You think you can do what I do?

As far as my associates know, I've spent the last three weeks traveling cross-country on the Oregon Trail, in search of a new life in the off-world colonies. And not, as might also be supposed, living in my car and working out of a studio somewhere in West Virginia, Photoshopping myself into various national monuments and writing inane blog posts about beer and cheap motels.

Without confirming or denying these allegations on either side, if this sort of adventure appeals to you, here's a brief guide to your options in how to get from point A to point B when those points are over 3000 miles apart.

1. Decide the nature of your trip. This will by necessity be the product of your circumstances, to some extent. For instance, if you have a full-time 'job,' three weeks of vacation may not be feasible. If your employment is flexible, you may choose as I did to work 'from the road.' If you have sufficient liquid capital saved, you may choose to forgo employment and treat your 'slow travel adventure' as a vacation.

Be advised that the most economical way to relocate yourself and your belongings is undoubtedly to liquidate as many of your possessions as feasible and fly. You will soon realize that to purchase a physical object is not only to buy the object, but also to pay to get it to your home, to pay for the space to store it (as a fraction of your lease or mortgage), to pay to maintain, insure, and protect it, and to pay to relocate it if you move.

If you are not concerned with economy, or if you are attached to possessions, you can drive. A car can hold much more densely packed smaller objects than you would think, and it is only items of extreme dimensional weight (mattresses, large/assembled furniture, etc.) which pose an issue. I cannot recommend non-weatherproof roof storage unless you can exert control over the weather or are prepared to frequently install and remove it.

Your cost of living will increase on the road by a factor of maybe threefold, which is important to bear in mind. Unless you increase your income threefold and still to make progress, you will lose money doing this. Undeterred? Read on.

Oregon Trail - Part 9 - No good deed

I've been living hotel to motel for weeks, and I'm currently parked in a discount motel in Portland. The internet is intermittent, but otherwise it's as decent as it's possible for it to be. I go from apartment to apartment, one of which looks like a halfway house and requires the occupant to go down the hall and through the kitchen to reach the bathroom. In a way, I miss the road.

I get groceries and bring a plastic bag to re-use. I get offered a paper one, the clerk saying, "You want to use that? Shameful plastic!" Of course I realize later that plastic shopping bags are banned in the city, but really I'm following the spirit of the rule if not the letter, huh? What do you want from me? The ban goes on to recommend you line your garbage can with newspaper and wash it out regularly instead, which brings to mind: that sounds pretty unsanitary, who has the space/sink/time to wash out a garbage can, what the fuck kind of environmental activist still reads the news on paper? Paper bags are great, sure, and biodegrade easily, and in a city where it rains 96% of the time, maybe biodegrades even before you reach your car bike or mass transit.

While waiting outside one of those apartments, I go for a walk (it is not the first time my knock has gone unanswered), and find a wallet. I phone the police, unsure of whom else to defer to, since there's not obvious contact info and the license is from Washington. I wait with it for an officer for another half hour, but then call back and explain politely that I need to leave, to finally go look at this apartment, and nobody's been dispatched to pick this thing up. I offer to take it to a mailbox (USPS apparently mails wallets back to owners for free), but the dispatcher recommends against it. I try to explain that the only other option is for me to leave it there, because what the hell am I going to do, take it? Even if I dropped it off at the nearest precinct, that's across the river, and I'm trying to be a good Samaritan, not a civil saint.

Anyway, while touring the apartment, I get a call from an officer who's come to pick it up, and whom I can see out the window and play a sort of "you're getting warmer" game with him from my vantage point while he no doubt scans for a red laser bead and wonders just who the hell this 'grassy knoll' guy on the phone is. He finds it, I hang up, and eventually make it down the block to introduce myself, and evidently give my name and date of birth for his report, though why he didn't ask on the phone, who knows. I sympathize; clearly the PD is busy that day and I'm wasting time with a not-actual-crime, other than that there's no cash in the wallet, for which I am now undoubtedly the number one suspect, and this poor guy has to fill out a report for some citizen from another state who couldn't bother to keep his wallet in his pants.

I head back to the motel to simultaneously dry out and not dry out, as I make my way through the Sierra Nevada Beer Camp. I promise myself to publish my musings on it, as well as the Lessons from the Road which I have learned.

Oregon Trail - Twin Peaks - Part 8 or something

I can't afford a room at the Great Northern, so the North Bend Motel will have to do. It's nice, clean, and though the rates are not published, it costs pretty much what it ought to. The woman in the room next to mine is smoking in her doorway, and behind her I see a bicycle and a harp, and in front of her I see no car in the parking lot, and I am wondering what that story may be, wondering whether she can carry this massive harp on a bicycle, wondering if she smokes cigarettes while riding the bicycle.

I go to the store and get a package of smoked salmon for breakfast and a box of Sierra Nevada Beer Camp beers, because hey, the mission here is to be as gamey as possible.

I wake up to the sound of lovely harp music, and as I pack my car, the harpist comes out and warns me that a little bird she's befriended is hiding under my car, and that I should coax him out before I pull away. By the time I leave, the bird is long gone.

Oregon Trail - Part Six - Rapid City

First, some words about the Corn Palace.

The Corn Palace, which advertises from the highway that you should 'cornsider' visiting this
one-of-a-kind attraction, is a multipurpose municipal building for Mitchell, SD. Home to concerts,

basketball, vaccinations and more, this would-be tourist draw was more than I expected. Built in
the 20's and renovated through today, the corn is grown in 12 colors by one farmer and must be
replaced annually on the exterior. A mild summer meant a delayed harvest, and the school-aged
workforce is suddenly busy, making repairs slow. The woman giving the tour and manning the guestbook table remarks that she's pleased that the venue is used so much. I'm impressed as well; the structure is both enduring and endearing, adjoined to the town hall, and rather than (as I had assumed) a tacky tourist draw which locals put up with for the economic boost of souvenir sales (which there are, no doubt), it seems to be a rallying point for the community and makes me entertain, for a brief moment, the notion of moving to Mitchell.

I press onwards instead. Rapid City is a fantastic town, with perhaps the best hotel of my stay, for half the price of the most expensive. I go to the Firehouse Brewery for a good burger and some okay beer. On the way back, I see a girl with what looks at first like a stuffed toy fox, then like a taxidermied fox, then finally like a pet fox, with a leash and everything. I keep walking in search of another drink, which after that incident, I tell myself I need, and believe it. The Adoba hotel provides hip, stylish accommodations with extra amenities and custom omelets at breakfast. Other guests marvel at my card-access ninth floor room, while I explain that I am not in fact some VIP, but that they must have run out of normal rooms and had to give me a fancy one on the cheap. In actuality, I suspect there is little difference, but no matter since the room was great and I intend to return there some day.

In Montana, I drive past a small radio tower guarded by, I shit you not, TANKS, one of which has
a giant missile on the back. I do not stop to make a photo or even slow for a better look, lest the
Howitzer atop the second tank perforate myself, my vehicle, and my possessions. A store on the
side of the road has vintage cameras, but no bathroom, so I move on.

I stop in Hardin to get some work done and stay in a cinderblock room that's pretty clean and
makes a decent office. I reflect that any hotel with a policy prohibiting alcohol on premises and a
bottle opener on the bathroom wall is a taunting contradiction. Obesity seems widespread here;
my Philly cheese steak drips with white American cheese that has melted back into its constituent milkfat, canola oil, and polyurethane. I have a steak at a restaurant run by plain-dressed folk, and when I get back to the laundromat where I've left my clothes, a woman is apologizing and putting quarters in the dryer for my clothes; my understanding is that due to the majority of driers being out of order, she had to commandeer the one that contained my clothes, but when she removed them, they were not quite dry. I appreciate the gesture, and being no stranger to communal driers, I sympathize. I stop by the grocery store to see displays of butter, packs of American cheese larger than should be available outside a commercial setting, and other 'red flags' but nothing summed it up as well as this salad, which I promise contained lettuce, probably. Decent beer selection for Montana, but I don't buy any.

I also see this magazine:

I reflect the that thing to "just do" must be "die" because otherwise, I think aging is inevitable.

I check out the next morning, and the woman at the desk (which I believe is in her living room—it has a suspiciously nice television and I suspect she lives upstairs) remarks that I have a new shirt on; I had explained when she first commented on how well-dressed I was (overdressed, in fact, for the entire town), I explained that I was out of shirts. Anyway, upon her remembering this which I had already forgotten, I explain that I made it to the laundromat after all. And then I leave, because I've got to make it to Spokane before bedtime.

Oregon Trail - Part Seven

I roll into Devils Tower and make some photos. Perfect timing lands me there at golden hour; blame the wasted time in Deadwood. I brag about this to a friend of mine; "Go fuck yourself," he says. I reply that this is what everyone here has been telling me as I distractedly try and swat the flies off of my elk/bison burger (it's gamey) and indeed, away from my water. I wonder what the flies like about the water. I know they like me on account of I'm full of shit. Anyway, Deadwood is mostly a attraction which has been entirely rebuilt, because essentially every building in Deadwood has burned down at least once. Much like the RV trailer I pass on the side of the road. The cops are there and it looks like everyone's okay, but I don't stick around. I see a guy who looks just like Wild Bill Hickock, and I can't decide whether he's a costume character, or just a character. Halloween, I reflect, is just around the corner. As is Wyoming, so I beat feet.

I book a room at the Hulett Motel in a town of under 400 people, many of whom seem to work in establishments to serve the Devils Tower tourism industry. Things in the town are expensive as a rule, perhaps due to higher cost of bringing them in to the remote location, but the motel is very reasonably priced and discounted on account of it being nearly empty.

I crack my Three Floyds/Mikkeller Majsgoop (y'know, 'majs' like corn). It smells hoppy in a gnarly way, and taste kinda follows. Not at all like corn, mostly just a big American barleywine.Hoppy, but not completely unmanageable. Maybe I needed to save this for a couple years. I don't even save it for a day, and toss the last couple sips rather than exacerbate the next morning's headache.

I shake that headache with some food from the café next door and steep some tea. I take it to go and head back to Devils Tower. I pass on some overpriced sunscreen and regret it, paying more for less at the profiteer establishments outside the park. It occurs to me that this is a more sensible business model, making more money from fewer purchases, than the hotel's policy of discounting during low demand, but I'm thankful for it. The Motel is nice, the clerk at the front desk had a long conversation with me about life, photography, and my fake northern accent, and it's the first place I've stayed in for two nights in a row. I make sure to make positive mention of the place, because I have told her about this blog.


Anyway, I buy the hotel and just as I get to the ranger station, the ranger is explaining how there's going to be a solar eclipse today. Go figure, on the day I pay too much for sunscreen. I should've bargained, but the clerk had a radio voice that can outmatch mine any day so it might've been in vain.

I get back and have dinner and a New Glarus Pie Lust. I have to read the label before I realize what has struck me about the beer; it's a wheat beer. And to be honest, it doesn't taste much like pumpkin or pie spice at all. But then, Apple Jacks don't taste like apple. Smells spicy though,

Oregon Trail - Part Five - Out on the Edge of the Prairie

Visiting the Mall of America was perhaps an ill-advised idea. The best reason I had was a Star Trek exhibition, which was under-lit, and expensive for what it was. The Minnesota Public Radio store (I looked) was years since closed. The two places claiming to serve tea (and I'm not even counting Teavana on that list), on further inspection, do not. Even the Star Trek exhibition is an overpriced disappointment.

I just miss the shuttle back to the hotel, so I walk it; it's less than a mile. I nearly step on what looks to be a used condom. I shuffle my feet in the grass as I pass by a LabCorp building, wondering if they could test my shoes for AIDS.

I make it to another tea place. It's maybe not exactly what I would've envisioned, but it's pretty close. I steep and set up camp to get some work in. My tea leaves are enormous and taste faintly of salmon. Someone comes in hopping on one foot, and keeps it up for the entire transaction. Evidently she is supposed to be wearing a cast but lacks the patience for donning and removing it. The staff insist on helping her exit, or at least carrying her hot tea. Whether someone could carry hot tea without spilling it while hopping will remain a mystery. I step next door to AAA for an emergency (paper) map and order some more tea. The selection really was remarkable, and it was a redeeming end to my misadventures in Minnesota.

I burn rubber down state roads, cutting a diagonal slice and trying to make up time for my detour. I drive like I'm on the run from the law, having killed my Past Self and left him in a ditch by the side of the road, wondering if they'll make the connection between my face and the one on the slab at the morgue—the insanity in my eyes and the glaze on his. If there's any advice I can give; don't be beholden to the person you were yesterday. Sure, you may owe where you are now, for better or for worse, to them, but that's no reason to carry their torch.

Sometimes you've got to use the torch to burn a bridge under your ass. Though in a place as fart-smelling as this state, I'd be careful lighting anything on fire. Even once I'm out of the sulfurous state, South Dakota smells like skunks, which I reflect is not much of an improvement.

The jackass behind me seems adamant on illuminating my back bumper—I can see no other clear reason for his gratuitous use of high-beams unless to daze me in preparation for him to pass me, which he mercifully does.

I decide to skip out on the Kool-Aid of the fancy hotel chain and go for a Days Inn to salve my budget. The hotel room is cheap but clean, in spite of its appearance. The only actual dirty thing in the room is booklet of menus and the porno DVD in the front cover. Fastest wi-fi on the trip so far which bodes well because it is going to be a long night. But first I need food. Somehow I've gotten hungry again, and I see within walking distance: an IHOP, a 24-hour family restaurant, and a dive bar/casino. If you have to ask which one I chose, you need to start reading this blog from the beginning, friend.

When I get in, the kitchen is closing, so I'm told my only options are fried foods or a pizza. This doesn't bother me as much as I wish it would. I get some fried mushrooms and they are actually darn good. Casinos are terrible, at least in concept; this one appears populated by multi-game video gambling machines from the Atari era. The staff are diligently cleaning and dusting everything despite the dim lighting, including the Captain Morgan statue.

I go back to my room and drink my New Glarus Spotted Cow and try to get some work done. The beer is a normal brown ale, and good, the same way a Lammsbräu is.

I think back about the casino staff then as people instead of concepts, and wonder whether they are doing what they really want to be doing; wonder what their dreams were when they were young. What they may be now. Wondering whether when they articulate these dreams, do they preface with, "when I grow up," do they consider themselves grown-up already?

Do I?

Oregon Trail - High Divide Double Blonde

Big estery nose like peaches and cream. I used an Aventinus glass because, strangely enough, it was the one that was handy. Shows off a lovely gradient of amber to gold and a thick, persistent head.

One sip of this and I'm a believer. Pete wasn't yanking my chain at all. This is a singularly great beer. What the hell does 'double blond' mean anyway? It was only Pete's note and the crazy wax dipping that made me take note. It's brewed with "honey malt, fresh Wenatchee peaches and cherries, then aged in white wine barrels for four months." And that sounds kinda like a crapshoot—a high-risk, high-yield operation for sure since cherry is a notoriously difficult flavor and peach is hardly ever even attempted.

So the flavor is mostly peach. Cherry is there if you look, subtle, but it works together, I promise. The wine barreling ties it all together with a nice little off-dry bow on top. Dangerously drinkable, dangerously interesting; each sip demands another and in spite of the relatively high alcohol content (and relatively high price), I could drink this all night.

And given that I'm alone in this here hotel room, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do.