My breath plumes from my sleeping bag in the dim 6am light. My legs are a little sweaty, my chest is warm, my nose and the tips of my ears are cold. This is how it goes each morning here, dreading the moment I have to unzip my sleeping bag. At first, I’d do it bit by bit, marveling at how I could feel the warmth flow out of my sleeping bag like a dammed-up lake slowly let loose, even at my feet I could feel the warmth fleeing. It would run over my hand and out into the dry Himalayan cold never to return. Finally, in one last tug I’d let out the rest, jump out of my bag (as we’ve climbed higher, I’ve started wearing more clothes to bed. At first it was just my underwear, then my thermals, now it’s my thermals and my sweater) and get
When I was young, I was raised on a billionaire’s farm, which was only really called a farm for tax purposes. Most farms don’t have driving ranges, stocked lakes, multiple hot tubs, an arboretum, or a waterfall. My grandfather was the horse trainer and my grandmother did odds and ends around the mansion house. When the owner was around, we were relegated to our little corner, a pre-build some half-mile away on the other end of the property, but more often than not he was gone. As a kid, it took me some time to realize we weren’t the rich ones. When I was around eight my grandma and I got an offer from the helicopter pilot to go for a ride. It was a thrilling offer, it set my rambunctious brain scurrying with dreams of flying, yet when the time came to hop in, I got nervous, so nervous
I landed in Kathmandu on March 3rd after a long flight from Seattle. The flight was as pleasant as a flight that long can be (12 hours for the first leg, 7 for the second). My seatmates for the long stretch were a rotund couple who seemed like soul mates—they complained about everything in perfect unison, their monotone mumblings in enviable harmony, a kind of synchronized suffering one spends their whole life looking for; the food, the space, other people, all were problems for them, yet when all was done and their duet was over, the rotund lady leaned onto the rotund man and they drifted off to sleep together, smiling. My layover was in Istanbul where I slept on my sleeping pad and camping pillow which I’d made sure to not pack away with the rest of my hiking gear. I used the complimentary blanket from Turkish Airlines
Dedicated to Anthony DeAngelo and his husband Wes, thanks for checking up on me. “Our Father who art in nature, who has given the gift of survival to the coyote, the common brown rat, the English sparrow, the house fly and the moth, must have a great and overwhelming love for no-goods and blots-on-the-town and bums, and Mack and the boys. Virtues and graces and laziness and zest.” -John Steinbeck from Cannery Row The weather is turning in Seattle. Keats called Autumn the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” (I had to memorize that poem in college) but here it’s a bleak drizzle, and yet the strangest thing is I love it. My toes get cold if I don’t wear socks at night, soups are in season, and rain is tapping on my window even as I write this. A few days ago, on one of the last clear days
Flies are dancing around the coffee shop in twirls and spins as I sip a lavender mocha, overpriced but enjoyable. In one week, I’ll catch a one-way flight to Iceland, from there to Paris, where I’ll tramp my way to Croatia hunting for the cure to a quarter-life crisis. The coffee shop blares Elton John, then Red Hot Chili Peppers, then something heavy in brass and maracas. Heavily-tatted people in Carhart hats and faded jeans laugh, old men in sandals read the local paper, and a lady surveys the tea wall for the third time. A friend will come with me, Christian, a co-worker I once despised, and who despised me, but bitterness breeds good friendships, and so it was with us. We dated the same girl, one after the other, before being housed together for a long weekend of work. As we talked, we
(Writer’s Note: this is not a eulogy, even though it should be. I’m sorry for that, Sam) Up high along the peaks of the Smokies where Tennessee and North Carolina meet I met a deer. I was hiking because I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I had lost a friend, and life was changing rapidly, and work was going so well I felt guilty, and all the promise and potential felt like a heavy burden. So, I packed my bag and left. The deer was completely unafraid. It ate grass calmly and glanced up only at sudden movements, but even then, only nonchalantly. It didn’t seem apathetic so much as unimpressed, which was a comfort. It’s incredibly nice to be cared about without expectation. So many people are as invested in me as I am in them, and this is good, it helps the world
The ocean never stops. That’s why I get seasickness so bad, but I also think that’s why I like it. The tide goes in and out, wave lapping upon wave, carrying the sand out and placing it gently down in a new place. However, despite constant motion, things stay, ultimately, the same. … J-Dawgs, Provo’s premier hotdog hangout, has always been a think tank for me. I’m not sure why, but when I’m there discussion comes easy and ideas seem to flow. So, upon getting back from the U.K. it felt like a good place to meet Christian to share my travel stories. Our thirty-minute lunch talk ran long, stretching one hour, then two, then three, four, five, until seven hours later we decided it was time for dinner. Travel stories often lend themselves to travel plans, and so the travel bug spreads. As we reminisced, we planned a
On my first night in London, I roomed with three girls from California. I was exhausted from the day of long flights and near-missed layovers, but I clung to those girls like a lost child to a helpful adult. Hanging with them got me into this group of thirteen travelers that night who set off on a drunken scramble to find a bar that had something to do with vintage records, though I don’t much remember the details. We never made it; I know that. Instead, we hit up a lot of little hole-in-the-wall pubs until we ended up back at the hostel with the help of our German guide, Izzy. The girls insisted I take Izzy, our German guide we found, back to her room. So, the blind led the blind only to find that my bunkmates had stolen my room key in an attempt to play matchmaker.