DAY 25

Friends, Romans, Countrymen,

As John Holmes said to the new girl: "Just sit back and relax, this is gonna be a long one."

Now where was I...? Ah, yes.

So here I am, sitting on the deck of the riverboat Mark Twain, getting ready to take off on a 2-hour dinner cruise on the Mississippi River.

Hannibal, Missouri, is not the birthplace of Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain, but it is where he spent most of his childhood.

This riverboat is on the smallish size--a little smaller, even, than the one at Disneyland. And it is not powered by paddlewheel any longer. Regular boat motors propel it along the water.

Most of the buildings in Hannibal appear to be from another time, quaint and old-fashioned. I don't know if that's because the tourism council made it that way or because not much has changed since the 1800's, but it all looks like Main Street, USA.

Maybe a little of both, eh?

Looking out at the Mississippi River as it slowly undulates past, it's easy for my (admittedly) over-active imagination to picture Huck and Jim, poling their makeshift raft along the bank, looking for a safe place to put up for the night.

One loud (really loud) blast from its horn and the Mark Twain is adrift on the Mississippi River. I watch the trees on the bank roll by and I think: how much of this has changed? Has there always been a big strong stand of greenery on the banks of the river like this? Are these the same trees that Mark Twain saw? Is this what he observed when he walked down the streets of Hannibal to the boat landing?

There is a very talented musician on board, playing banjo and accompanying himself with harmonica. Sitting out on the deck of a slow-moving riverboat, sipping a Mississippi Mud, watching the sun go down, listening to a banjo plunk out "Oh, Susanna" and "Turkey in the Straw"--this is what vacations are all about.

There are advantages to being on your own on a trip like this. You can stay in the cheapest, paint-peelingest motels. You can completely bypass major cities and change your destination at a moment's notice and not piss anyone off. Yes, there are definite advantages.

However...

However, as I was sitting on that riverboat, listening to that lazy music, watching the sun set itself behind the lush greenery that lives on the banks of the Mississippi (as sad and pathetic as this may sound, it's honest as well), I desperately wanted some company. Just someone to sit with, share the experience, share the view, hold my hand, maybe even smile or laugh once or twice.

Yeah, that would have been nice.

Sometimes, being single is a bitch.

Sigh.

And then the musician started plinking out the slightly racist "Darktown Strutter's Ball," making me smile and breaking my melancholy.

Damn, that Mississippi Mud is a tasty beverage!

I guess I haven't been paying attention to the weather forecasts because I woke up the next morning to a huge (yoooooge) and surprising storm. Bright flashes of lightning, booming crackling thunder, and so much rain I thought my poor little car was gonna float away.

I let the rain go on and on as I watched TV. Here I am in Missouri at the end of July and it's RAINing! Sheesh!

I spent that day taking a tour of Hannibal and Mark Twain's boyhood home. It's amazing the things he was able to accomplish (as well as all the hardships he had) in his lifetime. He had four children, but only one lived long enough to be married. He lost half a million dollars (this was the 1800s, folks) in a bad printing press investment. He was given an honorary doctorate by Oxford University in 1907. He was a writer, a newspaperman, and a riverboatman.

His boyhood home, his father's law office (his father was a Justice of the Peace, as well), the doctor's office where his family lived on the 2nd floor (in harder times) have all been faithfully restored.

I then drove a few miles south of town to the Mark Twain Cave. This is a labrynth-like series of tunnels that tons of water pressure carved out inside of a local mountain (this was millions of years ago when Missouri was still underwater). The cave is a maze--passageways criss-cross back and forth on each other and, to the virgin eye, nearly every passageway looks like nearly every other.

The unique way this cave was created results, not in large caven-like rooms with drippy stalactites, but in hundreds (thousands?) of tight crevices between 2 and 3 feet wide (sometimes wider and, yes, sometimes narrower).

I don't suffer from claustrophobia, but even I was occasionally nervous about the jagged, layered walls closing in as I scooted along after the guide.

At one point the guide turned off all the lights. That was a little disorienting. I literally (yeah, I tried this, and looked like an idiot when the lights came back on) could not see my hand in front of my face.

On many walls people have inscribed their names, using sharp utensils and candle smoke. The oldest dated name they've found so far is from the 1820s. Jesse James even signed the wall of the cave at one point (and his signature has been authenticated by three different scholars).

This is a really fun walk, only 5/8 of a mile, and a great capper to my Hannibal Visit.

As I looked at my U.S. Atlas to plan my next destination, my eye was caught by the thick blue sensuous line of Highway 80. I followed its course straight back to my house. It looked inviting, seductive.

I think I'm done, thought I. It's time to go home.

I'd been away for over three weeks. Just like that, I was ready to head on back.

How long would it take to drive from Hannibal, Missouri to Fremont, California? 3 days? 4 days? Hard to tell. I'd been meandering for so long that to accurately predict a stright shot, as it were, was difficult. And how long could I take just sitting in the car and driving with a goal of a couple thousand miles away?

From Hannibal, MO, to York, NE was the first leg of the journey. Not much to say about this portion of the journey other than to say that I got tired sooner than I thought I would and pulled off at about 6:00 pm in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska. AKA York.

From York to Rawlins, Wyoming, is a lot of the same.

Just before I hit Laramie, as I was driving down fro the Medicine Bow Nat'l Forest, traffic came to a dead stop. There was a sheriff flagging us down, making sure we all saw the stopped traffic up ahead.

We did. Thanks.

I sat there for about 15 minutes, listening to my CDs and reading my Kinky Friedman mystery. We started moving again (yeah!) and got about anotgher 200 feet before we all stopped again. Engines were turned off. Drinks were consumed. Snacks were munched. Books were read.

The road out of the Nat'l Forest is twisted and winding, so none of us could see too far ahead. A bicyclist, peddling up the hill towards us, was stopped by the car in front of me and was asked about the situation. I quickly turned the volume on my stereo down and overheard that there was a big truck overturned that was blocking all lanes about a mile down the road.

Shit.

Another 20 minutes of reading (and discovering just who was trying to kill Willie Nelson), and then we started rolling again. Slowly, ever so slowly.

There were two tow trucks wrestling with the sleeping semi. I wished them luck.

I put up for the night in Rawlins and looked at the distance to California. Could I? Could I make that huge distance in one day? I eyeballed that it would be about 10-12 hours to Reno. How many more to home? 3? 4? I couldn't tell.

I had intended to send this message to you from Salt Lake City (I was assuming I could find a Kinko's in Mormon Central) but the good people of SLC had different plans. Just before I reached the city, a huge day-glow orange sign read "I-80 WEST CLOSED AT SALT LAKE CITY. NO THROUGH TRAFFIC. LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY. USE DETOUR." Damn.

As I used the detour (LOCAL TRAFFIC ONLY made me think immediately of an old Surf Punks tune: "Locals Only")(bless you KROQ), I was a little miffed. Was their city soooo special that they didn't want unclean traffic from other areas defiling it? Maybe the whole city was now one big Mormon Temple, and you had to know the special handshake to get in.

I had to take 215 in a big downward spiral around the city and, by the time I got to 80 west again, SLC was behind me.

Fuck it. I headed home.

By the way, the Great Salt Lake is one of the ugliest lakes I've ever seen. I don't know if it's the salt content that does this or what, but there is a perpetual haze that hangs over it. Visibility is maybe half a mile, maybe a bit more. Big skids of white salt deposits riddle the edge.

Yuck.

The salt was chapping my lips, making them red and irritated. I started licking them constantly (a bad idea, by the way) and finally got my lip balm out (a little too late).

I write to you now from Reno, Nevada. The trip from SLC to Reno is one big long drag. Nothing little towns whose only purpose is to sell you Pespi and gas (probably in that order, too) dot the landscape. I fell into the habit of getting gas even when my tank was only half empty. The last thing I wanted to see was "Next Services 100 miles" with only a gallon or two left.

I saw many cars by the side of the road, hazard lights blinking. Overheated, gasless, maybe a belt snapped. Whatever. I consider myself very lucky that, after over 5,000 miles of almost continual driving , my car is working like a charm. Considering every little thing that could have gone wrong (knock on wood), maybe it was a wee bit foolish to attempt this trip without a cell phone.

It's 9:20 am in Reno. In just a few hours I'll be home. This has been an incredible experience, and I have really loved every single bit of it. I am so happy I did this!

Thanks for coming along with me--I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time. I'll see you soon.

Peace.

(heart),

--Mike