Big Sky Country

WEST YELLOWSTONE, Montana -- There are only a few of these united states that I have not yet been to. Montana is the first of three that we will be traveling through over the remainder of our trip.

I must say it is spectacular. It has all the forest, lake and mountain grandeur of Colorado, but without all the schmaltzy (but tolerable) western touristy gift shop type stuff. Sure, it has some of that, too, but not in nearly the same quantities. That probably has something to do with there being so few people out here.

Montana is ranked as the fourth largest state (behind Alaska, Texas and California) but with less than one million people calling Montana home, it has the third lowest population density. I'm not sure how the math works out but it seems like one person for every hundred thousand miles or so.

Regardless, there's a lot of room to spare. Taking up much of that room, at least on the western side of the state, are the mountains. If the Rockies are the backbone of the country, Montana is its right shoulder. Apparently there are no fewer than 77 named mountain ranges in Montana jutting out of the Rockies as they climb their way up into Canada.

All this is pretty convenient considering Montana means "mountain" in Spanish. We drove until almost midnight last night those mountains. It was easy and comfortable, much of the time with the road all to ourselves. Not long after nightfall, as the Heart of Gold swayed gently along the highway, a full moon rose over the undulating ridgeline, the mountains rising like gently rolling waves around, making me feel in those moments much more aboard ship than elephant.

Just as I began to feel tired, Lolo National Forest appeared as the next exit with easy docking for our vessel. We were up again with the rising sun with the kids still sleeping as we slipped back into the current this morning, passing through some of the most awesome scenery yet. At one point, I watched a bird of prey, I am almost sure it was a Bald Eagle, rising aloft not far in front of me with a fish in its talons still dripping from the mountain river it was just snapped from.

As we crossed over more of those 77 ranges today we were reminded of our homeward baring, once again crossing over the Continental Divide. We made it to this the western entrance to Yellowstone National Park by around 2 pm. The Marley and the kids are swimming as I write. We will rest and play for the rest of the day, perhaps later going into town in search of some of those elusive schmaltzy gift shops.

Early tomorrow, we hope again with the rising sun (and of course assuming the starter still works), we will begin our foray into Yellowstone and later that afternoon arrive at the fair havens of Scott and Deborah's ranch.

Dumbass II

Revenge of the Incompetent

(Note: Too far off the grid to post this last night. Trying to make up for too much lost time today to post until now.)

LOLO NATIONAL FOREST, Montana – I am tempted to just let this one pass. It’s because I don’t come off well. Just dumb. I’m worried that some of you will begin to see a pattern here.

So, when last we left this story we were waiting for the mechanic to bring the new starter. Larry arrived almost on time. He immediately reminded me of my friend Darrell, and not just because he was a mechanic, but because he had a quiet confidence to him, mixed with just the right amount of warm friendliness.

It was clear Larry knew where to find the starter on 454 Chevy crammed up into the nose of the Sunstream Motorhome. It took Charles and I no fewer than 10 minutes to find its hiding place up behind the right tire (and Charles had a bit of experience with these monster truck engines) but Larry went right to it.

Although Larry had the starter with him and could just as easily have gone straight into dropping the old one out and putting in the new one, he – thankfully – wanted to make sure that it was in fact the problem. After a bit of testing with the volt-o-thingy, he looked puzzled. There was no power going to the starter.

Ah-ha! I thought, that would explain why it’s not working. Oh, but that might mean something even worse.

Larry went over to his truck, disappearing for a moment only to reemerge with a single small wire bare on both ends. He said he was going to bypass something or other in an attempt to isolate the whatchamacallit. In non-technical terms, I think he meant he was going to hotwire my RV.

With me in the drivers seat, he shimmied himself back underneath the belly of the Heart of Gold. Unlike in cars, where the hood of the engine is out in front of you, you know, out where the engine is, in the Heart of Gold the guts of the machinery are actually inside the RV sitting between the driver and passenger seats. The “hood” is actually a lid that normally serves to hold my coffee, roadmaps, various books that Marley might be reading or a laptop or what have you.

But right now, it was opened up so that Larry and I could talk while he was about to work his mechanic’s magic from up under the bowels of the Heart of Gold. That’s when he said those words that will no doubt haunt me for many years to come.

“Okay, I’m about to connect the wire, just make sure it’s in park.”

Larry, at this point, was interested in self preservation. If it wasn’t in park, and his little wire did what he thought it would do, the whole RV could lurch forward or maybe backward with him under it. I’m just guessing here, but like trains, buses, tractors and other big machinery, I think it’s probably best to not be under RVs whenever it is they decide to start moving.

That’s when I saw it. And like a tidal wave, my stupidity came crashing down along the oh-so-vivid and not-so-long ago memory of me backing the RV into its berth the night before. Backing. As in reverse. As in “R” -- which, as it happened, was exactly the letter I was staring at on the little dial above the steering column.

In my defense, the “R” is right next to the “P” which stands for park, which, as it happens, is right where you want it when you’re trying to start the engine. Here’s a picture, just so you know I’m not making this up.

I find it interesting that when you’re in “R” and trying to start the engine how, in almost every way, it seems like you have a bad starter. Every way, except, the starter actually being bad that is.

In fact, when you move the gear shift from “R” to “P” the engine will start almost immediately. Remarkably, the only delay you’re likely to find is the time it takes you to turn the key. And this, as it turns out, is exactly what happened.

Larry was remarkably gracious only charging me for the service call and not the time it took him to prove that I was an idiot. More importantly, he did not point and laugh at me. I thanked him for that and, not that he needed my permission in the least, invited him to make me the butt of all his jokes for at least a few days… once we were gone.

So, after another 4 p.m. take-off, we’ve made it deep into Montana, bedding down among the pines of this national forest which I see is dubbed Lo Lo, which sounds more like a Teletubbie than a national forest, but who I am to judge. I don’t even know how to start a silly RV.

Two Moments and a Man Named Charles

MOSES LAKE, Washington -- I had a moment this morning, two actually, woven together in the same space in time. It happened as I first emerged from the RV, shortly after waking. The kids were just rousing and Marley and I were trying to pack things up and get an early start.

We are parked on a slight hill, overlooking the lake a few dozen yards away. As I turned to admire the view, I saw scuttling along, not far away, a very fat beaver. As I walked up, he sensed my presence and began to scurry away. I froze and he stopped. He seemed to be trying to determine if what he had heard was an actual threat. If I was even real. He faced me, his eyes squinting. He stood on his hind legs, little front paws dangling, trying, by the look of his flaring nose, to smell what he clearly could not see.

I stood there motionless except for the wide smile cresting across my face. We stood there like that for some time, facing each other, him squinting and smelling, me smiling. After awhile, he dropped back down on all fours and just went about his beaver business.

While all this was going on, the lake was alive with carp jumping high into the morning sun. It was like a meteor shower in water, brief flashes, everywhere, darting quickly, leaving only splashes of light and water in their passing, wondrous and fleeting.

I have been left wondering if these two images are perhaps windows into how God might see us. In one breath, an endless series of timeless moments with him standing right before us, smiling, as we squint and sniff wondering if he's even there, perhaps even running the other way when he reveals himself to us, but more often than not too busy to stop and simply return the smile.

And in the same breath, he watches us all flashing brilliantly, flailing wildly from that which holds us under, reaching for that invisible strange world just on the other side. Those moments when they break through the water must be mindblowing for fish, a whole impossible other universe suddenly surrounding them. I think they jump because they like to eat bugs. But still it must be a rush to leap into the light and see things for the first time. Of course, bugs are good, too.

We are stuck at Moses Lake suffering the first real casualty of our trip. Our starter is dead and we wait for a new one which should be here any minute. Once again, our traveling mercies have come in the form of good neighbors, this time a man named Charles, a retired ironworker and builder of bridges and high rises. Charles' son is a football coach at Boise State on his way to a new job this season at the Citadel.

Charles was kind enough to see us in need and without us ever needing to even ask for his help was soon driving me around town in search of a new starter and a mechanic willing to come install it. It seemed like a joy to him to be helping a stranger in need. Still, I couldn't help thanking him.

"Look," he said with a wide smile, after what may have been the third or fourth thank you, "I really believe that if you treat people the way you want to be treated that things just work out okay. There have been plenty of times when I was in your exact spot and someone came along and helped me. Now I'm helping you, but pretty soon it will be me again needing help again and you -- or whoever -- will be there to bail me out."

Now, I'm just trying to enjoy the break and doing my best to smile back at God.

Elephants and Sailboats

MOSES LAKE, Washington -- Getting back into the driver's seat of the Heart of Gold has rekindled an internal debate I've been wrestling with since we started this trip.

Is driving this six-wheel, 30-foot-long, 10-foot-4-inches-tall, home-on-wheels more like driving an elephant or a sailboat?

Having never actually driven either, my answer is of course purely conjecture. But I have been on both, so I may perhaps surmise a bit.

Elephants, few would argue, are an undeniable presence on whatever path they happen to be on. Things tend to get out of an elephant's way. They also posses a certain lumbering quality. They are not fast, nor are they particularly agile, but they have strength and staying power and, in the end, can get you where you need to go. Well taken care of, they tend to be loyal and true. Hannibal went to Rome on the back of an elephant.

All of which could also be said of the Heart of Gold (except that last bit about going to Rome.)

On the other hand, sailboats conjure the very essence of adventure and can stir both the body and soul with wind-blown passion. You can live aboard a sailboat. Sailboats are also at the mercy of nature. Strong gusts can move sailboats in sudden, unexpected directions. And bigger boats don't really care if the captain of a particular sailboat is new and still getting his sea legs and really would prefer to go 60 mph, not 85 mph, thank you very much. You don't really have to know exactly what you're doing to pilot a sailboat, but it sure helps. Hannibal ended up losing to the Romans because he didn't have enough sailboats.

Again, all of which could be said of the Heart of Gold (and, again, except that last bit about Hannibal.)

Anyone who has stood on the side of a highway as an 18-wheeler zooms by knows they are a force of nature unto themselves. I was unprepared, however, for the micro hurricane-like effect they have had on the Heart of Gold. As they pass there is this surge of wind that literally moves me -- us, the whole shebang -- several feet to the right. This is not an occasional thing. It happens every time.

I have become Pavlov's dog at the wheel of our RV. Every time I hear the sound of a Big Rig coming alongside, my mouth begins to salivate as I grip the wheel in anticipation of the correction I know must soon come. It's like playing with two positively charged magnets, how one can push the other around. It's like that. Only on a much bigger scale. And I'm the one getting pushed around. In my big, many ton, fast moving, RV.

And then, of course, there are the actual gusts of wind. I have grown to dread the signs. "Strong Winds Next 50 Miles" or "Gusting Winds Possible." One sign in the high deserts of Utah, I swear, actually had a wind sock on top of it, just you could see they weren't kidding.

The worst winds so far, though were in Oregon. I got my first taste just as we crossed the state line from Idaho, which as it happens is the Snake River. Trundling over the bridge, a quick gust picked us up and moved us into the other lane. At least it felt like it picked us up. We were suddenly in the left lane, at any rate, and I hadn't done a thing except instantaneously crap my pants.

There were some winds again like that today, invoking pretty much the same result.

So, elephant or sailboat? I'm still not sure, but in the meantime I need to do some laundry.

We have arrived tonight at Moses Lake, about an hour shy of Spokane. The picture above is the sun setting just as we were arriving. If you look closely there's a line of more than a dozen young geese making their way across the lake, parting it if you will.

Anyway, not bad for a 4 pm start out of our campsite. I will not say it was a late start, however. We left when were were good and ready, when we felt rested and ready to go, not rushed out the door trying to beat the clock as we did from Denver. I may be be a dumbass, but at least I learn my lessons.

Oddly, that reminds me of a line from the Jungle Book...something about an elephant and never forgetting. And what's that other line, from Seuss... about an elephant being faithful, 100 percent.

Yeah, I think I'm going to go with elephant.

Bittersweet Departures

CAMP LAKEVIEW, Washington -- Marley is returning our rental car and we are preparing to launch on our return trip East. It is a perfect day here, bright and beautiful, temperatures sitting in that elusive sweetspot that is both pleasantly cool while being warm enough to not need a sweater.

It is bittersweet leaving. As with Colorado, we find ourselves yearning for more days here. Our time so far has been a quick blur and there is so much more we would like to do. On the other hand we are bound still for new territory and old friends and dear family. We are very much looking forward to the second half of this trip. Indeed, it does not yet feel like we are so much "returning" as continuing on.

In the meantime, I thought I might get caught up in posting some pictures.

Hope you enjoy...

On Mars Hill

"One does not live on bread alone, but every word that comes from the mouth of God."
-- Jesus of Nazareth

"Some drink deeply from the river of knowledge. Others only gargle."
-- Woody Allen

Our time at Mars Hill was coming to an end. Marley, Crystal and I were sitting in the overstuffed chairs near the streetside entrance to their big red brick building in the heart of downtown Seattle. The school sits on a block flanked on one side by an outreach house for jobless people and on the other side the opulent Edgewater Hotel overlooking the Seattle waterfront and the Olympic Mountains in the distance.

Crystal works in admissions at Mars Hill. She had arranged for Marley to sit in on a class on Friday and was now giving us the tour of the 100-year-0ld, three-story building that until January had been the abandoned, bird-filled remains of an old luggage factory.

I had not thought of this question ahead of time, but it came to me as good questions often did when I worked as a journalist, as conversation unfolded.

"What is it," I asked her, "that has gone terribly wrong here?"


At first blush, Mars Hill might seem like a strange name for a graduate school. A sci-fi art institute maybe, or perhaps a John Gray seminar for men only -- being, you know, that we're from Mars, not Venus.

But a grad school?

For aspiring therapists, no less?

The name actually comes from one of my favorite passages of the Bible. It's the part in Acts where Paul finds himself in Athens. If Rome was the center of the political world at the time, Athens was its cultural heart, a crossroads of trade, thinking, religion and art.

At a place called Mars Hill, or the Areopagus as some translations put it, Paul tries to explain the gospel on the Athenian's own terms, by way of their own "unknown god," not trying to shun or shame them for their idol worship as much as help them see how God was already at work among them.

This, if I get what they're doing accurately, is what Mars Hill is all about -- entering into places of both pain and joy, understanding how culture celebrates creation and creator as much as exposes brokenness and darkness and embracing the idea of story -- and God's part in writing yours or mine -- as a path towards forgiveness, healing and wholeness.

Entering. Understanding. Embracing. These are my words, not theirs. But I think that's the gist.

In their literature, they are just as quick to quote Woody Allen as Jesus of Nazareth, E.B. White as Jeremiah. "At MHGS we'll invite you to delve into issues of faith and life with freedom, depth and curiosity," writes school president Dan Allender to prospective students. "Our hope is to invite each other into a transformational conversation where God is revealed and we are changed. And as we engage with God's story, our own, and the story of our culture, we'll begin to experience together a God who is not distant or without a name."

I pretty much knew all this before I went to Mars Hill yesterday. I had read their literature. I had read Allender's books. But it's easy to write things. What I wasn't sure of was whether they were the real deal, whether they practiced, forgive me, what they preached.

Crystal didn't flinch at my question. She took it. And rolled it around in her mind for a moment, not in the way that I've seen so many others do with the tough questions, as a delay tactic while they figure out how to dodge the question without seeming to, but as I would see, really pondering it.

I did not ask because I had any reason to believe that something specific had gone wrong, but only because I knew every institution -- every work of man -- will sooner rather than later break, fail, hit bumps big and small, self-inflicted and otherwise. The mark of a good institution at least in part must be in the honesty with which it meets with those problems, the transparency with which it wrestles with them and the integrity with which it reconciles the harm that has occurred.

Honesty. Transparency. Integrity.

Crystal's answer floored me. Without revealing unneeded details or drifting for a moment into gossip, she was honest about the problems the school has encountered. She told us about how Mars Hill has tried to use even its scandals as a tool for teaching and growth and -- most importantly for me -- she was clear that despite the best intentions, there have been times when they have "absolutely blown it."

Any one of the pieces of her answer might have been good enough. But there was a completeness to it that I appreciated. But mostly it was that she was willing to tackle it at all and not try to sugarcoat or downplay or minimize. In truth, she took all of our many questions like this -- unflinching, candid, open.

There was another moment that has stuck with me. As we toured the campus, for over two hours, our conversation, full and rich as it was, took many detours and side turns. At one point conversation strayed very briefly into a place of pain for me. It was very momentary and, hypocritically perhaps, I tried to downplay and weave around it. But Crystal caught it. And she entered it, offering only a soft "I'm sorry." It was unnecessary, but real and appreciated.

Crystal, obviously, is not Mars Hill. But she is a graduate and went through the same program Marley is considering. Marley was able to spend quality time with several others and we both met Dr. Allender briefly and spent enough time at the school to get a sense of its vibe and personality.

In the end, I could see why Marley was so excited, so effervescent, from her visit on Friday. It is, in short, a very special place. The reality of moving here, however, is daunting as much as it is exciting. While just as the mountains and seaside thrill me, the cost of living and, worse still, the ever-present traffic and congestion are serious downsides.

We have by no means made a decision yet, but as we prepare to leave here we are much better informed and, truth be told, inspired than when we arrived.

Tomorrow, we begin the first leg of our journey home. On our way to Montana, where we will visit with Deb and Scott -- who studied under Allender years ago and was a Godsent counselor during our time in Germany -- we will travel through the national cathedral that is Yellowstone Park and try to digest it all.

Catching Up

Sorry for my tardiness in posting. We have spent the past two days at Chris and Shannon's home and it has been a wonderful time of laughter, catching up, and the irreplaceable quality of simple time spent together.

Marley and Chris spent much of Friday downtown, first at Mars Hill and then at Chris' art school just down the street. While she was gone, our Tribe merged with our campground neighbors, Sandi and her mixed clutch of boy and girl scouts who were enoying a few days by the lake. Sandi is a brave and sturdy woman, who has had her share of hard times, but remains with a genuine smile and still-intact heart of gold herself. Five years ago, she adopted Anthony, now 10, who was rescued from a living nightmare.

I got to spend some time talking with our other neighboors, as well, Kyle and his cousin Scott. Kyle is a economic major at Pacific Lutheran University, where Shannon works. He has Keanau Reeves quiet smartness to him, but also warm and friendly. We talked for more than an hour on everything from faith to photography. He was also kind enough to give me directions to the one of the secrets of the area, a set of falls not far away where that you hike behind the falling water. I hope we can make it out there before we leave.

Marley returned from her day downtown with a wonderful glow in her eye, overflowing with excited, almost giddy, energy. The Mars Hill that she saw in person seemed to match in every way the school that lived in only knowledge from afar and her imagination.

We made our way to C&S's home that evening for one of the best meals of our trip -- Shannon grilled Salmon with chipotle berry sauce, couscous, salad and fantastic wine.

Yesterday, we hiked Rainier, making our way to the appropriately named Paradise, where most of the summit expeditions begin their long treks to the top. We climbed deep into the snow line where, after cresting a high ridgeline, Chris and the kids did some back and butt sledding. There were of course the obligatory snowball fights and much Winter-in-June merriment, as well.

Again, though, the best part of the past few days has been time with Chris & Shannon. It has been wonderful to see the home they have made. It is a comfortable place, casually elegant with refinement of style that I think Marley and I are still trying to achieve in our own home. Everything from the choice of furniture, colors, artwork and the ever-present photos that adorn every room and speak of their love for each other and their rich stable of friends and family, it all comes together in a way that embraces life and living, rather than trying to contain it.

Meanwhile, their commitment to goofiness is celebrated everywhere. Things like the longhorn skull on their living room wall, wearing, of course, a cowboy hat and foam Hook 'em Horns "fanhand," perched on the left horn. Or the small framed quote from Hannah Cheatem, age 8, above the computer I'm now typing on that reads "when you get married, you have to kiss. it's the law." But especially it's in their easiness with each other and those around them, and their almost childlike joy that has kindled for me laughter that truly made like good medicine.

Today, duty has called and Chris has had to go to work. So Marley and I are taking the kids on "an explore" -- as Pooh would say -- of the Seattle area, complete with ferryboat rides and whatever else make make its way onto our path.

Reunion

CAMP LAKEVIEW -- Graham, Washington -- The drive into Washington was the most beautiful day of traveling so far. Marley plotted a brilliant course that avoided the crazed congestion of the SeaTac I-5 corridor entirely, instead weaving through the backcountry along Route 12 hugging the base of Mt. Rainer. It was awesome.

While Idaho and most of the Oregon we saw was lunar, bare and boring, Washington has been full of life, green and breathtaking. In some ways it reminds me of Sicily, Rainer like the ever-present Mt. Etna, always a point of reference somewhere on the horizon. The neatly rowed vineyards and rolling orchards, too, reminded us of Sicily. Thankfully, the drivers are better here, though.

Best of all was reuniting with Chris and Shannon. Chris lived with us in Sicily. He was still a boy then, but very much a man now. And Shannon is the perfect spark for him, and he for her. They are a great pair and instantly bring laughter and brightness to our lives. One of the things Chris and Shannon told me when they got married two years ago was that they never want to lose sight of their goofiness. I couldn't think of a better life strategy. All the better considering he's an Army special ops guy and she's a Vassar grad. Not surprisingly, they show no sign of forgetting that goal.

Case in point: It didn't take long for Noah to warm up to them, almost instantly engaging "Aunt Chris" and "Uncle Shannon." Don't ask me how things got switched around in Noah's head but Chris and Shannon immediately embraced their new titles with absolute verve.

And so we have bedded down in the shadow of the great mountain of the West Coast at a lakeside campsite about half an hour from Chris and Shannon's house. Marley will audit a class at Mars Hill tomorrow while the kids and I go exploring. If nothing else, it will be nice just not to have to drive anywhere.

As a side note: Thanks to all of you who have written or called regarding this morning's post. It was hard to get it down in words, feeling a little like opening up a vein. I appreciate the words of response and encouragement and insight. We are indeed fortunate travelers.

Welcome to Washington!

Seems only natural that this would be the first sign we see. Fresh fruit and espresso anyone?

Sunday

UMATILLA INDIAN RESERVATION, OREGON - A year ago exactly, I was on a road trip of a entirely different kind. Shortly before Father’s Day, my father (by adoption) checked himself into a hotel, drank two bottles of gin and hanged himself.

He was a good man. But he was also an alcoholic, bi-polar and a paranoid schizophrenic. My stepmother Alice was handling things by herself and so I drove up to Brattleboro, Vt. to be of whatever help I could and grieve alongside her.

Ours was a strange relationship. He adopted me when I was three years old. And when things didn’t work out between him and my mom, he kept his commitment to me. I spent all of my childhood summers with him in a humble lakeside retreat in New Hampshire. But I never called him Dad, just Pete.

As I became an adult we lost touch, communicating only infrequently. It had been years since we talked and I thought I had lost him forever. Another disposable person in my life. But in the winter of 2001 when I was in Afghanistan covering the invasion and at the lowest point in my life, spiritually and emotionally lost, without hope and, yes, suicidal, my father somehow found me. I’ll never forget talking to him over satellite phone from Kabul, reconnecting and telling him for the first time in my life that I loved him.

Last year I was going to give him a U.S. flag that I carried on my last combat mission in Afghanistan several years later, just as I was deciding to hang up my boots as a reporter. But now he was dead.

His death was not a surprise, though. Please forgive the strangeness of what follows. Two months earlier, I had the strongest sense that I needed to tell him to get help. This kind of thing does not happen to me often. But this was clear and it was specific. I needed to tell him to get help or he would be dead in two months. Two months later, to the day, he was dead.

The thing is, I never told him. I did not trust the still small voice within myself, what I am now convinced was the voice of God. It was too clear and too specific to be otherwise. And even now the guilt wells within me.

I know his death is not my fault, specifically, but even without this strange foreshadowing I know there is more could and should have done. But his sickness overwhelmed me. This is something I have been open about with my wife and with my stepmother and they have both been good and gracious to me. Still, all this year this has lurked in the background, building like a blackwater dam inside me.

And so as I went to church on Sunday, Father’s Day, this was all rising up around me. And as we sang songs of worship celebrating a good and loving heavenly father, the dam just burst wide open. I struggled, usually unsuccessfully, to maintain composure through Peter’s teaching on perfect love, so much of it seemingly spoken just for me. But as we rose to eat the bread and drink the wine, the body and blood of a perfect atonement, I lost all control. Sitting back down I heaved in deep cleansing sobs, my wife wrapping her arms around me as a voice like an angle rose behind me, a man whose face I never saw, singing praise and worship in clear perfect notes resonating directly into my being.

The raw, vile sewage ran out of me, replaced by clear running waters. A fountain of living water.

I know after the last post I am now running the risk of being labeled a Big Cry Baby. I’m okay with that. As I’ve grown older and more honest with myself and others I’ve found the tears flow more readily. I am what I am.

After the services ended, I met with Aram, a pastor at Lookout Mountain who reminds me somehow of a Friar Tuck with a warm and generous smile, deep and searching eyes and unafraid to live on the edge, among outlaws. He listened to my story, encouraged me through my tears, not offering platitudes or empty words, but Christ-like entered into my pain and prayed for God’s help and comfort.

It was like a soothing balm after the painful cleaning of a festering wound.

There was more at Lookout Mountain that was good for the soul as well. We made new friends and got valuable insight in our pursuit of Marley’s grad school, the details of which were remarkably providential. The currents of our life are coming together in some kind of wonderful confluence that is not yet clear, but exciting. It’s hard to describe the specifics, but suffice to say that by what others might call complete coincidence the two programs we are looking at – CCU’s and Mars Hill – are directly connected in ways that we had no idea.

Our day ended breaking bread with Lawdon and Tiffany and their two wonderful girls, our fellow traffic-caught friends from the mountains who had invited us into their home for dinner. Theirs is a wonderful and generous family, real and genuine, and they instantly made their home feel like our home. Capping it all off, Lawdon offered to follow us to our campsite, dropping me and the kids off so that he could then follow Marley all the way across Denver to the airport to drop off our rental car and then bring her back to the RV. We tried to talk him out of it, but out of the pure generosity of his heart, he insisted, adding hours to his night but also richness to our fellowship.

There is a danger in deconstructing a remarkable day into its component parts. Inevitably dissection kills and I worry that I may have done that here. The thing is, Sunday wasn’t a series of singular events but a woven whole, each strand interconnecting with the next. More like notes that together make a beautiful song. It’s hard to write about songs, but I hope I have been able to convey even just a little whisper of the melody.

We begin the last leg of our journey to the West Coast today, already deep inside Oregon. We should be in Seattle by this afternoon.

I am a Dumbass

Note: I tried to post this last night, but we were too far off the grid. Sorry for the delay. I will try to post some pix later today, hopefully from Idaho.

ANTELOPE ISLAND, Utah -- Any idiot should have been able to figure this out. The physical toll from a week of nearly non-stop travel. The stress from a series of near catastrophes. A car/home in need of a thorough cleaning and general upkeep. Plus, Marley wrestling with an extra dose of hormones – and I say that matter-of-factly not disparagingly in the least. It is what it is. And me, still recovering from an emotional crucible on Sunday.

It all so obviously added up to a much needed down day. A real Day of Rest. Otherwise, you’ve got a cocktail more dangerous than any Molotov. Any idiot could have seen that. But clearly I am not just any idiot.

No, instead we pressed on Monday. We had an imaginary schedule to keep. On the surface everything was fine. But every time Marley and I tried to talk about the events of Sunday conversation trailed off into uncomfortable silence. Things were strained between us, which is so very rare these days.Trying to process a day of magnitude while traversing dizzying high-altitude passes in a 30-foot RV is probably not the best idea in the world. We were stressing. The kids were stressing. The roller coaster was hitting a gut pulling low after the soaring highs from the day before.

But we soldiered on. Until everything melted down this morning. I was wrung out, Marley was wrung out. Recriminations were flying. We were on the verge of disaster. Everything was falling apart.

And then…

And then something magical happened. Instead of descending into a death spiral, I reached out to my wonderful, amazing, crying wife and I held her. And then we prayed. At first the prayer was awkward, clumsy, unsure. But it steadily became more open, honest, naked.

We allowed ourselves to let go of our angst-bombs that were ticking, ready to explode and just surrender our brokenness to God. We acknowledged our inability and our lack of strength and asked our heavenly father to pour out His ability and His strength.

And suddenly, the dam burst. Crying in each others’ arms in the very heart of the Heart of Gold we made amends first with God, then each other, and then with our kids. We laughed, we hugged, we cried some more. Noah, returning with his sissy – who as part of God’s very gift to us – had been just outside giving us just the privacy we needed to work through all this, stepped in asking innocently, “are you alright now?” Oh yes, we were definitely all right now.

The fog had lifted. It was a new day.

And so we didn’t rush out of Utah in a blaze of dust. We lingered. We had breakfast for the first time on this trip in a restaurant. A waitress brought us coffee. We had seconds, even though it wasn’t very good. We left when we were good and ready. We laughed and smiled and finally talked as we drove along the byway.

We did not make it to Idaho, but instead Marley found the coolest of diversions. For the first time on this trip we are actually camping. The place is Antelope Island in the middle of the Great Salt Lake.

We got here by early afternoon. We hiked out over half a mile from sandy beaches across salt flats and into the water to swim in its cool brine-filled waters. Like the Dead Sea, the salt is so thick here that you can literally float on top of the water if lie flat on your back. We cooked steaks over an open fire as the sun set behind distant mountains dancing red across the water. A pair of coyotes stalked rabbits a few hundred feet away, eventually disappearing in the scrub brush. As we finished our meal, I think they were beginning their own, howling – I swear -- in long victorious cries as the crescent moon peeked out over a nearby ridgeline.

I like to think that I will never again put an itinerary before the needs of my wife or kids or even myself. But if I slip, which knowing me I probably will, I hope that at the very least I can remember this day and how it so quickly began anew, stripped down and naked before a loving God, broken and healed at the same time.

The Tipping Point

VERNAL, Utah -- On the first day of our second week we passed into our seventh state of this trip. Welcome to Utah. To date, we've traveled just under 1600 miles.

At about 1:30 yesterday, as we were making our way through Rabbit Ears Pass in Colorado, we passed a small sign that said we were passing from the Atlantic Ocean watershed to the Pacific Ocean watershed. The Great American Tipping Point, the actual Continental Divide. It happened so quick and on a road so narrow we couldn't even turn around to get a picture.

I must say getting off the highway has left us feeling much more connected to real America. Gone are the homogeneous strip malls and Anywhere, U.S. exits.

Along the way to this stop on our journey we had lunch on the Muddy River, which wasn't so much actually. We cooled our feet in its cool mountain waters, skipped rocks and Amelia tried her hands at little bouldering.

Vernal seems a nondescript high desert town, just across the state line from Dinosaur, the last town on Route 40 before leaving Colorado.

When we arrived it was still in the 90s and with enough time before sundown to order a Pizza, swim in the pool and get in a round of putt-putt golf. Marley and the kids watched a movie huddled together in the bed in back and I promptly passed out on the couch.

But the temperatures swing wide here. By dawn, we were all shivering under our covers.

Today, we're hoping to make it all the way up through Utah, past the Great Salt Lake and into Idaho.

Loveland Pass

SILVERTHORNE, Colorado -- We've made it through Loveland Pass, crossing our first major hump of The Divide at just over 11,000 feet. The Heart of Gold has been a champ, barely even passing the halfway mark on the engine temp gauge.

This is also where we make our first real turn since Dayton, saying goodbye to I-70 as we turn onto Route 9 following the Blue Water River until it meets the headwaters of the Colorado River.

But first, the brakes are just starting to squeal a bit, so we to need to check them out. In the meantime, Willie's been singing to me in my mind all morning, so I thought I'd share the love.

On the Road Again...

On the day that I have the most to write about, I have the least amount of time to post. Today we begin our trek across the Continental Divide. Good counselors have advised making this leg of our journey in the cool of the morning to ease the strain on the Heart of Gold's engine and prevent overheating.

Suffice it for now, with the promise of elaboration when time permits, that yesterday was one of the most amazing days of my life. In a way I am thankful for more time to process all that went on because at this point words truly fail me and I worry that I will not be able to adequately capture even a slice of it. No, I am sure that I won't. But will try.

But I will have to do it later. If we don't leave now, it will be too hot.

Happy Father's Day!

Hi all, Marley here.

Jon is the writer in the family-with good reason- but I want to take a moment while he's at the pool with the kids to share a little bit about the man behind the blog, particularly who he is as a father.

With just a snapshot of a day, it's easy to describe Amelia and Noah's Daddy. Today, he has already demonstrated patience, love, and kindness to his kids. I am so grateful that I can say that about my children's father, but it really is only the tip of the iceberg. What he also demonstrated today was who he really is as a man: his integrity, his depth of feeling, his heart. And the little extra special bit is that he shows them one of his true gifts: his ability to connect with people, to bring them into our story, and us into theirs. It's this quality that takes my breath away. It's one thing I could never give them the way he does. That, and a love of adventure. These two gifts will bless our children in ways I can't even hypothesize yet, but they are gems. And as they watch their father, Amelia will be developing her concept of what kind of man she will want to share her life with, and Noah will be studying and learning what it means to be a man, a father, a husband. I honestly couldn't ask for a better representative for each of these roles.

Happy Father's Day, Jon, from your biggest fan.

The View from 14,000 Feet

DAKOTA RIDGE RV PARK -- Golden, Colorado -- When we left Denver yesterday afternoon the temperature was peaking at more than 90 degrees. When we got the top of Mt. Evans, it was snowing.

Mt. Evans boasts North America's highest paved road, described as the "highway into the sky." Beginning in Idaho Springs, by the time you reach the top of Colorado's 14th highest mountain, you'll travel 14 miles of white-knuckle hairpin turns to 14,130 feet. The "true summit" is a short hike up to 14,264. That's so far up that until June 4 the last few miles to the top from Summit Lake were still snowed in.

If our goal was to build memories with our kids, I think this just might be one that stands out.

By the time we reached the top we had passed from brilliant sunshine to rain, to hail to sleet and into snow and back again to sunshine several times.

At high altitudes the weather is like a living thing, always changing, moving and often surprising.

Bundling the kids up we were going to make a bid to for the summit, but lightning storms were just rolling in. One woman, who had just come down and looked like an experienced hiker, said she had been absolutely terrified. "My hair was out to here," she said, holding her hands a good two feet from her head. "I touched my glasses and I could actually feel voltage running through them."

The lightning storm was becoming truly amazing with brilliant arcs leaping across the sky just off in the distance. Nearby a ranger was monitoring a device that showed him precisely how far away the danger was. He was beginning to look worried.

"We're recommending people don't go to the summit right now," he said. "It's just too dangerous. If the storm gets much closer we'll tell people to get in their cars until it passes."

A few minutes later, as we were admiring the views from the various observation decks, he started telling people to get in their cars. So, we hunkered down, eating granola bars as the snow and lightning storm moved over us. It didn't last long, and we were able to get out and look around some more, but the ranger was still strongly advising against going to the summit.

And it wasn't long before his radio was crackling with reports of another storm now surrounding Summit Lake below. "They're getting lightning strikes all around them," he said. Soon, it was time to get back into cars. Without much hope of the weather clearing anytime soon we decided to forego our bragging rights of a picture at the summit and begin making our way back down.

Through it all the kids were great. But they were exhausted. It wasn't long before they passed out, which was good because not long after we found ourselves driving through the very heart of the storm. It was exhilarating, if a little scary. I will never forget the sight of watching lightning from inside the clouds, arcing down into the valley below us. Shooting away as Marley drove, at one point I had to quickly drop my camera on the floorboard of our rental car. I was sure I felt the strange sensation of voltage surging through its metal body. Steel-belted radials conducting?

Before long we were back down in Idaho Springs. Just as we were debating whether to stop and get something to eat or go back down into Golden first, we found a long line of cars stacked up on I-70. It was a virtual parking lot. The Germans have a word for traffic jam -- stau. This was a super stau. As we would later find out a west-bound semi had rolled off a steep embankment crushing two cars in the east-bound lane into Denver a few hours earlier. The highway was still closed as crews wrestled with the tragedy.

So, we headed into Idaho Springs which had already turned into a refugee camp of traffic jam weary motorists fortunate enough to be able to take the exit. Originally a Gold Rush town, Idaho Springs does a good job of cultivating its Wild West heritage with antique shops and restaurants for tourists while maintaining a bit of the outlaw with a few rough and tumble saloons.

As we walked down the main street a pair of guys stumbling out of the Buffalo Bar and Restaurant said they couldn't recommend the food -- and the beer --more. Inside, we soon found ourselves devouring delicious nachos, buffalo-meat burgers and stew. And, yeah, some really good local beer, dubbed Pick Axe, from the nearby Tommy Knocker brewery.

Seated at the table next to us, we soon met Jim and Joan, stranded here because of the stau as well. A retired couple, they now travel the country by RV nearly full time, wintering at their home in Las Vegas.

Jim spent 25 years as postal carrier, walking 9.2 miles everyday in the San Francisco Bay area to deliver the mail. That was before the days of junk mail, he said, which have now forced nearly all post offices to abandon walking routes to carry the heavier loads by car.

We shared our story of the waterfall pouring out our RV and he grinned and nodded a knowing smile, saying "it's things like that make RVing an adventure. It's all part of the fun."

After dinner we stopped at a nearby park to let the kids run loose for a bit. That's where we met Lawdon and Tiffany and their two angels -- 3-year-old Malaika and one-year-old Tianshi. Both names were discovered during the couples' round-the-world honeymoon and are literally translated angel, Malaika is Swahili, Tianshi is Chinese.

We talked for at least two hours as the kids played, ranging from topics of faith to raising kids to writing books. Lawdon, a transplant to the Denver area from Chicago, is a science fiction writer and Tiffany works for the phone company. We couldn't have asked for better company while waiting for the traffic to clear.

Here's me with one of our new friends, Malaika (photo by Amelia)

In fact, we hit off so well, we've been invited for dinner at their home this evening.

In the meantime, having finished my Father's Day breakfast in bed and been declared to be "the best Daddy ever!" in a hand-drawn card Amelia has just handed me, it's time to get ready for services at Lookout Mountain. Then it's time for some more soaking in the pool and, if Amelia gets her way, there might be time for another run down the Alpine Slide.

Niagara Bathroom

DAKOTA RIDGE RV PARK -- Golden, Colorado -- "Mr. Anderson? This is Linda at Dakota Ridge," said the voice in my cell phone.

She said it as if she were about to tell me someone had just died. 45 minutes north of Denver deep into the Rockies, we were just leaving the ranger station at Arapaho National Forest preparing for our trek to the top of Mt. Evans.

"There was a problem with your RV," said Linda. "There was water pouring out your front door. We had to turn off the water."

"Ok" was the best I could do. I think I managed to thank her.

Once again visions of blackwater churned in my head. It's hard not to imagine the worst at times like this.

Back at the campground 30 minutes later, water was still dripping out the front door. The whole rear half of the RV, in fact, was a cascade of water. Inside water squished up over my Tevas soaking my feet as I walked back to the bathroom. No noxious fumes. But it was hard to breath a sigh of relief. Everything was soaked.

While I went out to survey things from the outside, Marley quickly figured out what had gone so terribly wrong. The toilet had somehow gotten stuck in flush mode. Our toilet is kind of like an airplane's with a little valve at the bottom of the bowl that opens when, um, business is completed. At some point, we're not sure when or how, that valve got stuck and the flush water kept going.

And going.

And going right over the bowl and, like a rusing mighty river, moved down the center of our coach, down our steps and out our door. The good news is that if the bottom valve had gotten stuck in the open position and all that water had filled up our blackwater tank and then overfilled we would have had a mess of entirely different proportions to clean up.

Still, if the last mishap was a bucket of water, this was Niagara Falls.

What sticks out for me though is a comment Marley made as we were making our way down from the mountains. She wasn't being preachy, that's not her way, just observing, thinking out loud, saying it as much for herself as for me. "From a big picture perspective, how we respond is what matters. That's what the kids will learn from this."

She was, of course, right. And so, as much as my frustration seethed and I had to fight repeatedly the desperate urge to kick something, her words were a calming balm. And as it turned out, it wasn't so bad. Fortunately, you might say, we already had a wet vac. That took up the standing water and our "neighbor" here at the park was kind enough to go find a big box fan to help whick the moisture up and out. More than ten hours later, the fan, along with the heater jacked up full blast appears to have largely done the trick. There's still some moist spots, but I think they'll be dried up by this time tomorrow.

Anyway, by 2 pm we were on the road headed back up into the mountains. I'll leave the details of the rest of the day for tomorrow, but I'll offer four words as teaser: rain, hail, sleet and snow. And we simply couldn't have had a better time.

As I write I'm recalling something else Marley said, just as we were heading out again...

"You know it's entirely possible this happened for a reason."

At the time I remember thinking to myself, yeah the reason is the damn flush valve didn't turn off. But now that I think about it, I realize she may have been right.

Maximum Clearances, New Discoveries

DAKOTA RIDGE RV PARK -- Golden, Colorado -- If Kansas was largely a fun sucker, yesterday certainly made up for lost time.

Marley made it to her tour of CCU on time, with only one slight hiccup. As we were driving into Denver, we stopped at the airport to pick up a rental car for more mobile transportation while we're here. Navigating our way through the usual twists and turns of a major international airport we figured we'd drop her off at Arrivals, she'd pick up the car and go to her appointment while the kids and I set up camp.

I should say here one of the very last things I did before leaving on this trip was climb up on top of the Heart of Gold with a tape measure and see exactly how tall this thing is. 10 feet, 4 inches. 10-4, good buddy.

So, after turning down a long single-lane ramp, we were at least prepared when we saw this sign as we pulled into the arrivals entrance. Hmmm....okay. I guess we've got to back up. A bit daunting considering the flow of traffic, but luckily there was enough of a shoulder to make it happen without too much disruption.

Could have been worse.

Beyond that we made it here without any more fuss or muss, launching into fun-packed day. The kids played in the pool, we went for hike into the surrounding hills. We did some bouldering....





























...and admired some funky wildflowers.

(Anyone know what these are?)


Making our way higher we crested a ridge only to see off in the valley below a small amusement park, complete with ribbons of alpine slide tracks running down the side of a mountain. Back down in camp, we hopped into the pool to cool off and then hopped into our car to go check out our "discovery."

I wasn't sure if the kids would feel comfortable enough to brave the tall ski lift ride up to the top of the alpine slide, but they were undaunted. Amelia drove her own sled down and Noah rode with Marley. Ameila's first words at the bottom of the run... "Can we do that again!?!"

Maybe later, but this morning we're driving up into the high country for little mountain climbing.

Raison de Voyager

DAKOTA RIDGE RV PARK -- Golden, Colorado -- Traveling West on I-70 just before Mile Marker 306 you will crest a hill and suddenly, opening up before you, will be the the great expanse of the Rocky Mountains, the very backbone of North America.

Where for hours there have been only clouds dotting the High Plains horizon, there is now a snow-capped wall of mountains rising sharply into the sky. Seeing them makes my pulse race. Since leaving Germany, where we lived in the foothills of the Alps, I have missed the mountains terribly.

"Denver 24 miles," the sign reads.

Marley has an appointment with Colorado Christian University today, one of only a few schools in the area that offers a masters program in Christian Counseling. So we're moving with a purpose.

The French have a saying: "Raison d'etre," rendered literally "Reason to be." A better translation though is probably "Purpose in life." While I might save such lofty musings on that topic for later posts, it occurs to me that this might be a good time to offer our raison de voyage -- the purpose of this trip -- in more specific terms.

First and foremost, this trip is about building memories with our kids. Perhaps the greatest gift my mom ever gave me was a sense of adventure, formed and molded with many trips both near and far. Her motto: Don't give things, give memories. I want to give our kids that same gift. The gift of rich stories.

On a more practical levels:

There is Chris, Marley's brother, and his bride Shannon who have just bought their first house outside Seattle. Chris works for 1st Special Forces Group at Fort Lewis, Washington, doing things he's not allowed to talk about. He will one day soon, however, leave the Army to pursue a career all together different in computer animation, which will begin with a four-year art school degree. He is a true renaissance man.

And there is Scott, a chaplain, counselor and friend from Germany who has since retired from the Army and opened a private practice in Montana.

And there is Angie, Marley's cousin -- more like a sister, really -- and her husband Brett and their three kids who have all just made a brave move from Texas to Minneapolis.

All three of which we long to see and reconnect with.

Finally, there is also a quiet whisper.

Marley is on the cusp of finishing a Bachelor of Arts degree. An Air Force veteran and fluent in Arabic, she is one of the smartest people I know. Taking a break in her career to move to Europe for my career and begin our brood, she is also what some might call a non-traditional student. Despite her cloak and dagger background -- most of which, she too can't talk about -- her real calling is in counseling. And that calling is becoming an audible whisper. It's time to find where she should get her training. And so we are looking for the best fit.

A school in Seattle has emerged as what appears to be the best candidate. Scouring the Internet, she happened upon Mars Hill Graduate School. It seems a good fit on many different levels, some of which we may get into in future posts. But in what might be described as a wink and a smile from God himself, I will offer this one: Marley only just recently learned that Mars Hill is right across the street from where Chris will be attending art school.

And so, we're checking it out. And, if just to have some basis of comparison, we're looking at other possibilities along the way.

Denver is a major draw because a favorite church makes its home here. We've followed the sermons from Lookout Mountain Community Church ever since a great friend slipped us a CD of a teaching by their senior pastor dubbed Stuck on Jackass Hill when we coming through a particularly difficult period of our marriage. We've been hooked ever since. I visited here about a year and a half ago and for some time now, this has been a place where we have considered putting down roots.

And so, we'll spend the next few days here, visiting schools, looking at neighborhoods, hiking the mountains, attending services -- in general, getting a sense of the vibe.

Yes, the mountains here are awesome, inspiring even. It occurs to me now they've often been the place where men great and small have gone to find -- and often get -- answers from above. Maybe that's why my pulse is racing.

Administrative Note

When creating this blog, I neglected to change a default setting that requires anyone who wants to post a comment to go through the hassle of becoming a registered user. My apologies. That's now fixed. So now comments, should anyone care to post them, can be offered with minimal fuss.

For those of you unfamiliar with blogs, comments are left by hitting the comments button at the bottom of each post. A pop-up window should, well, pop up and there you'll see any other comments already posted and at the bottom a field to leave your own. If you don't want to register you can click on the "anonymous" button and fire away, with or without signing your name.

No pressure at all, but thanks to those of you who have already chimed in.

Guess what, Toto?

LIMON, Colorado -- Yep, we're not in Kansas anymore.

We made it an hour and a half shy of Denver, the kids sleeping much of the way.

It was blissfully smooth sailing. Grand expanses of landscape, smooth roads straight and true, hardly any traffic (did I mention sleeping kids?) and a touch down here in Limon with enough time before sundown for the kids to get a swim in the pool, do laundry, take showers and continue recovery from our little mishap.

While our campsite was kind of on the sucky side, Kansas as a whole was a pleasant surprise. It certainly offered the most breathtaking vistas so far. This is not the Kansas I remember. Of course, I only spent the first few weeks of my life here -- and returned only briefly in the years since -- but the Kansas in my mind's eye is unnaturally flat, unbearably grey and understandably a place worth avoiding.

The Kansas of this trip, however, is rolling and green, verdant almost, and punctuated with, yes, vast rippling amber waves of grain. The wide open skies remind me of Texas, where thunderheads can be seen delivering sheets of rain 30 miles or more off in the distance. I-70 did a good job threading the needle through several cloud bursts unleashing on both flanks and what weather we did hit turned to brilliant sunshine as quickly as it came.

I found myself wishing we could linger, leisurly stopping to spend an afternoon photographing the high plains in golden light, but because we have appointments in Denver to keep we pushed on, instead grabbing what we could in brief snatches.

What made my day, though, was not the beautiful terrain, but once again a chance encounter and a magical moment of grace. In brief snatches of conversation I had met our "neighbors" here at this KOA campground. I'm embarrassed to say their names have slipped me, but they have beautiful and friendly bright-eyed Doberman and a yappy, but a cute fox terrier. They're retirees from New York now living in Florida on their way for a vacation in the Rockies.

As the setting sun painted the distant clouds in brilliant oranges and reds, I told them the story of our filled-to-overflowing greywater tanks. A few minutes later, the man caught me as I returned from dropping off some trash. He held out a small oscillating fan, compact but powerful. Keep it, he said, it will help dry out the bathroom carpet over the next day or so. It's the kind of thing they might very well need. They wouldn't have brought it, if they didn't think so.

Yet, without even a moment of hesitation, it was gift given, to a stranger barely known, not extravagant, but so immediately helpful. It's the kind of gift I hope I can pass on one day not so long from now.

Oh Blackwater (or Adventures in Waste Management)

WAL-MART PARKING LOT – Hays, Kansas – It rained most of the night. And all morning. We were going to take the kids to a Safari park, but the weather nixed that. Instead, Noah put on his fireman’s rain suit and played in the downpour.

The rain made an already so-so campgrounds downright dreary. Turns out that was the best part of the day. At least so far.

Getting ready to leave our campsite at Sundowner West, we decided to top off our fresh water tanks which were running low. We are learning there is an art to RV life, but the science lives largely in tank management. There are the fuel tanks for both the RV and the generator, the LP gas tanks to power the fridge, stove, furnace and hot water heater, the freshwater tanks for drinking and cleaning, the greywater tanks for sink and shower drainage -- and, finally, the dreaded blackwater tanks for sewage. There are gauges with lights and button to help manage it all, but – as we learned – they are not necessarily the most accurate.

Anyway, as Marley was doing the dishes as we were preparing to go she quickly started noticing silt was coming in with the water. Dirty well, I guess. So, we figured we’d just flush the whole tank. Being new at all this, there may very well be an easier way, but we figured we would just run the tap until it was dry, transferring all the freshwater into our greywater tanks. I monitored the gauges to make sure they weren’t overfilling. A few minutes later we were on our way to the “dumping station” to, ahem, drop our load.

As I was in the back managing the hoses and valves, Amelia, our 7-year-old, suddenly ran up breathless, “Come quick! It’s an emergency!” Inside Marley was already throwing towels down in the bathroom, water overflowing the shower tub. I immediately had vision of a blackwater nightmare, our own twisted version of Robin William’s showdown with the sewer line, except for us, inside the RV, Credence Clearwater Revival singing in the soundtrackof my mind, oh Blackwater keep on flowing...

Fortunately, it wasn’t nearly so bad. But still a royal pain in the butt. After buying a small wet-vac, we’ve managed to get most of the water up, here in the Wal-mart parking lot, but not after a few hour delay. I don’t think we’re going to make it to Denver today.

If you ever happen to passing through central Kansas in an RV, I’d recommend against Sundowner West.

The Heart of Gold

SUNDOWNER WEST -- Salina, Kansas -- Before we had even bought this RV, Marley and I instantly knew what we would name it. We are not especially obsessive about naming vehicles, but this, this was different. An RV is something voyages are taken on, more vessel than car or truck. Like any good ship, it needed a name.

I will say upfront that we had considered, however briefly, the name "Rolling Turd" in honor of Robin William's RV in the movie of same name. But not for this ship. She's got much more class than that.

The name we had decided upon, almost without having to say it aloud: Heart of Gold. And, upon reflection, it seems to become only more and more appropriate.

For us, Heart of Gold is first the name of a spaceship in the Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy. Before the recent movie, Hitchhikers was a book, the first in a "four-part trilogy" as the publishers quipped. Hitchhikers is a wholly remarkable book, if for other reason than its singular piece of wisdom encouraging readers with the simple words "Don't Panic." On trips such as this, as we learned already, those are valuable words to remember.

But there are other reasons. And one of those reasons is the Heart of Gold. This interstellar ship takes Arthur Dent and his various companions on some truly remarkable journeys. And so there is that obvious connection. But the Heart of Gold is powered by what author Douglas Adams describes matter-of-factly as an "infinite improbability drive."

And this is where, upon aforementioned reflection, things get a little more poetic. Our marriage, some might say, is infinitely improbable -- that it happened at all and that it has survived into what can only be described as a state of amazing grace today. Marley and I both read the book shortly after it was published circa 1980 and it served as one of a few common threads upon which we originally wove our friendship 10 years later.

The life we began together, and the circuitous path we have taken since -- from Texas to California to DC to Sicily then Germany back to DC and now, strangest of all, in Ohio -- seems equally improbable. As does this trip scouting our next move in places West.

Of course, Douglas Adams was listening incessantly to Neil Young when he wrote Hitchhikers and found inspiration for the ship in Young's song by the same name. I've never been a huge fan of Young but listening to it again recently, I must say I've been captivated.

If you haven't heard it in awhile, here it is...



Neil seems to be singing about the journey we all take, the searching and yearning for the heart of gold in our family, friends, spouse, kids, God, savior and, ultimately, ourselves. Those are all worthy journeys.

And so here we are in Kansas, the place of my birth. The Heart of Gold is quiet now as I type, Marley and the kids breathing in the slow rhythm of sleep, the sounds of the night filtering in across the nearby lake. I feel blessed to have found hearts of gold even as we journey aboard her.