The First Leg

Day One

July 12, 1998. I set out at 1:30 p.m. from Corvallis, Oregon leaving Jill in tears on the sidewalk outside that dumpy old apartment that I've called home for nearly a year now. It is a heartbreaking moment for us both. Jill is the picture of tragedy, her face a crush of sad tears, love and something else. Pride? She claims she is proud of me. But what a price, this newfound strength of mine. It is too terrible to dwell on. I drive away and try not to think. There is no denial, no anger, only sadness.

It is on the highway east, that ugly corridor between Corvallis and Interstate 5, that I experienced my first moment of total elation, howling farewell to that place of sickness where more by guilt than anything I have remained far longer than I should have. Guilt, but also love.

The last preparations to leave were a nightmarish slogging obstacle course, the worst combination of guilt and horror and stuffed excitement. Though Jill wants only for my happiness, I found it almost impossible to leave her and Oregon for the sake of my own mental health. Every excited look ahead at the road felt traitorous, so I said nothing, or as little as possible. It was like waiting for an execution, and when at last I left it was as if I had killed her, right there on the street. One can only wonder what sort of messages we are given as children to instill such guilt into the mere act of graceful surrender when circumstances make a relationship impossible.

I drove 475 miles that first day. A good-sized haul for a 22-year old vehicle carrying one and a half times its factory weight, and that after an entire winter sitting idle. I pulled off the highway in the mountains just east of Couer d'Alene, Idaho, and spent my first night staring up at a clear starlit night through the 15 square foot bubble skylight of the trunk sculpture. According to my road notes, I had received my first real warm reception at an Umatilla, WA, Arco station were in the space of a few minutes I sold half a dozen postcards. I had driven the northern route from the Columbia River Gorge to Spokane and then into Idaho. Already people were pulling over and waiting for me to drive by so they could snap a picture. I was excited to learn that I was getting nearly 10 mpg, a full 2 or 3 mpg more than I'd anticipated. Though I left for the road with just barely enough cash to get to Minneapolis and no money to get back or for any frills, I rolled the dice and bought a deep cell RV battery for $60 to assure that I would be able to run my computer. Already I was moving confidently out into the world again, taking risks in the name of art that I hadn't had the courage to take in a long time.

I remember the sun setting over Washington farm country, eating corn from a can, alternately singing to and beating the Panasonic lemon, the pricey boom box I'd bought in 1995 and now had to thrash on occasion to get it to play out of both speakers. I wrote in my notebook, "Be thankful for what you got," a bit of wisdom I believe came from a song I was listening to at the time.

Day Two

Miner's Hat Reality. Wallace, Idaho, the location set for last year's summer sizzle film "Dante's Peak." Tears in my eyes at the sight of a white garage covered in huge, decorative butterflies. Jill would love that. Tired of my music selection, I begin listening to a set of self-esteem tapes my dad gave me. The speaker quotes Eleanor Roosevelt as saying, "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent." Hmm. How bout that. I make a note to myself to do two things for Duke: get a log book going that people can sign, like a visitor's log, and also write a mission statement for Duke, so that for now on I have a quick, clear answer to the why question. Mr. Self-Esteem says, "If life gives you a lemon.." How very Duke.

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Last update April 1, 2004