No Signal: Sneak Preview Two

This is a special sneak preview of

the story of my first year living out of my van. THIS IS NOT THE FINAL VERSION OF THE BOOK, this is the rough draft.

When I filled up Pandette in John Day the dude manning the pump wasn’t wearing a mask. It pissed me off but he was easy going and there was no point in starting an argument. The van full, my route south took me down lonelier and lonelier roads until I found a place to camp for the night. A beer was opened and held up to the sky thanking whomever for delivering me for the night. Gratitude expressed, I bathed for the first time on the road. There were a lot of bugs but it took awhile for them to drive me away to another spot a few miles down the spare ribbon of asphalt. As the shadows deepened, there were circling thoughts about how I still felt like a tourist, only on the edge of a nomad’s life and that made me anxious. Beer led to whiskey. I dragged the stool stool---a toilet set on folding legs---into the woods and broke it in. As I sat there my eyes darted in every direction like a wary woodland creature, sure a car would appear out of nowhere or maybe a bear would step out from behind a tree. Back in the van I read The Stand until darkness prevented it. The fourteen hours I was on that forest road I did not see another vehicle.

In the morning I got back on the main highway and drove west through Izee and mile after mile of farmland. I had been curious about the road and was not disappointed due to my love of obscure bands of water twisting along highways and rock formations. There was signal in Prineville so I got on social media to let everyone know I hadn’t died of ass rape by hillbillies or maulings by bears demanding Malt o’ Meal that I didn’t have. The morning was already warm as I sat there writing with my thumbs. On the way out of town I passed two Trump 2020 signs.

South of Prineville the highway followed the Crook River. Finding an empty campground I made coffee and food, eating while watching the feral river polish rocks and chew its way around corners. The anxiety was beginning to diminish and a familiarity with life on the road was asserting itself---slowly. After the highway left the river the asphalt left the highway and I found myself bouncing down another washboard road. I slowed from fifty to twenty, gritted my teeth against the roughness, and then reminded myself what an amazing life I was leading: Yeah, the road was fucked, but God what a raw place, what an open and quiet place. So dry, dusty yet clean.

My stop for the night was the Badlands fifteen miles east of Bend. I filled the water bottles, put on my backpack, and headed down a trail. My destination was Badlands Rock; the two times Sofia and I had been to the Badlands we hadn’t made it to the rock and making the journey felt like something I had to do---it didn’t matter that it was early summer and I wasn’t in shape, I was doing it. The narrow road took me past raspy trees and stoic stones. The place was in my blood, rushing with more urgency as my middle-aged heart struggled. After a couple of hours I reached the rock, nursing my water bottle to make sure I had enough left for the return trip. The only sounds were a slight breeze and the buzz of insects. The memory of my ex-wife and I out there took over everything...just rushed every other thought.

“Why the fuck did it have to end that way? Why wasn’t the love between us enough to just…”

Those words, and then emotions made creating and expressing words impossible. I dropped on a rock, let my head fall into my hands and cried; it may have been thirty seconds or fifteen minutes I am not sure. Taking my glasses off, I wiped my eyes with the back of my arm, composed myself, and started walking back down the trail towards the parking lot.