Six months into our trip and we’ve already done a lap around the US, circling the country (and more) from Channel Islands to Key West, and from Acadia to Portland. Completing a circle usually calls for some kind of reflection, something that highlights lessons learned or nirvana(s) experienced. This is not that post. (Although you might want to check out this post for more details on where we’ve been.)
We have some serious thoughts that we’ll no doubt put on the interwebs in the coming months, but I thought it might be fun to highlight some significant insignificant observations that we’ve had on our trip. Some are observations that anyone might have had driving 25,000 miles around the country over six months, and some might be more conditioned by the fact that we haven’t lived in the US for about 10 years.
One: Why did anyone let us drive an RV without taking some sort of course first?
Wendell Berry’s poems, fiction, and non-fiction have been a near-constant companion on the road. As some of you who have read earlier posts know, we started this trip with the goal of restoring body and spirit in some of the country’s most beautiful places. There are few authors who better speak to that desire than Mr. Berry.
As an example, here’s a short poem that I used to read in the urban jungles of Beijing. It may have single-handedly brought us back to the American wild.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
And I wake in the night at the least sound
In fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
Jen and I are night-people. I’d like to say that we were night-people, because we sort of assumed that once we were rested and recovered, we’d be rising with the sun every morning. That hasn’t happened–we’ve kept our nocturnal circadian rhythm here on the road. You may have noticed that nearly all of our pictures are sunsets. It’s not a coincidence.
While there’s nothing necessarily wrong with waking up late, we’ve noticed that our fellow campers tend to be the opposite. I’ve stepped outside our trailer many times to find most of our neighbors gone by 8 am.
The fact that this has happened not just once, but on a regular basis, has sown some seeds of self-doubt. Like any normal person, I’m attempting to deal with that guilt by writing a poem. The first verse (or the last?) is below. Any constructive criticism of the poem–or our sleep habits–is appreciated.
Our trailer, before it was christened the Gray Whale (as opposed to the white…), came off the Airstream assembly line as a 25-foot, front-bed, Flying Cloud. To be honest, although this was the right model for us, I was never too keen on this particular name. The other Airstreams are a bit less florid and whimsical: the “Classic,” the “International,” even the “Sport” and “Basecamp” have simple, robust, descriptive names that tell you either what you’re getting or what it’s used for. The Flying Cloud? Robust it is not. As for “flying”, I doubt the line of cars waiting (patiently) behind us in construction zones across America would find that very apt, either. In fact, if she is ever flying, something’s probably gone dreadfully wrong…
When J and I began making plans to spend a year in the national parks, it was in part because we needed a respite from the work we had been doing in Asia. Our partners were justice-minded lawyers, non-profits, and academics who have been under incredible, intensifying pressure, as countries around the world have begun to reject the international human rights framework or, at least, any role for foreign governments, non-profits, and other do-gooders in it.
We needed to get out of the haze in Beijing, literally, and reassess the way we had been doing our work, and perhaps living our lives.