If I don’t recognize it, haven’t used it, or remember why I bought it…I trashed it. I unsubscribed from everything. I didn’t even do a change of address, I simply cancelled everything and went paperless.
And at the zero hour, while the airport cab idled, Darlene cancelled my cell phone subscriptions with one powerful blow of her hammer, a tool she uses like a leatherman, an all-in-one which I bought her when her rock wore out.
To the airport. The international terminal, please.
Three days from Portland to Tucson through the red hills of Utah. Fossils, slot canyons, Mormons, Jay’s SLR and polygamy beer. We left behind everything, either sold or stashed, save the grey truck, exploding with bikes and climbing gear, which we laid to rest in the hands of Kamillia. So began our wanderlust.
I drafted a letter to my employer, requesting a leave of absence, a leave to explore the world for one year.
No guarantees, no promise of a job upon my return, nothing.
But then again, Portland may not be my residence of return. Emotions lofting in the air- an ocean breeze for a one-way ticket to Casablanca, a week in Madrid with Tess; Turbulent clouds contemplating which countries in Africa are safe, can I get a visa for Iran in Turkey, do I have enough money saved?
Darlene’s leave of absence approved- last day of work July 31st, 2009.
Celebratory bottle, compliments of the boy, Châteauneuf-du-Pape June 16th, 2009.
One month ago,
I purchased a world map.
Not an engrossing wall mural waiting to be tortured with pins,
but rather a timid foldout
with Europe and Africa placed centrally, Asia to the east leaving the Americas far left.
Whimsical, hand-drawn watercolor pictographs of mountain ranges, cites and countrysides are surrounded by ocean hues of blue. I am reminded of my 6th grade history textbook and smile.
At first, it just sat in in the corner, propped up carelessly,
resting atop less important papers,
I ignored its significance.
Today, I caught myself flirting with its folds, brushing a finger across Cameroon, down into Namibia. How might I traverse such miles of desert? Winter or spring? Would we skip South Africa, continue East searching out a sailboat to crew, direction Madagascar? Vietnam for Christmas?
I’m liable to stumble down Alice’s rabbit hole….
“Microburst [mahy-kruh-burst]: A sudden, violent downdraft of air over a small area (less than 6.24 sq mi) that lasts at least 25 minutes. Microbursts can cause winds with speeds as high as 167 mph. They are difficult to detect and predict with standard weather instruments.”
We returned to the River of No Return with truckloads of respect. You have to respect your gods, the River Gods.
We rigged our boats and set off. Each morning we toasted our gods with sacrificial beer and every evening we feasted over fires, danced, played music, sang, and hoola-hooped our way across the Salmon’s beaches. We loved our Gods. On the fifth night, we donned red dresses in ceremonial honor of their benevolence.
Yet despite it all, on the sixth day, the burst came. I’m not one to point fingers, but someone seriously disrespected a God. We had no idea what we were about to endure. In fact, we all pretty much stood there complacently watching a massive weather system come soaring up the canyon, snapping full grown ponderosas as it came. Reality dawned on us in the form of blinding sand-whipped winds. It trashed tents, battered bodies, released rains, and dispensed confusion as people took cover behind whatever they could find.
When it finally passed, we blinked, spat, and rubbed sand from our eyes. The camp was in shambles and trees were down all around us. Our beers were full of sand, so we uncorked the well-sealed Whiskey.
The next morning, in quiet awe, we floated our final miles in deep respect. Relenting, the sun came out, spirits returned, rapids rock and rolled and we remembered how much we love our gods.
It was a simple reminder: Always Tip Your Gods.