Wrangling (rough), Oregon (eastern)

Hunter's Lodge

Nearing the end of a productive and inspiring road trip, really only a long day's drive to get home, I have feelings of melancholy already and so I sit next to an old guy at the bar at the Hunter's Lodge, someone who looks like he's been around a lot, and ask him, "What the fuck?"

"Here's one way of doing it, and by the way my name's Zeno. You can continue on your way home, but each day travel only half of the distance between your departure point and your home. That way, you're still doing the right thing, but it will take much longer. 'Course, eventually you'll only be moving fractions of inches a day and it will look, to everyone around you, that you are actually home."

"But Zeno, if I never technically reach home, how can I get back to work?"

"Young man, after talking to you for a few minutes, I think I can say that you've never been closer than a few fractions of an inch to the real world anyway and you'll never notice the difference."

So, again, just like it always was, it is what it is. And, I'm the Americanist.

The Lostine

It's warm in this remote campground on the Lostine River, and the big horseflies are irritating so I decide to swat some of them. Only, to make things more interesting (and my hand reflexes are still pretty quick), I use a small ball-peen hammer (the flat end) and start swinging. The hammer hitting the table makes quite a racket and after 15 kills the neighboring campers have all turned their heads towards me. "It's all right, I shout - this hammer was made in the good old US of A!" They all turn away, shaking the ice in their cocktail glasses, indicating their approval.

WHAM! Number 16. I'm the Americanist.

Cheese Fries

Before leaving on a road trip I purchase novels at the used book store, my criteria for choosing books being the story's location, the cover art and title, and the quick descriptions inside the book jacket. So, I bought a qualifier, a "dark delirious journey down the highway of the contemporary soul...brutal, perverse and deeply alarming, a diabolical novel of the interstate." Perfect, right? Kicking and twisting the sleeping bag into a knot, waking up every half hour listening for clues in the silent forest, expecting the car to explode spontaneously as we cruise on the backroads. Then, about half way through this "mescaline slurpee" I turn the page and a small cash register receipt falls out for food the previous owner of the book had bought: CHZ Fry and 24oz soda and it was dated September 10, 2001. True story. I'm the Americanist.