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travel blog - Shine

Home | USA | acadia national park, adirondak mountains & more

jeffmores: acadia national park, adirondak mountains & more, USA - 2003-06-20

Shine

The following is a journal of spontaneous writing I kept on a trip I took with family from the Midwest to the East Coast in May and June of 2003. We traveled in an RV across Indiana, Michigan, through Canada, Upstate New York, Massachusetts, Rhoad Island, New Hampshire, Maine, Pennsylvania, Ohio and Illinois. We travelled in an RV and either hiked, camped or viewed several unbelievable outdoor wonders, such as Niagara Falls, The Adirondack Mountains, the Catskill Mountains, Cape Cod, Acadia National Park and more.


I hope you enjoy the writing below. The only thing I ask is that you keep an open mind while reading it, as some parts are written to purposely lead the reader away from formal writing and reading structure and into a more artistic realm.


Anyone interested in discussing any of this writing can feel free to email me at mores10@mchsi.com


enjoy,


jeff mores



Title: Shine



I-94E Indiana-4:30 p.m.-June 1


Somewhere near the Michigan border, passing through Indiana. It'll be our third state in about two hours - Illinois, cut through the tip of Indiana and across Michigan - through Detroit and into Canada. Stretches of signs and towns and construction barriers, but mainly breathing trees, all rooted along our path to somewhere - a part of our infinite, inseparable whole. The excitement of whatever, somewhere in the distance waking me from time to time as I fall in and out of the continuous moment. It's amazing, the wisdom that flows from the highway. Im sure it's the energy of everything mixing in its right place outside the RV. Inside, the repeating beats from the third track on a CD I bought a few days earlier. Over and over - three beats utilizing the silence between thought. Wisdom finding breath and enlightenment on our road to discovery.



2. I-94E Michigan-6 p.m.-June 1


Jazz is a miracle in the long, roadside grasses - saxophones and trumpets interacting with precipitation and sunlight - grasses growing up in a flowing consistency, forever - with infinite detail - longer here and longer there - wild weeds and flowers mixed in - some hidden, others random and expressive like a passionate improv jam - wheat grasses with their large heads swinging - reacting to the passing traffic, an inspiration forming music - turning up earth for millions of seeds, eventually trees - it all comes into being without script - an unannounced miracle - we don't know how much humanity alters with its movement, but can be certain it doesn? matter because nature is its soul - conducting jazz across the landscape - playing on at any elevation or climate - for the infinite moment.



Would people sit along the highway and watch the show of grasses? Looking out my window - The music of Morphine in my ears - bass lines cutting through tire tracks, grown over by what's happening on a more insightful level - death and life and conversation joining hands for a dance - the sound an texture of motion, between lost thoughts that never had to formulate or find answers. Driving - painting faces - an invitation to swim - improvisation doesn't mind and never gets tired.



3. Grand Island, NY campsite-6 p.m.-June 2


Waking up in Michigan, six or so hours of driving - the next thing I know, we're settled in New York. Canada was a blur, but finished with rolling hills, raised roller coaster highways and the beginning of water.



Sitting now with grass over my feet - dogs all around - I feel at peace - everything does. Ribs on the grill, my taste buds watering - and a couple of beers soaked up. The wind is beautiful and comfortable, probably coming off the lake or Niagara River. Water is everywhere, lending itself to the feeling of a new day - colors moving through my lungs - and a weathered table with two empty bottles - oblivious to the wind Im breathing - mixing with digestion. The grass has gone from a smoky jazz club with a feeling of anticipation, to an offering of the clouds - today feels like chocolate and there's something about laying on my back on this picnic bench that follows inspiration and the motion of clouds better - flowing from the pen - it? al making wonderful sense in the direction of unknowing - a blue mass of I don't know and being fine with that - maybe someone will start to play a keyboard during this moment of concert.



Birds with black rectangular patches - does anything make sense or does everything? Does anything have to? It would be OK if nothing ever had to be anything and direction was retired. Thoughts are a moment, filled with differences that blend into the sameness of one.



4. Grand Island, NY campsite-9 p.m.-June 2


The light is orange with the door swung open after sunset, revealing the old man in his chair, relaxed with a red backdrop - the celebration is the catch of the day.



It's long past driving time but the music makes me think of traveling - Im still with feet in grass - rings floating in an imaginary windshield - rings everywhere in an absence of gravity - blurred on edges - undefined and confident. The colors are nonexistent and real - a confusing mix that makes perfect sense.



Today, the landscape interprets music - 'Building Peaks' is life and 'Opiate Slopes' is a crackling fire. Everything is playing in opposite order. Both directions realize the moment is indifferent and accepting.



5. Grand Island, NY campsite-9 a.m.-June 3


Everything can be interpreted at any time, but there really isn't any need to go beyond just letting the moment be what it is because it's you. Long walks are like a painting with lines and endless directions without a storyline or beginning point. Sometimes what's inside the head comes out different - emotion and reality aside - but standing in a perfect row. What is reality? Any response to that is meaningless - diamonds different in any variation of light of darkness - colors out of skies and ongoing journals - moving through nothing - making bends here and there - every bend without number or description - it is - forever - shine.



6. New York state thruway toward Mass.-5:45 a.m.-June 4


On the highway again - a bit blurry eyed - on our way to a new venue - half a day ago, we boarded a boat for the center of Niagara. Complete whiteout in every direction - the role of vision altered in the amazing canyon - mist and white - a clouded dream, where the sky decides whether or not to show itself - lines between in and out a complete loss and kiss of comfort - whirlpools swimming - formations and the above world looking down with authority.



Steaks and a big bottle of red wine getting lost in the pleasure of our tin city rolling in from every state and province - Oklahoma, Ontario, Texas, Florida, New York, Ohio, North Carolina - what an interesting mix of people - wheelchair, canes, walking, running with youth - one held down by false thoughts - unreal and bitter - a stone face - lost from the roots of a once proud, humble and accepting and open-minded ...


I'm only guessing and judging something that the sun should determine. Everything is transparent and silent beneath the great reality of uncertainty and adventure. Everything accepted with a smile inside - moving mirrors and shadows on striped roadways - where does all of this lead? A line with gutters and warnings - can we hear anything? What interpretation is this? The land is at peace with happy wine - without eyes - feeling its way to an endless destination - we're already there.



Guitars are loud and pleasant with moments of smell - scents of whatever - again, nothing matters because it's one and what it will be. What is it in my mind? - my soul? my anything? - one in the same. Uniformity without conformity or compromise - here I am writing away - wondering where I am and what's happening - amazed by everything - this constant reality of roadside brush and the lime prairie through imagined mountains at the end of a road that whispers insight - secrets about to be visualized and tasted - rolling on in the moment.



7. Still driving-6:20 a.m.


Seven songs passed in a moment that swallowed timeless seconds - Indian dream catchers, metal guard rails, clouds and insane nurseries of possibility - white painted stripes lifting - running deer.



8. Still driving-7 a.m.


If the endless reality is, then we are traveling deeper into one complete and endless gas of intoxication and clear breaths. The wind is mild and violent - hazy and transparent. The road is an imaginary vision layered beneath timelessness. We would always end up where we're going even without roads, but there's still something about them that offer ... I'm not quite sure and I guess that's fine, because my thought is not my feeling. Is this insight? And is there such thing as outsight? - a complete revolution of realization and anti-programming - a giving in to what will be with or without our foolish consent - we are wandering through a gas, deeper and deeper into a more limitless moment unconcerned with death and life - sustained by everything and nothing without war and senseless scribblings. Is there any way to find our way in this gas? The realization is that we?e already at our destination - maybe humanity just prefers to move backward. In the gas, it seems there is only an ever-present center - no forward - no backward - no tracks - no trails - no roads. Are we lost in a conflicting reality?



9. Still driving - 7:40 a.m.


Sometimes I wonder - while watching trucks pass by this window - after the temporary blackout and metal wall of movement - will the world that existed before it take a bow and - as the truck vanishes - so lift the curtain on a new world? The metal passes by and presents a red space - a red pulsating space musically invaded by soft falling colors - it's a visual world with unmeasured sounds and beats - tapping - tapping - trickling - the colors are cold - a peace beyond imagination that could only be real. Blues and greens - washes of yellow passing over everything - tints of different shades and spinning color wheels at various depths - trees on fire - and the fire is blue - a meditative motion - dancing juice.



10. Massachusetts Turnpike-12:45 p.m.-June 4


Somewhere east of Syracuse, the earth decided to rise up and scrape the sky - heaven is pouring down - the only thing keeping Utica from complete greenout is a bare trunk, exposing the pages of 100 years. The Mohawk River chasing us for a short while, as 100 miles or more flash in a matter of meaningless seconds. I want to drive forever - the Adirondack Mountains act like giants to our east, ripping through the landscape - a majesty greater than any high. Stone walls - shiny black rocks - canyons above our tiny trail - even the moment is reduced to a speck, as everything learned shuts down. Rust flecks in the vast rolling waves of mountains - delivering us to Albany and into the Catskill Mountains - twisting - rising - syrup in the sky and stone faces looking down - tunnels of heaven at 65 mph - Boston hanging somewhere in the distance, I think, as the Massachusetts Turnpike finds itself in a slightly more meditative air. The mountains are tamed by an inviting taste of the ocean - still some 100 miles away - but already washing us of the pulsating landscape and bleeding sky.



11. Bourne, Mass campsite-9:30 p.m.-June 5


Thursday was rainy but that somehow got lost in the roam of the day. Heading off in the Tracker at 8 a.m., across the Bourne Bridge, west along the coast of Buzzard? Bay to New Bedford. Again, an ocean of green forest battling for our attention for what seemed like forever. Im convinced there's no end to the forest's nomadic roam - one towering branch leaning over another - leaves and vines and color spreading into dust - a mirror of infinite ocean along the opposite side - with a thin strip of humanity and more painted stripes on an unending roam through the spectacular.


New Bedford - a town with literature bouncing off its cobblestone roads and winding streets and bayside buildings - 100s of years of history and still a fresh breath of excitement, even though man has exchanged her port for new ground. I've never read 'Moby Dick,' but Herman Melville's words already seem amazing. I can feel the adventure - the sweat - the once unwritten future of this old town - moving forward into relationships - the legendary stories of the sea. Looking over Buzzard's Bay and the rusty ships and creaking bows - Melville speaks. The written words I had not yet seen floating on the clouds of the overcast sky - finding ink in the moving fog.


West of I-195, across Battleship Cove, bending further west across the Rhode Island border - into Providence - a city of relentless poetry. It immediately reminded me of San Francisco, but in its own unique and passionate east coast kind of way. There are many sections of the east coast that do not interest me, but where we have traveled the past handful of days, and now - this - Providence - it's a discovery buried beneath an air of thick amazement - at times, the English language left me stranded in trying to let her bleed. An old record store to my left - quiet shops and streets of hilly insight - bridges in the distance and water everywhere - a small yet substantial offering of universities and people - interesting turns and yards looked over by inspirational architecture and a sky that gives itself to the possibility of unnamed directions.


Back to the highway - I-195 to a tiny northwest road - with a brief introduction to the Coles River and through Rehoboth. A canopy of trees hanging over us - raindrops somehow managing to find our windshield - creating blurs along giant feathers - mailboxes - homes - lives, tucked away beside the path - dumping out onto a larger road lined with an equally amazing display. I feel like an embarrassment to language for my helplessness - my inability to pull the poetry necessary to describe my amazement and the lessons offered in the meditating branches from the rolling hills and mountaintops of upper New York into Massachusetts and continuing today. Green - green - green - screaming at me in a silence understood by maniacs who've lost track of time and reduced the calendar to a single digit on the back of a whispering leaf - solitary with the magnitude of everything - shining through blindness - a scent of green entanglement and freedom - guiding on through Taunton , Massachusetts - down Highway 44- east - green - further east - a seemingly endless forest - it becomes everything - directions - words - silence - light - but in an instant, the road gives way to the ocean - ports dancing like alters - breaking away into the sea. Green to blue - reflections of any color imagined or felt. How infinite is the sea? - from one end of forever to the next - and still ...


Back in Bourne, I realize Im on a giant island floating in the Atlantic - attached to the mainland by only a pair of small bridges. This places continues to amaze me. My mind - at times - thinking forward to Provincetown - the only thing of which I know is its about 100 miles away and there's something called an Artist's Colony. Positioned at the end of a long, skinny road - Provincetown awaits, or so I foolishly assume. Through Falmouth to what seems to be the end of the world - and there was absolutely no problem with that - east along Poponesset bay and the Atlantic - through Hyannis and into South Yarmouth, where I am reminded by a second glass of wine that time left itself somewhere and destination has no direction.



12. Bourne, Mass campsite-5:45 p.m.-June 6


At 7:30 a.m., we were on the road again. Highway 28 to the southernmost tip of the Massachusetts mainland. After a nap on the ferry - we're in Martha's Vineyard. I already had an image in my head of what it would be like - the piece of land floating some 45 minutes south of Woods Hole, across the Atlantic. We docked at Vineyard Haven and immediately my prejudgements and senseless thinking to what it could have been was fading.


The island found me wandering through the day - sun shining down and heavenly temperatures - low-80s smiling in our faces as we make our way around the island on our rented mopeds. I had never ridden a motorcycle, moped or any kind of scooter before, but my red rocket led me down the twisting roads - the people looking over the main streets from their abodes - I cal them abodes because they're different from the monotonous Lego neighborhoods America produces with joy - this, though, was an escape - not so much an escape as a violent awakening that offers flowers and a new definition for spontaneous life - an island with a history deeper than salvation - a true realization that it's insightful sands, ocean breeze and the nectar that relieves poet? hands as they race against their minds to share the excitement of the leashless, refreshing wander. Mile after mile on our mopeds - we happen upon Tisbury - walk the streets of Oak Bluffs - ride the outskirts of Edgartown - content with the picture of a hundred sails and wooden beams - waiting to venture into eternity.


The houses are weathered along the main drag - sprinkled with parks and immaculate, yet real, fortresses - gardens in all directions - and the scent of purple flowers searching for their red and yellow and shy white friends across the way - an American heaven, detached enough from itself to ignore white picket fences and offer prayers to the ocean. The ocean is silent - or as silent and accepting as the most dominant force on earth can be - it's wisdom is a pillow - carrying on and on and on to the unseen mysteries.


Seagulls - brilliant, white and confident - flying overhead - motionless - just floating on rays of light - floating over us with a reverence reminiscent of the Native American Indian - humble yet confident creatures in harmony with everything - with their provider - the mighty, infinite, unexplainable ocean with its winds and powerful strokes of awesome meditation - the seagull, like the Indian, accepts the Atlantic's power and honors it - it's peaceful flight - a dance of gratitude - confidence and being.


I sit, staring up into the sun - blinded and meditating - walking on the ocean - glancing now - a surface that blurs human distinction between Woods Hole and the now rising waves. The earth is awake.



13. I-95 in Maine-3:30 p.m.-June 7


For the third-straight day, we're on the highway by 8 a.m. - leaving Cape Cod, north toward Boston - a little over an hour later, the RV rolls through Bean Town. It's Saturday, so the madness is light, but it seems the entire city is under construction - cement ramps and twisting exits - highways and bi-ways everywhere - like an insane bowl of pasta. Into the darkness of the long tunnel and out onto an interesting bridge that, with its triangular arrangement of towering white poles, takes on the look of the Mayflower - I don't know why but that's what the air whispered in my direction in the moment. Rising into the sky - over the bridge - high, high over Boston - the city spreading into the distance on both sides - the harbor replaying history in between. The houses and skinny apartments stand tall and charming with their inherited and deserved character - telling stories of the past and announcing excitement for the future - rough neighborhoods and quaint abodes mixed with their inviting front porches - steps leading down to streets where the day wanders with frontroom windows and tiny balconies looking down.


I-95 north of Boston to the New Hampshire state line was a blur - the line setting the stage for a bold transition - the mix of green evolving into a consistent layer of forest - variety replaced by a thickening mass of proud pines on stilts - the northwoods are in command. Now into Maine and into Kennebunkport - its tiny shops and tourist streets, announcing secrets to silent village roads. Back to the highway and through Portland, Maine - countless towns tucked away since the mid-1640s - fascinating - and Portland with its awesome views of Casco Bay. The land bows to the thickening pines - an awesome intoxication en route to Mount Desert Island and Acadia National Park. Tall, perfectly thick and random strokes of brown lumber - challenging the elements - commanding reverence for its flowering home - the textured brown finding a perfect balance with the canteen of green, somewhere beneath the whitening sky - holding strong - small openings - and glimpses beyond the many legs - leaving open the possibility of absolutely anything - the floor of ferns asleep and breathing softly - dreaming of a new generation - flecks of youth across the rugged landscape.



14. Mount Desert Island campsite-7 p.m.-June 7


Acadia!


Acadia lets out a deafening roar with its ambient ambient movements and unimagined meditation - mountains like waves rising up - but instead of crashing down into the endless pools and bays below, pausing in admiration with a proud stare - reaching upward - shine!



15. Mount Desert Island campsite-at my secret spot-June 7


Pink is picking fruit above the horizon with lateral movements and an infinite blue shadow.



The rectangle with misty ends feeds the forest - an island watching circling clouds pull water over the beautiful moment.



16. Mount Desert Island-my secret spot-9 a.m. June 8



Two islands resting skyward - the sweet smell of perfection in the magical calm - a single bird taking flight - out over reflection - catching mystery and harmonizing with silence in the same instance it releases and arrives home - there? a foreign, unpredictable line in the distance of sight that's more familiar and intensely inward than even my own being - an attempt to define this level of peace would be useless - because it is everything.



17. Mount Desert Island-my secret spot-5 p.m.-June 8


The bay is naked, exposing the secrets within its meditative invitation - the sky now shining from a direction or two - the details from the once-blanketed sleeping continuum - sharp and brilliant, without removing itself from the previous spectacle - Flat stones and massive boulders like cotton on the shores - trickling streams and passages - cleansing in the tide of wildness - ripples through reflection and calls of admirers - triangular rings - the orphan dandelions are in song with the merlot branches and distant suggestions.



18. Mount Desert Island campsite-9:30 p.m.-June 8


Walking the streets of Bar Harbor - a mixture of shops and clubs and restaurants under the soft glow of street lamps and gliding voices - back at the campsite, the sun is gone and we're left in a peaceful void - the last taste of day, a cloud with distinct palm and 18 fingers - dissipating - disappearing - into complete darkness - the reverb of messengers, tucked away and roaming the island - the orange glow of our camp fire, a citrus maniac - predicting the ripples of night.



19. Mount Desert Island-3 p.m.-June 9


As I sit down to write - Im struck - already aware, but struck on a different level of the same - into the second week of travel and the insight from the land and the light - revealing creases and soft waters, in skin and prose - the flight of it all, exhaled through my breath - the ongoing ...


Im struck by the love I feel for my wife and the opportunity that's everlasting beyond artificial invitations to explore something - the love I feel ripping with pleasure - smoother and mightier than the glass surface of this bay - the prefect surface - the love for my wife - her face as she sleeps, has everything - it's the mountains of green and the touch of flowering blankets forming land and secrets and mystery and the certainty of the tide - her flaws are miracles - the wrinkles on untraveled paths - beautiful merchants taking root in the spinning, restful life of the Atlantic and hidden campsites - my own imperfections and flaws - rocks of something noticed - a weathering of storms with acceptance and mountain tops lost in the bowing clouds - bearing insight and void in the meditation of love - I have a love - a companion - stronger than Acadia - as inviting as the crossing of the skinny bridge to Mount Desert Island - a realization spoken and converged in the layered oneness of the greatest gift - we are forever.



20. Top of Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park-9 p.m.-June 9


The day disappeared between the milky droplets of solitude.



21. Top of Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park-11 a.m.-June 10


Seated on a rock ledge - looking out, over reproduction - endless happening - movements - silence - activity and rebirth - formations of proportion - some left to imagination - songs of living - inhabitants and ghosts - sticks of simplicity and crowded lovers making room for thickness and passing admirers - indulging in curves and shelves - islands of nomads - nomadic soil - moss at thousands of feet - silence to the wind and breeze - parallel between the ocean, it's love and the carpet of mountainous sky - drifting together in a single existence - I and my breath - -my humanity at a loss - I can feel myself drifting in two directions - one swallow - one blade of grass - as attached and floating as possibility ...



22. Top of Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park-12 p.m.-June 10


Pools of water on top of bald mountains like eyes smiling at air.



23. I-95 south in Maine-8:12 a.m.-June 11


On I-95 heading south through Maine - somewhere between Bangor and Augusta - we?e been rolling for two hours - through thick forest - the mountain waves of Acadia and Mount Desert Island long faded into memory - wondering what life will be like now that I have realized it's a part of everything - still replaying the moment whales danced on the Atlantic - the ocean had its way with me - it's roar and mist and repetitive individuality - the ocean is an example of the pointlessness of human structure - it bleeds repetition - yet remains everlasting in its individuality - it's everything and still unique unto itself. How is that? It makes perfect sense in the rhythm of life but the amazement of it all is relentless. Do these trees around me now dream? I dream - or do I? They must, too. The bewilderment is a chameleon of clarity.



24. I-90 (Massachusetts Turnpike)-2 p.m.-June 11


It's 2 p.m. and I just finished my turn at the wheel - about 170 miles and plenty passing us on the way - for some reason my memory of the early drive is a blur, but Lowell - the birthplace of Jack Kerouac - as we pass the welcome sign - I am charged with a passion for the highway and begin the tackle the road - still cruising through our canyon of forest - we come upon Worcester and its soft scene - old stone and brick buildings sprinkled through the hilly landscape on either side of the highway - tall churches - comfortable neighborhoods - pulsating.


At some point the ocean finds us - still on I-90 and nearing the final third of Massachusetts - the sky opens and the earth begins to feast - our RV a passing dessert - anticipating the New York border - and our reentrance into the Catskill Mountains and poetic Adirondaks.


I still think our first drive through the Adirondaks was a highlight of this two-week roam - maybe because it came so unexpectedly - I never really knew where they were - just a word that found possibility preaching vision on the open road - they're somewhere out there - again - Albany in 53 miles - is this the same moment we left it last? - or is it the exact instant as now? The lessons of this indescribable drive - the clouds settling low - crawling at us along the highway - white breeze laughing at its own movement - a taste of the east - scent of the midwest - memory of the west - we may as well be anywhere.


To my left - the instruments have grown - and thoughts are finding their way in and out of the moment in no particular order - improv is whistling something in the shadows of the Catskills - crossing another state line - wrapped in sound.



25. Verona, New York campsite-6 p.m.-June 11


The Adirondaks are as wide as a splash of wine - and another - in search of altitude - losing sight of the horizon - happy in the belly of drunken love.



Eleven hours on the highway - now laying in the grass, staring into the eyes of concentration and bewilderment - a respect for flight and tiny creatures - as amazed as I am by the surprises the known moment drapes over false realities.



Do we watch the sky as it's moving?


Can we feel it without eyes?


Are we moving?



26. Verona, New York campsite-12:30 p.m.-June 12


Watching pork chops grill - -tasting them with my ears and eyes - and applesauce waiting patiently on our table surrounded by its maker - minutes pass and the chops share sounds and tastes - everything in the world and I guess beyond it is everything - everything that is one - and that's one everything - depends on everything - one inside of two surrounded by many of the same and different always and never. How do we effect one? Everything is beautiful and finds a way to breathe and continue breathing in some form or way understood or invisible by our sometimes useless minds in one second or the next which is all one moment forever - wondering where Ill be in the next is fruitless and fruitful in the same - pork chops on the grill - a licking of the air.



27. Verona, New York campsite-4:30 p.m.-June 12


Today Verona and Oneida - and myself at a campsite picnic table - under awning - breathing my last day of upstate New York air - it's a clean air - yesterday heavy on my lungs - whether by altitude or whatever else _ I don't know - I'm thinking now about hitting the road again and the poems that will write themselves - tomorrow - Syracuse - Rochester - through Pennsylvania - across Ohio - Cleveland and Toledo - into Indiana - then Chicago. Is this forward thinking or eager anticipation? What is anticipation?


Anticipation is the village behind each mountain and the beauty on its face - what? behind is meaningless because Im surrounded by all sides and oxygen talks in languages that allow for interpretation - it's all the same thing with different colors and trails of harmony - animals making shadows of themselves and drinking their surroundings - the blades of grass under my feet are the mountain's table and the earth is a universe of prose - because where does the earth really end? It's all a continuum marked with various lives and meditations - the new day is a meditation - from state to state - and beyond this tiny blade of an infinite whole.


Everything is beautiful - what is the whole? All these questions answered as needed by love - or maybe that's my imagination floating somewhere between anything that's everywhere and doesn't really matter because the wind is silent.



28. Ohio Turnpike (just west of Cleveland)-11:45 a.m.-June 13


5 a.m. - we're on the highway - the sun still lazy as I watch Syracuse pass us by through a small crack in the blinds on an RV window - blurry-eyed and fading quickly - the next 60 miles pass me by in sleep.


I take the wheel just west of Rochester, NY and my love for the highway resumes - Lake Erie somewhere in the distance - and a transitioning landscape. The New York Thruway seems to grow as we roll east - an unending stretch of pavement that eventually gives way to Pennsylvania - open land and farms and the anticipated change in landscape - -families of what may someday into a suggestion of what the eastward adventure will bring - at least that's what the landscape spoke of as I watched her run beside our painted trail.



Cleveland emerges with a mixture of warm and cool - the morning still figuring itself as time determines the coming afternoon - a twisting highway and city holding onto dreams on its great lake - Jacob? Field - a symbol of America - under a grid of lights to my right - above a city with strange hallways - streets are quiet alongside factories and a place in history somewhat undecided - between yesterday and today - or maybe even larger than that.

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