Date: Wed, 2 Jul 1997 08:15:48 -0800
From: Charlie Ford <cford@mindspring.com>
Subject: The Judy Blues Run

Leaving Yellowstone, heading to Casper.....................

I mentioned the dream of one of my old girlfriends in the post prior to
this one.  I am one that believes that in ones life, you only have the
privilege to encounter one, two, or maybe three great loves, seldom anymore
than that.  The loves that affect and move you to another stage of being.
You love them so much you would take a bullet for them to protect them from
harm.  It becomes a purpose for you.

Judy, the woman I dreamed about was one of those for me.  She came along at
a very serious time in my life when I needed the company of a woman. It was
the mid 80's and my early thirties.  I did my share of my share of partying
to try and escape the feeling s of uselessness that surrounded me, in fact
I did so much that it almost ruined me.  I ended up losing many things
during that time, including her.  I drove along and thought of her and our
relationship of ten years ago like it was just yesterday.  Feeling some of
the same feeling I felt when we separated for the last time.  I felt
saddened, but in a way I aslo felt relief.  I hated being the one "not
worthy" in our relationship.  She was just to good for me at that time in
my life.  I wish I had seen that then.

I have found that traveling as I am, alone with my thoughts, I have the
tendency to drift away to periods of time long since past.  Maybe it is
caused by the muse of the road.  Just sitting and listening to your tires
sing their way is enough to hypnotize the mind.  I kind of like this
separation from the reality of now.  I like the feeling I get when I have
been "out there in thought", and somehow find my way back to reality of
where I am and then tie the two places together.  With the lonely paths or
highways I would cross over today, it be easy to drift into "sublime
reflective thought".  I prepared myself for the journey.

I left the Norris Basin at Yellowstone and headed north along the park
road.  I have a cousin from Georgia that is supposed to be working the
summer out here, and I set out early to see if by chance I might find her
and say hello.  I asked the campground host where I had stayed the night
before whether he knew of any women volunteering from Georgia.  He
explained that there were two ladies that were in Indian Creek Campground
that he thought were from somewhere in Georgia, but he wasn't sure.  I
figured "what the heck" I would give it a try.

I drove up the road through the worse part of the burned out park area.  As
I said earlier the burned region looks pretty baron.  I for some reason
tend to look past the dead, and the closer you look, the more you notice
that the younger growth is beginning to pronounce it presence.  Once again
I felt relieved and blessed to be seeing such re-birth.  Nature truly is
glorious even when it doesn't appear beautiful to our "postcard
conditioned" eyes.

Indian Creek arrived sooner than I thought.  I wheeled the bus into the
lane and there, right there, in the middle of a road stood another massive
Buffalo.  I eased forward to within twenty feet and stopped.  He lifted his
head and slowly turned without moving his body and looked me dead in the
eye.  He seemed to say "who the hell are you, and why are you disrupting my
breakfast".  I looked at him and it appeared as if I said "hey, I'm
patient, I can wait until you finish".  It was his land, and since he
weighed every bit as much as the first "Buff" I had seen the night before,
I sat patiently and acted like a good little "Volkswagen traveler" should,
very non aggressive.  Finally he lumbered out of the way, I guess deciding
to take another table rather than be stared at by this brown beast.  One
last time he turned and looked over his shoulder and gave me a snarling
look.  I waved and wished him adieu.

I entered the Campground and started looking for the "hosts" assigned spot.
I saw it and pulled over.  I walked up to the door of the RV and knocked,
just like any good country boy would do at any good "house trailer".  A
lady inside announced "just a minute" and after a couple seconds she opened
the door.

The woman was definitely from Georgia or some other southern state.  She
had the look of country woman all over her face.  She had her hair up in a
bun and spoke with even more of a drawl than I have.  I said "hey! I hear
yawl are from Georgia", she said, "Yeah, we are, we are from Waycross,
Georgia".  I said "dang, ain't it a small world, I'm from Hazlehurst".  She
said "well my Lord, what-n-the world are you doin' out here"?.  I asked her
the same question.  We both explained our treks and the justification that
went along with each of them.

I then turned the attention to the main purpose for me being here.  I
explained that I was looking for my cousin.  She said she didn't know of
anyone else working out here that was from our home "state of mind", but
she would know on Monday, cause she "would ask the supervisor".  I
explained that I was leaving today and that if by chance she met them, I
would appreciate her saying hello for me.  I don't know my cousins name
exactly so I guess that will be hard for her to do.  I told her I thought
it was Virginia.  I know, I should be ashamed of myself, but don't ya'll
have cousins you don't know?  I said my good-byes and listened to their
good-byes, got in my bus and off I drove.

I once again headed north with all intention of going all the way around
the park and hitting highway 20 that would take me all the way to Casper
where I was to meet Ginger Nipps and her Husband.  I later discovered,
thanks to a park ranger that the best way to go would be to head out the
Northeast exit through Tower Junction.  Highway 20 was in the process of
some heavy construction and it would take me quite a while to go that
route.  I looked at my atlas and saw that their suggested road, #212, would
take me through the Beartooth Pass.

This road is passable only a few months out of the year, and Zack, the guy
that gave me the Mothership, had also taken it on his journey around
America a couple years ago.  I thought it would be kind of nice to take her
back over the same route she had traveled before.  She was running good and
solid, so my reluctance was minimal.  I drove toward the gate and exited
the park feeling a little solemn.  Yellowstone is a very busy park, but she
is still nice enough to foster appreciation in anyones mind, even my feeble
brain center.

After you leave the park you go through a little Village called Tower
Junction.  The town is nothing more than tourist shops, restaurants and
hunting lodges.  All share the same rough flavor.  The city is full of mud
mostly created by the snow, which can get very deep, and hasn't been gone
too long.  The streets are dirty from all that mud, drying and blowing
around.  Mud is only mud when it is wet, when it is dry, it is dirt and
dust.  That was one of the deeper thoughts of the morning.  : )

Judy kept creeping in and out of my mind, and so I kept moving other things
in so that they could take her place.  Ever noticed how those great loves I
mentioned still somehow creep into dreams and such?  How all of a sudden
you think of that lost high school or adult" school "Sweety", and for some
reason you become heartbroken all over again.  Kind of strange ain't it.
It's like that part of your life is filed away in the lessons drawer, and
it keeps popping out, and displaying before you, until you learn all there
is to learn from it.  Kind of strange indeed.

After driving up 212 and making the fairly steep grades with no problem I
saw that I was headed north, due north.  I might not make it all the way to
Beartooth.  I knew that if I didn't turn east somewhere I would be all the
way into the interior of the Great State of Montana.  Since there are no
speed limits for daytime driving in that state I decided that rather than
being run over by some Beamer out for a Sunday Grand Prix jaunt, I would
scan the atlas and see where I could go slow and damn well be comfortable
with it.

I found a dim gray line on my map that read State Highway 296.  It would
take me over to highway 120, which would take me to Cody.  The road turned
off just before Beartooth Pass and I decided that was the fate of the day.
It was karma at work here and I couldn't "disflux the confluence of the
metaphysical pressures".  In other words I wanted to head to Casper and I
had to justify it somehow.  I turned off on #296 when I came to it.

This highway is dedicated to Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce Indians.  They
were a clan that the US Army soldiers chased down and slaughtered for
apparently no reason at all.  I am sure the army didn't intend to hurt
these "native Americans", they just wanted to run em awhile and then shoot
them dead.  Sort of recreation for the time I guess.  That and for the
maybe overly ambitious commander that wanted to impress the colleagues back
east.  Someone like General George Armstrong Custer.  A man of exaggerated
ego.  They say he wanted to be king, and may have actually been president
if he hadn't gotten his ass kicked "bad" at the "Little Bighorn".  Wonder
if the last thing George said was "hey, I didn't mean nothing by it!"?

>From the little I gathered the army was relentless in the chase, and the
Nez Perce were defiantly defiant.  The road was dedicated to the Chief that
fostered such strong will.  The army helped the whites settle and learned
all the lessons the Nez Perce had already learned all over again.  I think
that is something of a waste of time, but often it seems we still do that
here in our country.  I wonder if the two groups  ever sat down and had a
chat with each other.

Chief Joseph's road was steep and had several strong grades, I reckon you
make the road fit the life.  At one point a sign read elevation: 10,262
ft..  I knew I was making the grade when the Mothership was in third and
holding half throttle at 40.  She was performing like the champ she is.  My
"Caw Caw Brown Babe on Wheels" was making my day and giving me scenery to
boot.  I stopped at a couple rest sites over the pass and checked out the
engine.  "Cool as a cucumber and fresh as lettuce".  It was a good day to
meet Chief Joseph.  Today I would only meet him in spirit.  Our paths would
only cross for a while.

I came down out of the heights and picked up Highway 120.  The road looked
as dusty as the desert.  I think it may have been because there I was, in
the desert.  The temperature was about ten degrees warmer on this side of
the mountains than it had been on the Yellowstone side.  I turned and
headed south toward Cody, Wyoming.

I drove in the hot mid-day sun and watched as the desert flew by.  I saw
rolling hills and sandy bluffs and jagged rock formations.  All significant
of "desert solitaire".  I listened to the hum of my tires as the rubber
stuck to the highway for one brief millisecond and then released to allow
the Motherhsip to move on forward.  I turned on the radio and settled in.
The only station I could pick up was the Public Broadcasting Station, but
they were doing the day before "Prairie Home Companion" and Garrison Keeler
is one of my favorites when I can listen to him.  Now I had no choice and
he was still one of my favorites.  For the next little while it was
Garrison, , the Mothership, and me, all adding our part to the desert
environment.

I pulled into Cody after about an hours drive.  I immediately saw a yard
sale happening on the corner and pulled into satisfy my curiosity as to
what kind of junk a resident of Cody, Wyoming might be getting shed of.  I
found the sale to be very "western".  There were belt buckles the size of
plates, old fashioned lanterns, a couple of old pair's of cowboy boots, the
usual clothing to large, or God forbid, to small to fit the adult selling
it, and then there were "guns".  Something you don't normally see at a yard
sale in say LA, San Francisco, or Atlanta.  But then I was in the "Cody"
As in Buffalo Bill Cody.  This city also houses his museum.

I didn't see anything I wanted to buy and people looked like they were
beginning to wonder who this stranger, that was as big as a house, wearing
overalls and driving a VW bus might be.  I didn't give them the chance to
find out, I wasn't really feeling to talkative right now.  This is a
feeling I don't encounter to often so I needed to take advantage of it.
Anyone that has met me can tell you that I love to talk to folks.

I eased on through town, tolerating even higher heat and listening now to
just "one" of the country and western radio stations I could pick up on my
in dash.  Garrison had left the room a few minutes before I arriving in
Cody.  I heard George Strait, Randy Travis, an old "Hank" song, and Gene
Autry.  Yes country and western music can get along in the world.  The two
types are so much the same they should just come up for one word to call it
by.  Maybe "wountry" or "cestern" music.  Maybe you guys could suggest
something more palatable and easier to say.  That is the best I can do

I found the local gas station with the lowest prices.  I filled up with gas
and asked a fella in cowboy hat, one fella in a cowboy hat, driving a
pick-up truck which was the quickest way to Casper.  He said that the best
way he could think was to continue on the road I was driving and eventually
I would pass through Thermopolis, Wyoming then on to Casper.  Thermoplois
is the city with all the hot springs.  I was not sure today was a good day
to drop my body inside water as hot as it was outside.  For some reason I
just didn't find that soothing and/or stimulating.  I figured I would just
be able to say I have passed through the city.  For me that would suffice.

I did just that.  I said hi and bye to Thermopolis.  I know that sounds
wimpy for one that is traveling but I really didn't feel any force driving
me to do anymore than what I did.  I wanted to reach Casper by evening and
I knew that I already would be cutting it close.

After leaving Thermopolis I headed south again on Highway 120.  This would
dump me right into 20/26 that would take me over to Casper.  Little did I
know what solitude lay in store for me on that long hot stretch of baking
pavement.

Highway 20 is arrived at in Bonneville, Wyoming.  The city is as flat and
dusty as the highway that serves as it's main street.  I passed two cops
sitting and trying to find ways of generating "city revenue", mainly
utilizing the resource of heavily footed folks, so I abided strongly by the
posted speed limit signs of 25 mph.  At the stop sign I came to a full
stop, made sure my blinker was blinking in the right direction, in this
case left, and implemented a most beautiful turn onto my appointed route.
Placing the Motherhsip in the slow lane for my exit from Beautiful
Bonneville, I sped up to 65 and once again heard the highway sing that old
familiar song.  Music to my ears.  Thoughts of Judy crept in again, I felt
heaviness again, then I started thinking about Prairie Dogs.  They really
are funny looking little rodents.

Highway 20/26 is the definition of boredom, just like west Texas was the
definition of "eternity".  Not that the boredom was bad, sometime it is
what delivers relaxation, but there was just so "damn much of it".  I saw
prairie after prairie, and felt hot wind after hot wind.  I saw the shadow
of my van disappear as the sun rose to the hottest time of day and reappear
later on the opposite side.  I watched my drivers arm, or left arm take the
transition from tan, to brown.  Little beads of sweat emerged on my skin,
and immediately got sucked up by the sun or dry breeze blowing through the
bus.  I leaned forward in the ever present seatbelt and settled in to "just
drive".

A few miles down the road in the little town of Moneta, I saw a rodeo
happening.  Before I knew it I had passed it and had to turn around.  Once
again my curiosity getting the better of me.  I pulled into the dirt, or
should I say "dry dusty" lane that led through the gate across the "cattle
grate" and onto the grounds surrounding the arena.  Every head turned as
they saw The Mothership and I pull in.

There were fingers pointing and parents looking concerned, putting their
arms around all their young daughters.  For a moment I was the talk of the
rodeo.  The hippies had come to town.  I am sure some husband looked at his
wife and said "dang, honey we gonna have to move again".  The local sheriff
tipped his hat back on his head and propped his hand on his gun hip, seem
as to say, "I can outdraw him, don't worry townsfolk, I'll protect ya from
the heathen varmint".  Or at least he may have been saying that 110 years
ago.  I strolled bravely into the western crowd and held my chest out
proud.  I was from Georgia, and know a little about  rodeo's.  Not much but
I know it hurts if you fall off.

I asked one of the friendlier looking cowpokes about the event.  He
explained that this was a "youth competition".  It was sponsored by a
cattle company and local folks and it was an annual competition.  What a
great idea to maintain a sense of heritage.  In the south we still do
farmer things, like steer and barrow shows, or barn raisin's, although they
are not as popular as they once were.  I stood around a watched for a
while, talked to a few people and moseyed on along.  Once again entering my
"home on the range", the "dry highway".

Eventually I found myself lost in thought again, exactly what, I can't
remember.  The road became a gray ribbon that lay flat out in front of me.
I could see the waves of heat rising up and disappearing about two foot in
the air.  It really does look like water when you catch it at the right
angle.  I wasn't so delirious that I saw mirages, but now I know where one
could make that mistake after being thirsty in the desert for a while
longer than need be.

The desert seems to have a mysterious side to it.  You can look out across
the plain and see where the sky melts itself to it.  You sit and look and
wonder, "what is just over that horizon?".  At least that is what I found
myself wondering.  The ever present heat was beginning to become something
you place into it's category.  You learn after a while to tolerate it and
appreciate it without cussing it too much.  I wasn't totally comfortable,
but I wasn't totally miserable either.  I had reached my compromise with
the elements.

I drove for what seemed forever, and finally came to a small town called
Powder River, population: 10.  I am telling the truth, ten people live in
this desert town.  There is a hotel, a store and several little abandoned
little trailers.  They looked abandoned anyway.  I know I wouldn't want to
be in such a small metallic space in such hot weather.  Although it would
make a great weight loss program for the more obese, which I guess I fit
that category.

It was there that I stopped in and called Ginger Nipps.  I thought I had
put her "message" of invite on my machine.  That "message" contained their
number and that was an important piece of information I badly needed.  The
problem was that I had last checked my E mail on Jim Arnott's machine and
forgot to tell the computer to "leave messages on server".  Once again I
learn the lesson, "The computer will only do what you, the operator tells
it to do".  Duh!

I checked the phone book and found that she and her husbands name were
listed in the white pages.  I called and she answered the phone.  Whew!
what a relief.  I told her I was about 30 miles out of Casper and would
arrive shortly.  She said come on and ask me if I had eaten.  I told her no
and she said alright.  I thought to myself that these people don't have to
feed me.  We could just make due and chat a bit.  But then another home
cooked meal wouldn't be bad at all.  Lisa, Jims wife, and Bobbie, Michaels
wife had helped me to once again realize the treasure that comes when
someone in the house knows how to prepare a meal on a stove, not just "soup
for one".

I found the Nipps to be very great folks.  Ginger is a pro photographer and
her husband is a technical wizard at a local TV station.  They are a young
couple with much to look forward to.  She showed me her latest addition to
her bus collection, a splitty that is definitely all there and has the
potential to be as nice as the day it was first made.  Personally I believe
this woman will make it to be that way, she seems to have the drive.

We sat and chatted and then set down to eat.  She brought three steaks to
the dinner table and presented them to the grazers.  Her husband and I
"fork stabbed" our slab of meat and raked it off the plate.  We knew what
we wanted it was "dead cow" cooked to perfection.  I am so glad that I am a
"carnivorous dog" and not a vegetarian, sorry to offend any of you with
that statement, But I really like meat!

It was a meal that was very pleasing to the palate and quite satisfying to
the belly.  I felt as if I may never eat again, at least not that night.
That Wyoming beef was tender and seasoned just right.  It was cooked to
where just a light colored juice seeped out when you cut it with your
knife.  Life was good after a hard day n the range, and it was my life that
was good.  We later had Upside down cake and milk to top off the perfect
evening.

Later in my bus, after some more conversation with the Nipps, I reflected
on my day.  I had gone from 10,000 ft. above sea level down to 5100 ft..  I
had felt all the moods one could squeeze into one day, on this day.  I had
crossed the continental divide, I had paid reverence to Chief Joseph, and I
had seen young kids learn more about their heritage, not by reading but by
practicing the craft of rodeoing.

A nice cool and easy breeze was blowing through my sliding window as I
snuggle into my bunk.  The last thing I remember, before entering "sleeps
dark and silent gate", was thinking about Judy, and wondering if I would
dream of her again tonight, in a way I hoped I would, but then I also hoped
I wouldn't.  She is now happily married to a great guy, and things are well
with them as of last reports.  I will always remember her as someone
special, and as a good friend, but also as someone that I shared in "the
loss of love" with.  that is always a tragedy.

In my first "true love" I was too young to appreciate it.  In my last "true
love", I was too old to be a part of it, and in my relationship with Judy,
I was too stupid to grow up and "live it" for the good it could bring me.
Life is about balance.  You don't need too much of anything, you just need
enough to satisfy.

If you glutton yourself on it, it'll kill you.  Today I found a cache of
balance, and I found it in the changing landscape scrolling by my bus
window.  Somehow the mountains served their purpose, and so did the desert
in feeding my thoughts.  Without the pieces all working together, we cannot
achieve reasonable success, you just gotta use the tools at your disposal
and then allow the "powers that be" to take it from there.  You or I can do
no more, nor any less.  That is the rule.

Tomorrow I go to Denver, where on Wednesday I would do an AmeriCorps
workshop.  That is one reason I have stayed on the road the past few days.
Good things are in store for my future, God really does take good care of
me and I have to thank him for doing that.  He allows work when I need it,
and good people to meet and offer me friendship, and he allows me to use
the landscape to reflect and draw some lessons from.  What a good life this
is.  Even if I am having starter problems.  I hope it starts in the
morning.

Thanks for tolerating my rambling's.

Charlie Ford






"79" Transporter, dressed for the road
The Mothership

 The"Turning 40 Nostalgic VW Service Tour, and
Search for the Beginning of Wind".

http://www.armory.com/~y21cvb/charlie/charlie.html

"Wider still and wider.....shall thy bounds be set"