Good fences

Having the road nearly to myself made the drive from Helena to the border really special. Though a west wind did its best to shove the Saturn onto the right shoulder, the view of the Grand Tetons more than made up for having to fight the gusts.

Crossing the border has been on my mind for the past few months. I am unhappy about the fact that a passport will soon be required when we visit our neighbors to the north, neighbors that include relatives for many of us.

My love of freedom makes me despise the creation of barriers and restrictions.

When I arrived at the border, only one lane was open for business. Tourism is apparently the reason for having five or six gates; but the season has not yet begun and a single officer manned the first booth.

Three cars preceded me and I expected to slide past the agent in a matter of seconds.

But each vehicle was held for what seemed like minutes. It was like being in line at McDonalds when every car in front of you is placing orders for their whole office. I consciously avoided feeling impatient -- crowds are just not part of the Montana/Alberta experience.

When it was finally my turn, I found myself facing a huge, unsmiling officer wearing a flak jacket and a frown. It was more than intimidating, I felt uncomfortable.

The agent barked questions and didn't seem to like the answers. When he asked what I had in the back seat, I realized that the lack of organization that created a jumble of luggage, loose clothing and other containers might look to this fellow like a great place to hide an IED or even a weapon of mass destruction or two.

The interrogation reduced me to stammering idiot status. This wasn't the kind of audience old Wandering Dave tends to charm.

I began to suspect that I wasn't passing level one inspection; and my fears were soon realized as I was handed a form and ordered to report to an immigration officer inside the building.

I felt a bit out of breath and increasingly flustered as I entered the large room and discovered that I was one of just a few "customers." Three uniformed officers were behind the immigration counter and one gave me a signal to approach.

"Do you have a picture I.D.?"

My wallet was exactly where it was supposed to be: in the little cardboard box I keep on the passenger's seat. It was nestled comfortably along with other items I need from time to time during my travels.

Red-faced, I rushed out of the building to retrieve it.

I took a quick look at my driver's license just to confirm my suspicion that it did NOT contain my current address. Though I did notify the DMV online of my move, now over a year ago, I received only new registration documents for the Saturn, no new license for myself.

"Where do you live?"

Ulp! He was getting right to the point. I was certain that strict honesty -- which is my general policy -- was imperative in the current circumstances.

"Southern California," I replied. It was an answer that was true, but didn't specifically address the address issue.

At about this point in the proceedings I realized that every official in the room -- about a dozen Canadian officials -- was wearing body armor. These folks were contemplating suicide bombers and all kinds of maniacs.

"Is this address correct?"

Oh boy! I was certain that my interrogator, who was dividing his attention between me and his computer, knew full well that I had moved.

"No," I whimpered. I didn't offer an explanation, deciding less was more in this deteriorating situation.

"What is your current address, then?”

Now who knows their own address and phone number? I believe I got the street number right but couldn't for the life of me recall the zipcode. I finally guessed -- correctly, it turns out; but I admitted that I wasn't certain.

My knees began shaking as I imagined what I might have to endure if I was taken deeper into the bowels of that now forboding building. What kind of interrogation chambers might lie within these walls?

"How much cash do you have with you?"

I was beyond wondering what privacy rights I might have and I blurted out a number.

Apparently not satisfied with the total, my tormentor asked about traveller's checks and credit cards. I handed over my bank card.

"Is this a credit card or a debit card?"

"It's both," I suggested.

Perhaps the matter of credit versus debit is one of the ways agents are able to trap terrorists or smugglers. I believe it more likely that it is merely a pet peeve of my personal agent. In any event, he stiffened and told me in firm, almost demanding tones that no card can be both a credit and a debit card.

Before thinking, I noted that when using the card I was sometimes asked to sign a receipt and other times to provide a pin number.

My imagination may have run away with me a bit, but it seemed at this juncture as if everyone in the room stopped whatever they were doing and focused all of their attention on me. I became aware of the fact that I was almost the only civilian and American citizen in the building.

I knew I was in Canada, our friendly neighbor to the north, but visions of torture, false imprisonment and years of being held without the benefit of Habeus Corpus raced through my mind.

"I've been doing this job for 14 years," boomed my interrogator. "Are you telling me that I'm wrong?"

I've never felt more intimidated by a public official. "Oh, no." I wailed. "I'm sure you are correct. Certainly you know more about this than I do."

Reflecting on the experience, I realize that several factors probably combined to empower this man to torment an innocent guest. I fumbled with documents, had imperfect memory regarding not only my address, but the license number on the Saturn, and I probably revealed my discomfort -- which tends to encourage bullies.

I wanted to give HIM the treatment. I know how. I've done it before. But my desire to be out of there was stronger than any desire for self-respect. So, I went along with the third degree without protest.

I provided all kinds of information about my work history, marital status, finances and travel plans. I can't imagine the details this man demanded of me were proper unless he truly suspected me of some kind of wrongdoing -- which seems to be very hard to imagine.

I'm certain that answers to many of the questions asked of me were already revealed on that computer screen.

I wonder how much information the agent had at his fingertips and how necessary it is for what I consider to be relatively private information to be examined on the occasion of my having crossed the border and not having passed inspection by agent number one.

At last, I was passed along to agent number three. This fellow was as impersonal as the others. He finally collected the form that the first agent had given me and the second had initialed and pointed to the door.

This experience wasn't fun and is only interesting in retrospect. I believe I felt something for the first time that many in this world have endured again and again. Welcome to a new age where fear trumps common sense.

By the way, not one of my inquisitors bothered to say, "Welcome to Canada."

Awaiting springtime in Montana

Chuck Ferris ( http://journals.aol.com/chasferris/DribblebyChuckFerris/ ) writes about just about anything that comes to his very active and perceptive mind. I enjoy the tidbits and days long streams of consciousness that he posts on his blog.

I think I "get" Chuck about 45 percent of the time. That, in my view is a very high percentage. Considering the fact that he first must conceptualize his messages; then must code them using words that too often have several different meanings; the message is sent in some kind of context -- Chuck most often uses specific occurrences from his current daily life to illustrate larger points; and finally there is the challenge I face in decoding the message and attempting to re-conceptualize it in my own brain.

Recently, Chuck posted a series of photographs focused on a single rosebud. The series celebrates the coming of spring, but it also illustrates the cycle of life as that bud first hesitated before blossoming into its glory. It reached full maturity, spreading wide and releasing a perfume we could almost smell through our computer screens.

Then, inevitably, the rose blossom began its decline. Its form softened and petals began to drop. Less than two months after life began, our subject rose was gone. It gave way to those that follow, greater numbers that fill the view with fresh color.

Spring was my constant companion as I moved north through California, Oregon and Washington. I enjoyed the flowering of bushes and trees and the greening of grass and shrubs – happening just as I made my way into more and more northern climes.

I have outpaced the changing season here in Montana. For once, I’ve moved backward from spring to winter. I’m hoping to see the metamorphosis begin during the next four days – before I cross into Canada; but that timing is obviously beyond my control

The good news is that spring is inevitable and is an annual reminder that every form of life – human beings included – has a cycle. A rose’s span lasts just a few weeks; we enjoy scores of springs and winters.

My retreat back into winter reminded me of the beauty and power of nature. Her lessons are formulated in awesome colors and forms, offering clues as to where we fit into the scheme of things.

We are like the rose in that we are given a chance to blossom and grow. But our opportunities are not governed by the seasons; and when we fail to reach our potential, we may try again.

Chuck Ferris is able to appreciate this process; and because he stopped to photograph the roses, we have been reminded that the seasons pass quickly.

Perhaps driving a couple of thousand miles in order to see the beginning of spring twice in a single year is a bit extreme, but even when we stay in place, it’s a shame to ignore springs message of hope and promise.

And so, fellow travelers, happy spring (a month or so late this year) from Montana.

A river runs beside it

Whether ‘V’ shaped or ‘U’ shaped,
they’re “build-highway-through” shaped.
Valleys are a road’s best friend.

Well, most readers will properly think I’m slow on the uptake when I admit that, until I arrived in Montana, I didn’t really make the connection between rivers and roads.

Oh, I’ve noticed rivers alongside roads. Remember, I’m from Merced, and driving to and from Yosemite along the Merced River is a treat. I imagine rafts, kayaks, canoes and other human-bearing flotsam are now adrift along Highway 140— a classic example of the river/road juxtaposition.

But the fact that pretty much every highway from one place to another in Montana seems to follow the path of at least one river finally turned on the Wandering Dave light bulb. Attention! Attention! Lots of roads follow rivers.

And it’s not just roads; a closer look reveals at least a half-dozen items nestled alongside rivers. It’s practically symbiotic! The valley and river combo is a no-brainer— even though ‘U’-shaped valleys were dug by glaciers, not rivers. Anyway, rivers often share their valleys with other artifacts, many of which are man-made.

One of these that predates humans is animal trails. Despite their strength and agility, wilderness creatures, like humans, tend to follow the path of least resistance. And, in many cases, the easiest route up and over a range of mountains begins through one of the valleys.

When humans discovered these animal trails, they wisely followed the same routes. And so, arrow heads, pottery shards and other evidence reveal paths worn by hunters, warriors, migrating tribes and explorers over centuries.

As new immigrants brought new technologies— notably horses, and wagons drawn by beasts of burden— narrow trails underwent mitosis and broadened into double-rutted wagon roads.

Logs were added, corduroy-style, to deal with muddy sections and hairpin-shaped switchbacks were cut into the sides of steep ascents to lower the grade a bit. Eventually, gravel, oil and then concrete were added as the top layer to base materials that controlled runoff and made high-speed travel possible.

Many modern highways are built over the top of the original trails. But occasionally motorists can see the “old” highway on the other side of the river.

Railroads followed the same model and share many valleys with the roads. Many of these heavy-duty conveyers of cargo and passengers have been supplemented by transmission wires that carry messages and energy along the same ancient routes.

America’s most famous explorers, Lewis and Clark, are big in Montana— as well as in Idaho and Washington. Their expedition was all about rivers. They hoped to find a network of rivers that would nearly connect the Atlantic and Pacific.

They dreamed of a short portage across the Continental Divide, that would be the single break in what otherwise would be a trail through hundreds of valleys, linking the two coasts with a cross-continental water route.

They did their best, but no such route exists. Nonetheless, it would be foolish to conclude that they failed. Much of the route followed by the explorers remain important connectors for modern Americans.

And, as is the case with so many highways, most of the passage runs through river valleys.

19th century thinking

Crossing into Oregon last month, I considered the pioneers who drove their wagons and livestock north over a series of ridges that must have seemed endless to them.

In my 20th-century car, those ups and downs didn’t present much of a challenge. My underpowered Saturn traversed them with ease – in high gear.

Though I’ve watched wagon train re-enactments and have a sense of the physical challenges involved, it’s just not possible to gain a feeling for the combination of factors that made migration into the frontier so dangerous and remarkable.

It’s no wonder that those who undertook the task and overcame the risks felt entitled to lay claim to whatever they discovered at the end of the trail and felt justified in pushing aside the “primitives” who had never bothered to set down real roots – to build fences and roads and permanent buildings.

Observing how settlements became towns and towns grew into cities with impressive buildings and rich histories provides an appreciation for those who not only survived but thrived and who led the way to expansion.

Manifest Destiny was first introduced to me as a completely positive force in our history. Perhaps in mid-century, enough time had not yet passed for Americans to reflect on our treatment of indigenous peoples and on the land itself.

During my formative years, television and cinematic westerns portrayed native Americans and Hispanics for the most part as anonymous “savages” capable of horrible atrocities and lacking the qualities that make people worthy of rights or fair treatment.

Maybe the context of war in Iraq and Afghanistan – where Americans seem once again willing to disrupt the lives of folks who have survived for millennia without our help by attempting to impose our values – has heightened my sensitivity to the imperialistic tendencies of our past.

In any event, in the context of my travels I’ve been troubled by evidence that part of my culture stems from the notion that some of “us” are more entitled than some of “them.”

There’s no need to go into details – and probably little benefit to be derived from such an exercise. But realizing that our great success in creating this more perfect union was achieved, in part, by disregarding some fundamental principles when we dealt with others.

In practice, it seems to me that American decision-making continues to be based on the notion that we are entitled to whatever we can get and that our lives and fortunes are more important or valuable than those of non-Americans. That group includes, of course “native Americans” whom Columbus ironically labeled “Indians” as if he somehow knew European immigrants would soon co-opt the title of “Americans”).

While on the road, I’ve engaged dozens of people in mealtime conversation. I’m discouraged by how often words like “they” and “them” are applied to large groups of people whom, it seems to me, are being viewed as less worthy.

No one can claim that “we” were here first. For purposes of determining entitlement, then, our logical refuge is a variation on the idea of Manifest Destiny. And it seems to me that while this view persists, this land is NOT your land; this land is OUR land and ours alone.

Kansas Kamping (guest column)

By Herb Mercer,
    Merced, CA

For many years we have traveled with a small tent and spent a lot of quiet evenings camping. Most of these camps bring back pleasant memories – except one.

We lived in Omaha, Nebraska at the time and had spent our vacation in Colorado. We were late returning home and trying to make as much mileage as possible. Traveling through Kansas, our map indicated a county park ahead with camping facilities. If we pushed, we should reach it just at dusk.

On arrival we were disappointed. The grass was long and weeds were everywhere. Cattle had been in the campground and cow pies were plentiful. The toilets were filthy and in disrepair.

However, darkness was coming fast and we had little choice. We set up our tent. Soon mosquitoes surrounded us. To top it off, we were the only ones in the campground. Apparently others had sense enough to avoid it. Dorothy could have the whole state of Kansas to herself!

The next morning, we packed up and left early. Only a few miles down the highway we came to another campground. What a contrast! This one was new and clean. It was much larger than the one we had used. The restrooms were large and spotless. They even had hot water.

It was obvious what had happened. The county had built a new replacement campground and abandoned the old one. If only we had had a newer map, we could have had a much nicer experience.

The answer is blowin' in the wind

Don Quixote notwithstanding, the whole world is tilting toward windmills as an alternative to coal and other non-renewable fuel sources to generate energy. The amount of power being generated is doubling about each six years and the sight of wind “farms” is no longer a novelty for travelers.

Washington State has become a major player in this arena and is in the top five most productive states. A project underway along the Oregon border will be the world’s largest— but probably only briefly.

One report compares the Great Plains wind potential to Saudi Arabia’s oil reserves and declares that three states, North Dakota, Texas and Kansas could power the entire nation— not theoretically, but by using currently available wind energy.

With France demonstrating that nuclear power can not only meet a huge portion of a nation’s needs but can also become a lucrative export item, it’s easy to imagine a world where coal and oil become secondary choices and sun, wind and water become first choices.

The once unarguable fact that wind is variable and thus unreliable has lost its power. It is now possible to store wind-generated power in the form of hydrogen (by electrolyzing water and creating fuel cells). The stored energy can be used during periods of low wind and ultimately can ensure a steady, reliable flow for nearly all purposes.

Driving through miles of sometimes hypnotic rows of towers with their props rotating in unison has definitely changed the landscape. But when one considers that these machines— and all of the natural beauty surrounding them— are more visible because they replace coal-fired generating station chimneys that spew particles polluting the air for miles and miles, they begin to look just lovely.

Solving the energy crisis may not be as difficult as it once seemed— and powering new communities and nations may not have to further pollute the air.

It’s a breeze.

All's well in Walla Walla

Downtown Walla Walla looked surprisingly well preserved today when I took a quick tour of the city before checking into my domicile for the next five days.

Familiar looking buildings populate a dozen or so downtown blocks, many rising several stories above the street. What was absent were the empty storefronts that so often signal that a town center is dying.

Though not overcrowded, downtown Walla Walla was busy. I had to circle the block to find a parking space and then had to wait for a seat to open up at Starbucks.

It was at that popular establishment that I began to realize that Walla Walla has a western Oregon feel to it.

I listened with great interest to a thirty-something social worker as he explained his view that sex is the only significant motivating force among humans – he categorized his philosophy as “neo post-Freudian” and I have no reason to apply any other label.

Eavesdropping on conversations around me at Starbucks and at a local bookstore (not one of the big boxes, but a thriving establishment nonetheless) revealed several thoughtful conversations on a range of topics – none of which was Anna Nicole Smith or the American Idol.

After supper I made my way to Whitman College, which is inside the city limits, northeast of downtown. It’s a private, liberal arts school with about 1,500 students.

The evening’s offering was a lecture by Yazir Henri, a South African who was jailed as a very young man for fighting Apartheid in his native land.

I arrived early and discovered only a small handful of people in the large auditorium. But in the few minutes just before the start time the crowd multiplied and became quite respectable in size, with a smattering of faculty and other older folks among the students.

Henri’s talk was long. He brought new meaning to the phrase “speaking from the heart” as he chose his words with deliberate care and punctuated his message with frequent references to his personal feelings and philosophy.

The audience was courteous and attentive and responded with a standing ovation.

It was during the question and answer session, however, that Henri really captured my interest. He challenged the questioners and struggled to provide thoughtful responses. These remarks hit home for me and, I believe, to others in the audience.

It was a remarkable two hours – remarkable in part because interest seemed to be increasing as the evening wound down even though some of the students had spent part of the day with Henri before coming to the lecture.

The speaker’s intelligence and knowledge base were impressive, his self-deprecating humor was disarming and his obvious desire to do justice to each topic at hand, to the audience and to the memory of friends and family who suffered under Apartheid made this a powerful experience.

I was surprised by the crowd. There was no sign of restlessness – though some did leave during a brief break between the lecture and the Q and A. They seemed interested and engaged.

It was the kind of evening I remember from my own college days, a night during which ideas gained entry into my head where they continued bouncing around for the succeeding three or four decades.

And to think that it happened again; this evening, right here in Walla Walla, Washington.

There! No, it's gone.

While I powered east at about 60 miles per hour this morning, a long bank of dark clouds rose before me, growing more and more ominous.

Whether these foreboding monsters were already in Walla Walla performing mischief and waiting for me, or whether were to collide inside the city limits after arriving at about the same time, it appeared inevitable that I was in for a dowsing.

I love clouds. Southern California is typically either clear as a bell or completely overcast. When the overcast does break up, the tattered rags of white moisture hardly deserve the title when compared to the much more substantive cumulus beauties that populate the plains and midwestern states.

Even the brand names point to a disparity. The California crop is "cirrus," but such wimpy leftovers are not to be taken seriously. While "cumulus" means "heap," "cirrus," translated, is "curl of hair."

Meteorologists can distinguish between types of clouds with ease; but they're not much better at predicting which of them will drop their wet loads, or where than the rest of us.

My cloud bank seemed to be stuck on something out east of town. Maybe clear weather later in the week will reveal a mountain range or other obstruction that held the long row of dark grey billows at bay. Though the clouds appearance didn't change appreciably throughout the day, when the sun shineed in town, the forecast seemed brighter and vice-versa.

In the context of my travels, I wonder if it's correct to say, "there was no storm today?"

After all, I had a choice in the matter. I could have sallied forth, moving under the dark canopy. There, I suspect, I would have encountered rain and wind and colder temperatures.

What is the duty of a wanderer? To responsibly avoid storms, thus diminishing the range of experience? Or to race headlong toward a sea of cumulo-nimbi and, by embracing them, to discover the sound and fury of mother nature at work?

Walla Walla and I remained dry today, the clouds moved laterally, from north to south and, while skies in town ranged from partly cloudy to almost overcast, the dark, forbiding monsters kept their distance.

It was my storm for the taking and I chose to stand my ground -- dry ground.

Another time, Mother. Perhaps another time.

Give me the Combo

I slept through Easter dinner – largely, I suspect as a defensive tactic to avoid the discomfort that comes when a lone traveler shares space with dozens of families who are celebrating a holiday.

Then I stayed in my room during supper to watch the end of “Dead Poet’s Society” and shed a few tears for young lives cut off much too soon.

The building was quiet when I slipped through the front door and headed over to Dairy Queen for a burger, fries and a malt – my Easter dinner.

As one of only a few establishments open on Easter evening, the drive-in seemed to be busy when I parked the Saturn and wandered in. But by the time I finished my meal things were quiet.

No fewer than three of the young attendants came by my table and engaged me in conversation. This intervention was more than welcome and reminded me of my wish to actively seek connections with the new generation during my travels.

The first of this trio noticed my book (“Travels with Charley”) and this led easily into a discussion of my trip. The young man seemed truly interested in my itinerary, explaining that he had ventured no farther than neighboring states, plus California.

He introduced me to the second employee and the pair attracted the attention of the third.

Perhaps they had all been granted a full evening’s work in return for agreeing to accept the holiday assignment or maybe they were all staying on duty in anticipation of a rush of traffic later in the evening.

Or maybe they were truly interested in talking to a stranger who was engaged in an enterprise that appealed to their sense of adventure.

Whatever the reason, we had an unhurried conversation, an easy intergenerational exchange in an environment suitable for both the traveler and teens.

Though we didn’t discuss politics or culture, I left with a sense that there is reason to hope that today’s teens may avoid drifting toward the kind of closed-mindedness and bigotry that seems to infect those two or three generations their senior.

The burger wasn’t very tasty, the fries were unremarkable and even the malt – which is a rare treat – didn’t really excite me.

But I’m glad I dropped by the old DQ tonight and told three nice kids about my trip.

Scratching surfaces

Cathy, I'm lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping
I'm empty and aching and I don't know why
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike
And they've all gone to look for America

--"America," Paul Simon, 1968

Searching for America can be a confusing enterprise.

For starters, the word “searching” implies going out and looking for something. So it seems perfectly logical to conclude that finding America requires travel and observation.

But the story I believe I’m after isn’t a “where” story at all. It may involve all of the other Ws – what, where, when and why – but it’s not really about places.

Lingering for a few days, as I have, in towns and cities along my route seems to be leading toward a couple of somewhat troubling conclusions.

First, five days isn’t long enough to determine what are the most significant questions about a community, let alone to find answers and reach supportable conclusions.

And second, the more I try to “get beneath the surface,” the more obvious it becomes that scratching the surface isn’t enough. If I wanted to really get to know a place, I’d have to do some excavation; and there’s just not enough time for that.

I’m traveling thousands of miles, visiting hundreds of points of interest, meeting hundreds of interesting people and doing my best to take it all in. I’m having a great time, an enriching and rewarding time, a worthwhile experience that I’m sure I’ll never regret.

But, in the back of my mind, I can’t help wonder whether that which I seek – the “America” for which I am searching – can really be found in time and space.

Two days into my stay in Yakima, I discovered that what had initially appeared to be little more than a way station is a place thousands of people love. It’s a town with a rich history involving several cultures and one that still struggles to resolve issues relating to prejudice, exploitation and discrimination. It’s a place that was literally buried alive during the eruption of Mount St. Helens some 25 years ago, but dug itself out of the ashes and recovered.

I’m getting to know the Yakima Valley well enough to recognize that I’d like to get to know it better. But, in less than 60 hours, I must be on my way. Another surface scratched, but the itch not eliminated.