Road Rage

This entry won't be my proudest though I doubt will be the worst due the dissonance of getting in touch with a more rambunctiously impulsive self coupled with rough old values kicking and screaming on their way out. When referring to yours truly in this story, I throw the term hero around loosely, being more of an antihero or just protagonist at best. The one Greek antihero of mythology I tend to associate with is Achilles who's name, itself, is derived from both "grief" and "nation/tribe." The misdirected anger that my ancient idol unleashed against both friend and foe at Troy would find itself emulated in me in this particular day. At least admitting shame, now, provides this tale some hope for a human character that my audience can come to identify with.

One more night in Flagstaff was all I needed for chronicling's sake. My saddlebags were still packed up, though, as the weekend had arrived with its rates - often three times that of Monday through Thursday. Thankfully there was one motel in town demanding less than Andrew Jackson's mug. Rather, it was a motel turned hostel.

It was a quaint place to call home for the day. The Debeau was one of the only establishments I had seen on this portion of Route 66 to maintain some vestige of its American past. Due to the town's position to tourist destinations such as the Grand Canyon, I wouldn't be enjoying a room all to myself this time. However, the only roommate I connected with actually looked like an inmate. Despite his rough, just-made-bail disposition, he was the only person friendly enough to converse with me since the rest appeared to be stuck up Europeans.

His name was Franco and with my amused permission, he called me "B." Franco was under the weather but his spirits seemed high. He invested in a Greyhound bus pass that allowed him to travel any route for thirty days with national parks as his waypoints, very much like myself, though twice my age. Most times he was courteous enough to leave me to my writing but on occasion, I'd put the journal down to entertain conversations from where to get the best spaghetti and meatballs to legends about Hemingway staying in this very motel.

Aside from Franco, the evening receptionist was a delight to connect with. She had an accent that was unique enough to consider foreign but familiar to my ears as well. Apparently Elise got that a lot and was actually just from the Bay Area - my second home. I did my best to keep my conversations were her brief and impersonal as I got the impression that every guy passing through the joint only chats to hit on her. Be that as it may, her smiles never seen insincere. Having mentioned my intentions to camp on my own this weekend up north, the hostess was kind enough to share her own experiences and divulged onto a piece of paper a list of her favorite spots.

Staying downtown and off the outskirts of town was a huge change of scenery. Many of my friends back home are self-proclaimed people watchers but I never really cared to observe until I was attempting to write away in a corner bagel shop. Being closed to the university must have had a hand in it but I saw some of the most interesting people walk by from pirates to unicyclists. On my search that evening for a plate of spaghetti, I did meet one character from the streets - a Navajo Indian by the name of Keith. Admittedly, I hadn't interacted with Native Americans much, if ever, but only part of my assumptions were true in sharing a block's stroll with him. Yes, he was homeless and could go for a Big Mac or beer but he was inherently good natured inspite of his circumstances. Although unemployed, myself, I figured being in the same boat in both blood and sojourning, I practiced some charity. Later that night, walking back from my meal, he would run into me again. Even though it was dark, he remembered my name and did not ask for any more change. Instead we just walked and talked. Keith was trying to get to Utah border - back to the Navajo Nation. Coincidentally, I was heading there too and had I the room on Chance, I would have welcomed the cousin as a passenger.

Morning came quick and for once, I watched the sun rise from a dining room table surrounded by wonderful people, befitting a day most exciting. There was a retired and quirky Australian couple, a jubilant Japanese couple moving to Kansas, and a fellow not much older than me who felt like staying an extra night in Flagstaff after a business meeting. We were all so different in how we ate toast yet we laughed very much the same.

I wish I had stayed downtown to begin with! Chance was getting all sorts of attention from passers by as if she were a celebrity. But alas, my next adventure was calling: Monument Valley Navajo Tribal Park.

It was the quintessential wild west backdrop popularized by many John Wayne movies. What better place to pitch a tent to experience my first solo camping venture as well as save some cash? Well, it looked like a little frugality from here on was demanded of me at a dusty old gas station somewhere between Flagstaff and the Utah border.

"Declined," the Native behind the cash register uttered in a devil may care tone. It would seem that REI, the financier for this expedition, has run out of funds for me and my intrepid vehicle. I would now need to dip into the emergency reserves provided by Cabelas. This was alarming. The anxiety I felt was on par with the second time Chance bit the dust, forcing me to realize the end of this journey was nigh. Watching the fuel pump instead of down my tank to make sure she got her fill for once, I contemplated my options again, looking up and down the road. Turn around for home now or sally forth into the glorious unknown, essentially leaping first and building my wings on the way down. The gravity of the situation didn't weigh on me very long.

As the desert trek was long, Chance and I took on more breaks than usual. One was at a historic trading post whose quirky billboards on the way to it lured me in. When I arrived, however, I was lost in a crowded parking lot that could rival a Walmart's. The mega building itself was far from rustic - it had that fabricated wear, much like overpriced pre-distressed jeans. Inside was essentially a resort. Whatever remained of the once historic trading post was lost to Vegas Strip-quality decor, five-star restaurant and gift shop that would fit in at the Mall of America. The tackiness in which this Indian-run establishment was commercializing cultural artifacts to the point of making caricatures of their heritage did make me wonder. It irked me for but a moment as I began to rationalize that the Native Americans were dealt an unfair card and this was a means to be resourceful in a dark chapter. I will admit, the bandoliers and leather gun belts did play with my imagination.

Putting those bumps in the road behind me, my thoughts raced about how I would spend my weekend sleeping underneath the stars. I imagined how fulfilling it would be to my Native heritage to befriend a Navajo tribes person to help me be more in touch with my roots. Who knows, maybe even do peyote and go on a cliche vision quest to find my spiritual animal? I kid. Partly.

Right around 3 or 4pm (the time zones around here are confusing), the famous horizon was coming into view. My heart soared! I passed up every RV in front of me to get a view, then, in the corner of my eye I saw something that added to the excitement...

It was a miniature tornado of dust - or dustnado! It was going to cross the road and intercept me but in my moment of adrenaline, I spurred Chance to go as fast as she could and beat the spinning devil!

The pictures don't do it justice but we just missed it! Not that it was going to do any harm beyond scratching us up but my pounding heart release many hoots and hollers nevertheless. It made me think of a dream I had told Mike about during his visit that the motorcycle and I rode a tornado and lived, like the American folk legend, Pacos Bill.

I tipped my imaginary hat to many of the sandstone buttes towering over the valley floor as I rode into the official park. The Indian woman in the booth took my money in exchange for a stack of papers which I hastily threw into my makeshift tank bag, eager to just find a good camping spot. The scenery quickly became blocked by yet another huge parking lot and, of all things, a monstrous hotel named The View. I was a little concerned at this point, especially with the amount of tourists milling about. Camping might be a bit hard to find.

Surrendering a stop at the Visitor Center as I was thoroughly confused as where to find a place to set up camp, the portly fellow behind the glass information booth seemed to be the only goto guy. I asked him where I might find the Mitten View Campground - supposedly the greatest view of any campground in North America. In a monotone fashion he went on to state that I was standing in it. The View Hotel and Resort was erected where the camp was and no camping would be available within the park indefinitely.

Between what he was saying and how he was saying it, a fuse in me was about to run its course. I quietly thanked him, expecting some sort of apology that never came and walked back outside to get some fresh air.

I stood there looking at the natural wonders in the distance trying to reconcile with everything. However, a heavily accented tourist aiming a camera in my direction yelled to move out of the way. I squinted at him for a while then observed the chaos around him - the trivial yet loud conversations, the honking of tour busses in the lot, the hotel with a bright digital sign obnoxiously advertising a three-digit rate, megaphones of guides blasting from the valley floor...

"...Yeah, let me get out of your way," I finally muttered.

Hastily, I made my way back to Chance, fired her up and sped out of the parking lot. Just as I got to the booth where I bought the pass, I slowed down, reached into my tank bag and flung all the maps, brochures and other paper at the window. I didn't care if they got my license plate.

Something came over me and for miles and miles I shouted at the top of my lungs, blindly riding in an arbitrary direction and with little regard to the speed. It is a definitive fact that I had cursed more times in an hour than I had in my entire life, mostly f-bombs aimed at the Navajo Nation. Screaming at how they were sell outs, I couldn't believe that the casinos were not enough to satiate their monetary needs, or wants, I should say! At least in that context it's a willing form of reparations but to capitalize on the natural world which they insist is sacred is absolutely offensive to me! Take money from those who throw it on the table or into machines, not those who wish to appreciate the earth that you are no longer suitable stewards of! Oh, how furious I was...

I didn't calm down until the end of the day. Between that and not having place to stay, especially due to my recently revealed financial situation, my boiling blood added to the heat of the desert sun. About a hundred miles east of Monument Valley, I saw a family of wild horses in the oil fields. I watched them a while and it began to calm me but then, a pickup truck swerved off the road, chasing the horses off. The red-skinned teenagers rode past, laughing.

I couldn't wait to get off this damn reservation. Much more cursing into the hot wind would erupt from my lips. Many things not exactly politically correct, many more even heartless. The thought crossed my mind to stage Manifest Destiny in my satchel but for all I knew, the tribal police were on the prowl looking for a literer (as if my stack of papers could compare to the garbage pile they had built already). I left my ironically-named firearm stowed and stuck to verbal ammunition.

The road eastward was empty after that encounter. Perhaps I was the only one foolish to take such a barren stretch of asphalt through Indian territory. Eventually, the speeding came to a stop at a sign that I never thought I could take such refuge in.

Sad to say but I was jadedly thrilled their territory did not extend into Colorado. Another sign down the road would indicate a town not more than a couple scores away. The needle on the speedometer kept to the left side for the remainder of the day and my temper seemed to subside as well. The same sign pointing out the next town also mentioned the famous Four Corners was just five miles from the next junction, so I thought at least something could be salvaged from the day.

Just my luck, I turn into the Four Corners monument to find that it's actually a park... Owned by none other than the damned Navajo. It was the last straw. Instead of pulling a u-turn, we rolled right up to the booth. Instead of shelling out cash to the Indian, I flipped my visor up and snidely commented, "For a people not too fond of the US government, it's hypocritical that you acknowledge not one, but four fucking political borders." He tried to interrupt but I revved on the throttle then continued to yell, "I don't know if making money off this is sad or an accomplishment for your tribe!"

Chance bolted forward into the park where I recklessly made my overdue u-turn, speeding right out past the booth and shouting a newly favorited four-letter word all the way down the road. It was unlike me. Looking back on the day, the act was juvenile but at the time I felt just.

On my way to Cortez I witnessed some wildfires off the side of the road. Even nature had a fiery spirit today.

In the small town, I spent the remainder of daylight shopping door to door at every single motel down each highway that passed through. Apparently there was a big rodeo going on that weekend, hence the higher than normal rates. A national park was just further down the road but it would be too late in the evening to stake out a campsite, set up, and be stocked with supplies. The very last motel I would roll into that looked beyond my budget had a sweet old lady who managed to cut me a hell of a deal for a nice two-story room.

While unsaddling, the events of the day weighed on my conscience. It wasn't how I wanted my story to turn out. In fact, it was the first time on the trail that something didn't go my way (even crashing seemed like a necessary step). There would be no sleeping under the western skies tonight and certainly no friendships made with the predominant tribe. Despite their tough lot in life, I still felt my sentiments had some moral fiber to them. If I ran into one more injustice to the land and it's original people, yours truly was going to need himself some firewater. As part Huron Indian, supposing it were my battle, I'd go right back there and first try and get in their moccasins, then secondly, if I'm still in the right, offer some kind of perspective and the principles that their forefathers lived and fought for. Talk about reverse manifest destiny.

In my lavish room that was, I confess, a warm embrace from a rough day, I kicked off my boots, crashed on the bed and turned on the television for indulgence's sake. The last channel viewed was a retro station dedicated to old cartoons. An obscure childhood favorite of mine just happened to be on: Bravestarr - a space western about a Native American marshall and his mechanical horse.