our goodbyes on the side of the road. I thanked Elizabeth for both her hospitality and her willingness to help me get out of my jamb, and with a final hug, some laughs and a wave from the kids in the car, she was off, and I was on my own.
Over an hour went by with a few unsuccessful offers to take me to the next intersection (a mere quarter of a mile down the road). It wasn't until after 5 pm when a middle-aged woman pulled over in an old, beat up pickup truck, offering a more substantial ride. I climbed in, the back already overstuffed with boxes and bags of undetermined contents, and we set off. The ride went quickly, as she was only going about twenty miles in my direction, but she was full of stories about her family and children, and it felt like no time had gone by at all when she pulled over to let me out. Knowing that I may have trouble getting picked up again, she wrote her name and number on a piece of paper, telling me to call her the next day if I was still in the area tomorrow and stuck for a ride. The bar across the street, she explained, had rooms in the back, and was always willing to take in a stray hitchhiker. As she pulled away, I stared at the building, a dilapidated wooden structure with a single neon sign in the front, and I hoped that I wasn't going to have to resort to finding out what those rooms in the back actually looked like.
I stood on the side of the road with barely a car passing in either direction, when a sleek, tan SUV zoomed past, hesitating slightly just beyond were I stood. The car slowed to a stop, swinging a u-turn on the empty road and turning one more time to again face in the direction it had been going. Pulling up to me, the power window on the passenger side lowered slowly, revealing a small Asian woman with large sunglasses and braces on her teeth. She looked at me nervously, and then blurted out "I don't usually pick up hitchhikers... but something told me that I should pick you up... I hope that your a good person... please be a good person..."
The only response I could think to give to both ease her mind and secure a ride was "I'm a good person - I'm a teacher!" Apparently that (and perhaps the desperation in my voice) was sufficient, because before I knew it, my pack was loaded in the back of the car and we were on the road. Sherry was her name, originally from the Philippines, but she had met a man from Alaska when he had come to visit her country on business. Sherry had been in the military at the time, a young single mother of two who didn't possess a whole lot of desire to be wooed by a foreigner. Her husband, as she explained, was persistent, and after many long plane rides to visit her she relented, finally deciding to move herself and her children to Alaska to be with him. The gamble had paid off, as they had been happily married for over a decade.
We talked enjoyably for the entire length of the 120 mile ride, until we finally reached the Hub, the gas station at the crossroads of the Glennallen and Edgerton highways; the place I had stopped on my motorcycle before making the rest of the trip to McCarthy. I said my thank yous and goodbyes to Sherry, taking a much needed bathroom break and a refueling of coffee before stepping outside. Night was already setting in, and I had to decide quickly; do I find a place to pitch my tent for the night and start fresh in the morning, or do I press on and see how much further I could go? Almost without hesitation I threw my pack on my back and walked out to the intersection of the two highways, the thumb of my right hand back to its now familiar position. It was final without any deliberation; I would take my chances and keep moving.
Darkness had fallen, and a fine mist of rain had started again. I tightened the drawstring of my Gore-Tex jacket hood tighter to keep my head from getting wet. In the half hour that I had stood there the few cars that did pass now had their headlights on, obscuring my view of them until they were practically next to me. I glanced at my watch; well past nine thirty. I gave thought again to the idea of pitching my tent and calling it quits until morning, but just then the twin beam of headlights caught my attention. Automatically I extended my thumb, expecting the car to drive by like all the others. Instead it slowed down and pulled over, and I was able to get a better look at both the car and its driver.
The car, at least what I could see of it in the dark, was an early model Subaru station wagon, beat up and rusted with mismatched parts of various colors. The engine sputtered loudly, even while it idled on the side of the road, making me assume that the muffler was either in serious need of repair or just missing altogether. The driver, a young kid with an intense gaze and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, stared at me without saying a word. Suddenly the crossroads I stood on felt more like a metaphor for the decision I needed to make; do I decline and take my chances that another ride will show up? Or do I get in to a car that, at first glance, had all the makings of a Steven King novel?
The moment passed and the decision, wherever it came from, was made. I threw my pack on the empty back seat, and settled in to the passenger's seat. The driver quietly flicked his cigarette out the window, jammed the car into first gear, and pulled the Subaru out on to the road. The piercing roar of the engine almost making me forget that part of me was already regretting my decision...
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