whammer's journal

My first RTW dream route:
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Trevor Roth:
Stumbled across the final Calvin and Hobbes comic strip again today (published New Years Eve 1995), and it made me think of your most recent postings.



Wayne Hammerstrom:
Yes, you can only see the colors and texture of the world beneath snow by walking through it. Thanks for the insightful Calvin and Hobbes.

Bitten by the Round The World (RTW) bug I am now scratching the itch for wandering again. My itinerary remains undefined at this point and my timetable only penciled in as mid-February through mid-June, 2011.

As I previously wrote in my LiveJournal, November 13, 2007:



From Nikos Kazantzakis:
"All my life one of my greatest desires has been to travel -- to see and touch unknown countries, to swim in unknown seas, to circle the globe, observing new lands, seas, peoples, and ideas with insatiable appetite, to see everything for the first time and for the last time, casting a slow, prolonged glance, then to close my eyes and feel the riches deposit themselves inside me calmly or stormily according to their pleasure, until time passes them at last through its fine sieve, straining the quintessence out of all the joys and sorrows."

Nineteen thousand runners and walkers were ahead of our group wanting to start the 2009 Detroit Marathon. Shuffling feet on the nearly frozen street and chatting among ourselves, we waited our turn to cross the Start Line that would begin a 13 mile walk, half the full marathon course others would compete in on this cold October morning.

My journey began a week earlier as I dropped my pack on the seat of an interstate bus to Chicago, my latest escape from a comfortable, predictable life into a spontaneity of travel. A gift certificate offered two free nights lodging at the downtown Hosteling International - Chicago; free lodging in the vicinity of the Windy City’s magnificent mile deep in the shadowed canyons of the world’s tallest building and its entourage.

Sun penetrated the tinted windows of the coach warming us to remove jackets and coats, reminding me that I had left Linda home to admit a repairman who would fix our furnace, restoring warmth that had been absent already for 4 days and nights. Passengers on the bus isolated themselves in audio visual cocoons with their laptop computers, iPods, or cell phones, or silently napped during the afternoon ride.

I could have driven this route as I’ve done many times, however, I wanted to experience this journey as it progressed without simply reaching a familiar destination. Sitting high above the lanes of traffic I read The Old Patagonian Express - By Train Through the Americas, by Paul Theroux, occasionally glancing outward over the browning fields and the soon to be leafless trees. In the distance, farm silos -- towering structures adjacent to red barns and white houses -- salute the sky without broad shoulders that would have given them an impression of strength and stability. Large city congestion tangled the veins of traffic until it pulsed slowly into immobility until darkness, like a CAT scan, highlighted the red and while cells of vehicles as they moved away and toward our bus. Inside, we slipped back into jackets and coats, preparing to exit to the outdoor chill of an Autumn night.

There should not have been problem getting a bed at the Hostel as a single traveler in mid-October, when others had returned to their home, work, or warmer climates, but there was only one bed left -- out of the 600 -- tonight at the Hostel, and none available for the next night in my anticipated four night stay there. Today, a Sunday, had been the Chicago Marathon race and my arrival without a reservation put me in last place against the hundreds of runners who would collapse on their beds after a 26-mile pavement pounding. I grabbed my lucky room key and towel from the night clerk hoping luck might find me again tomorrow with an unexpected vacancy.

Here I was a foreigner in my own country as the babble of visitors from Germany, Japan, Korea, Switzerland, and other unidentifiable nations left me speechless in rooms crowded with people. Within my 8-bed dormitory style room our common tongue included English, although word choices and pronunciations allowed pauses for interpretation and translation to catchup. A musician traveling to our heritage cities for the beats of our culture was now midway through his song book: New York, Cleveland, Chicago, Nashville, Memphis, and New Orleans. English, an international business medium of exchange, brought a Korean here to improve his language skills and unlike other museum seeking tourists, he sought out the iconic business school -- the University of Chicago. Three men were attending a conference hosted by the American College of Surgeons; two brothers, who had immigrated illegally with their parents from England before gaining citizenship during their teens years, were searching options for medical residency following this last year of medical school; the third man sought employment in medical technology sales by conversing with prospects in a casual, relaxed setting. We’d all try to forget the disturbing roommate who kept us from a restful night as he wheezed and snorted through his sleep apnea. Hostels are sought out today by suited travelers as well as young vagabond backpackers for the experience of meeting other people in addition to inexpensive lodging.

Four days to explore downtown Chicago! My spontaneous sampling of its abundant offerings: stepping out on a 5-inch-thick-glass cube suspended out beyond the 103rd floor of the world’s tallest (Willis, formerly SEARS) tower; walking 4 miles through the University of Illinois -- Chicago campus and down 18th Street, Chicago’s Mexican neighborhood, to see a Day of the Dead exhibit at the National Museum of Mexican Art; finally entering the Art Institute of Chicago after years of walking past the reclining lions guarding the Michigan Avenue steps; joyfully discovering the new Millennium Park with its outdoor gardens, reflective “bean” structure and lighted, portrait billboards; revisiting my favorite all-day draw: the Museum of Science and Industry.

In the dark drizzle of morning, I walked to Union Station for a rail journey to Detroit, talking with a woman who grew up in Chicago before reluctantly relocating to California. We wove through incoming pedestrians heading to offices and shops of another work day, our dance ending with the non-choreographed movement of arrivals and departures meeting in the great hall of the train station.

The straight and curved rails upon which I rode jostled the steel coach, creating that familiar fugue of pops and clicks that would remain a baseline tone underlying travel through city to rural landscape. On this Autumn day, life and death battle as green leaves of Summer cling to branches while gaily dressed neighbors fall to their beds below. Hammond, Indiana turns on bright Casino lights in an attempt to steal some of Chicago’s glitz; oil refineries ignite the sky with venting flames atop towers jutting upward above the labyrinth of pipes and storage tanks. Darkness and gloom have always existed here at the southern tongue of the Great Lake Michigan. Through the opposite windows I notice forested, sandy islands resting upon watery marsh ponds as we slip past the Indiana Dunes state park and National Shoreline. Like a child running through a leaf pile, the rushing train scoops up and twirls a blizzard of color past my window.

With the sun setting into a darkening sky I disembark the Amtrak coach at the Detroit station. Checking my maps, computer printouts of city bus schedules, and random questions asked of nearby people, I ride two routes to within a few blocks of my friend’s home. Steve has been my good friend since college, 45 years; Sandy, his new wife from a wedding only a year ago. My visit was planned months earlier when I was anticipating a week long ride with Steve as he drove an 18-wheeler semi trailer criss-crossing the states hauling the nation’s business inventory. Our plans are on hold now as Steve seeks reinstatement to employment following bizarre circumstances much too complicated to briefly describe here. The other reason for coming to Detroit was walking 13 miles (half-marathon) in the 2009 Detroit Marathon.

Nineteen thousand runners were ahead of our group of noncompetitive walkers waiting to start the precisely measured course. Our placement as the last wave of participants meant that nearly 20 minutes would lapse before each personal timing clock would trigger as we crossed the electronic strip beneath the colorfully, decorated START/FINISH arch. Walking in the cold early morning darkness we soon came upon thousands of discarded clothes shed by now warmed bodies and the litter of empty water and Gatorade cups. It felt as though we had arrived long after a street party ended, too late for what must have been exciting celebration.

The rising sun glistened off the steel web of the Ambassador Bridge as we crossed from the US edge of the Detroit River to the Canada border, warming the Motor City five miles behind us in a golden mist of evaporating dew. Cheering spectators continued to shout encouragement to our thinning group slowly falling behind the pace needed to reach the highway tunnel that would return us to the Detroit shoreline. I quickened my steps barely entering the tunnel before the 9:37 am cut-off; Steve and Sandy missing it by 2 minutes and being shuttled by bus beneath the river.

Reuniting with Steve and Sandy at the American immigration gate, we ambled through the remaining six miles in ethnic neighborhoods of Detroit’s revitalized south shore: Mexico Town and the early Irish settlement, Cork Town. We merged with exhausted runners completing their more grueling course, continued pass the throngs of cheering crowds, and stepped across the electronic finish of our 13 mile half-marathon at 4hr 7min 21sec. My experience was wonderfully enjoyable and the simple reward of a ribboned medal will be a treasured reminder of this personal achievement.

As I rode the buses and train that retraced a route toward home, memories of my last three days in Michigan were entered into my travel journal, recording nearly two weeks of friendship and activity in Michigan during beautiful Autumn days. Steve celebrated his 63rd birthday, we spent hours together swimming laps at the YMCA, and watched some football games and other television programs that he’ll not be able to view when he’ll be restricted to truck stops and empty rest areas along the Interstate highway system. I had dinner with friends Lillian and Duane, and a coffee break with Sue.

Each passing mile brought me closer to Linda, home, and dreams of my next journey.

Temperatures descend along expected Autumnal trends as a grey sky closes inward toward browning fields and jacketed walkers.

Of course I should be doing tasks around home this morning, but it's such a beautiful day so why waste it. I'm readin', writin' and doin' some arithmetic on the deck while random music plays on iTunes. When a person turns 63 (tomorrow), life's enjoyment is more important than life's accomplishments.

A sun rises and sets unpredictably on those who wander, transitions between day and night at locations considered temporary by choice and frequently not by design. Tomorrow is when the journey continues, destination unknown. In October I will travel as a passenger on an 18-wheeler driven by my good friend, Steve, as he makes multi-ton deliveries throughout the continental US.

My adventure begins with a interstate bus ride from Madison, Wisconsin to Chicago, Illinois where I will spend 4 nights at the Hostel International located in the heart of the Windy City. I'll spend each day exploring the streets and sights of downtown, visiting a few museums, and glancing at faces of people I see around me. At night I'd like to find a venue of blues music or fine dining that characterize Chicago's nightlife.

A 5-hour AmTrak ride will highlight my journey to Detroit, a route that previously was traveled by driving the concrete Interstate highway system. I've become enamored by rail travel since enjoying the "City of New Orleans" route to New Orleans and the "California Zephyr" to San Francisco. Lastly, an intercity bus will take me within a few blocks of Steve's home in Farmington, Michigan.

To meet up with a traveling trucker you need to anticipate a known stop, which for Steve will be mid-October when he returns home for his first wedding anniversary, a birthday celebration, and a fund raising event sponsored by the Detroit Free Press. I will join Steve and his family for a 13-mile, noncompetitive walk across the river bridge to Windsor, Canada and return under the river by tunnel. I can't wait until we stop for a doughnut midway through the walk, a tradition not to be missed I hear.

From this point, my trucking adventure begins. Steve will get a delivery assignment and together we'll head out of town. In Spring, Steve and I shared a one-day run in Southeastern Wisconsin. He promised me a more rewarding experience if I would like to join him for a week on the road. I accepted this opportunity and challenge immediately.

The adventure is set and I'll be sharing this experience on LiveJournal as it happens. My wandering will begin soon!

As good as it gets! I'm enjoying a brat and beer on the lakeshore of the UW Memorial Union. I'll be a student again tomorrow as I become a "senior auditor" in a class: "Yucatec Maya". Oh the memories of my college years here.

I wrote my first Postcrossing card to a woman in Japan. Soon I will receive a postcard randomly sent from another Postcrossing member. If you are interested in Postcrossing, link to: http://www.postcrossing.com/

... the dark foreboding sky, a chilling wind, the warning cry of crickets, and the electric tension in the air of an approaching thunderstorm!

Resting from the rapid pace of life by slowly savoring the taste of sliced tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs, salted and peppered, while letting my mind travel along "Silk Road Journey" with Yo-Yo Ma.

Footfalls of my steps on the gravel shoulder of the highway, the doppler pitches of tires whining from passing vehicles, horses charging the hillside to their sheltered stalls.

In the heat of an afternoon sun, even within a cooler evening sky, the magic of Cancun was becoming too predictable, a tarnished coin nearly indistinguishable from others. During my six year absence, storm winds had blasted the shoreline resorts, flooded buildings and city streets, and washed away a legacy of coral sand beaches. Lately, fear of northern border violence and a pandemic flu kept visitors away, and Mexico's own government restricted public gatherings by closing businesses and shutting gates to heritage sites.

I, too, had changed in that time. Inexperienced in foreign travel, my earlier vacation trips to Cancun were guided by the safe, promoted tours and typical glossy experiences; clean, noisy, alcohol numbed. Now I've become a wandering vagabond, moving without reservation through local pathways and on public transportation. Lightly encumbered with things carried from home, my small pack scarcely hinders movement through crowded sidewalks or narrow isles. No longer bringing stuff for "just in case", I know that I can find whatever I need wherever I am.

Being retired from 36 years of working, I'm now free to explore life.

Cancun is my initial flight destination for wandering through the Mexican Yucatán peninsula. Shorter than my recent journeys through Guatemala, these two weeks in June were anticipated so I could step away from the fairyland castles built by modern corporations and, instead, find the ancient Maya lands being reclaimed from jungle coverings: Chichén Itzá, Uxmal, Kabah, and Tulum. The Spanish colonial city of Mérida would be my home for 3 days before returning to Cancun where my wife would join me for 5 or 6 days, then a final 4 days exploring the area south of Cancun as far as Tulum.

Map Chick's maps and travel guides (thank you, Perry & Laura) detailed any information I couldn't find on my own, each map being a resource of tips, locations, and recommendations. I left the other heavy guide books at home.

Not wasting time in idle waiting, I flew into CUN and quickly took a bus into Cancun where I caught another bus for a two hour trip to Pisté, just outside the archeological site, Chichén Itzá. My nineteen hour day of travel from Chicago ended with my collapse in a nearly empty hotel that provided only a trickle of cold water for washing away the accumulated dust and sweat of travel.

In the morning, a twenty minute walk on a wooded path softened the commercialization I would have experienced riding the highway into Chichén Itzá; recently selected as one of the Wonders of the Modern World. Arriving before the throngs of tourists, I easily acquired an English speaking guide, Willie, who translated stone edifices back to a Maya culture that existed more than a thousand years ago. Being his only charge, I was able to ask questions that solicited discussion more than repetitious book descriptions of these ruins that once had been named "Mouth of the Well of the Itzá.¨

Chichén Itzá spanned epochs from the 5th to the early 13th Century, reaching its power in the late 900's. Positioned late in Maya chronology -- Postclassic -- Chichén Itzá shows influences by Maya, Toltec, and Itzá occupants. From its size and scope the Chichén Itzá city-state appears utilitarian in design without much artistic expression found in other Maya cities. In the three hours I wandered later without my guide, I failed to feel an ancient spiritual presence emanating from its archeological ruins as I did visiting Tikal (Guatemala).

Left Chichén Itzá in late afternoon for Mérida, two hours further west. My refuge from the daily heat and humidity would be three nights in an air conditioned dormitory at Hostel Santa Lucia ($8/night USD). Mérida was founded in 1542 by Spanish conquistador, Francisco de Montejo (now also a Yucatan beer choice). Many of its colonial influences remain, notably in the Cathedral, Governor's Palace, and the Plaza Grande.

My first day in Mérida was spent exploring Centro Histórico and dining as though I hadn't eaten sufficiently in the past two days, which was true. Mérida is beautiful. Evenings, when the city cools down, I walked to Plaza Grande to rest, watch people talking and kissing in the park, and to be entertained by comedians and musicians. Music can be enjoyed everywhere, every night, from street corners and restaurant patios. Saturday night I headed to Paseo de Montejo for Noche Mexicana where food vendors, artisans, live music and dance performances draw several hundred happily relaxed people from town.

Spent another day on a tour of Maya ruins to the south of Mérida. Uxmal, though smaller than Chichén Itzá, has far more intricate architecture and design features. The tallest structure and the most unique is the Pyramid of the Magician. Its base is elliptical and has only two rising staircases, unlike the Chichén Itzá el Castillo 9-platform, 4-sided, 91-step staircases. The Kabah ruins supposedly cover a large area, however, only a small portion has been cleared and restored.

Meanwhile, my wife flew into Cancun and was waiting for me to join her at our Royal Islander timeshare. On Sunday I rode a first class bus from Mérida to Cancun while watching two movies during the four hour trip; Spanish without subtitles or English dubbing. Why not watch them, since outside the bus was a uninteresting tropical forest of green tangled trees and brush.

Cancun wasn't as we remembered it. Oh, it was big, bright and beautiful, yet overwhelmingly it was fake, artificial, and commercial. Lacking any historical foundation, it presented a concrete and glass modernity to shout its presence on the shore of the Caribbean. Created from a sleepy fishing village in the early 70's, Cancun has no old world charm or indigenous validity. Corporate interests dominate the landscape and promote an attitude for the young, hip, energetic visitors who seem to come for the same excitement they left at home.

Needing a different experience, we left the hotel zone to go by ferry from Puerto Juarez to Isla Mujeres. Although we previously visited the island, we hadn't been to North Beach nor below the Ixchel ruins to waters edge at Punta Sur. I now know why each location is popular to those who venture away from the busy shopping and dining places.

Linda left Cancun after her six-day visit; I left the following morning for the last five days of my personal adventure. Taking a shuttle to the airport, I then hopped on collectivo bus to Playa del Carmen, south of Cancun. Spent a few hours walking, having lunch, and fending off persistent salesmen hawking their wares down by the ferry dock to Isla Cozumel. Boarded another bus to Tulum.

Stayed at Los Mapaches Hostel, across from the entrance to the Tulum ruins ($9/night USD) with a group of young women from Iowa studying Spanish in Mérida and three people from London. My bed was in a loft beneath a palapa roof. We rode fat-tire bicycles to the beach south of the ruins, and were taken the next day to Dos Ojos cenote. Unlike the "underground river" at Xcaret, a real cenote has character including stalactites and stalagmites to swim between, caverns leading off to depths and locations accessible only to guided scuba dives, and fish, birds and bats. The play of sunlight into the shadowed water is not unlike the shafts of colored rays filtering through church stained glass windows.

My last stop was for personal pampering. I would enjoy two nights at Casa Amor del Sol, a Bed & Breakfast located 6 miles north of Tulum. Operated by Diane and Phil Buchanan since January 2009, it has already attracted guests from France and Russia. What drew me to their small two guest room abode on a gravel road adjacent to the Caribbean shore is that Diane was Catering Manager of a convention center in my former home town, Madison, Wisconsin. After learning about this B&B through a local gift shop owner, I figured these morning breakfasts would be worth all the eggs, beans, and tortillas I would have consumed earlier in my journey to travel as cheaply as possible. Oh, my! The breakfasts were wonderful. I devoured home made breads, fresh fruit, strawberries with yogurt and granola, french toast, thick bacon, with juice and coffee. Another breakfast was something like a breaded quiche (I forgot to ask). A special treat was opening the windows at night to allow cool sea breezes and sounds of waves upon the beach to relax me into slumber.

Returned by bus to Cancun for a common hotel bed prior to my flight home. My last meal was one anticipated for years, but never consumed. Although Linda couldn't be with me, I finally went to El Centro to dine at La Habechuela for their famous Cocobichuela: lobster, shrimp pieces with rice in a curry sauce baked in a coconut shell topped with a pineapple ring and shredded coconut, baked banana slices and shredded coconut on the side. Thinking I didn't have enough coconut, my desert choice was a coconut torte with ice cream, and coffee.

Coming home from wandering was not different from my other travels, my journey scheduled by roundtrip flight tickets. I was ready to come home. The exhaustive heat and humidity had taken a toll on my enthusiasm, and I was still feeling the effects of a respiratory virus that required medical attention while I was in Cancun. I was glad to have a direct flight from Cancun to Chicago so I didn't have to transfer at another airline hub. My 3 1/2 hour flight brought me back to my car at a Park & Fly hotel near O'Hare International. From there it was a 2 1/2 hour drive home to Wisconsin.

The inspiration to change my travel experiences comes from a wonderful book: Vagabonding -- An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel, by Rolf Potts. From that book is a quote by Phil Cousineau from The Art of Pilgimage:

The practice of soulful travel is to discover
the overlapping point between history and
everyday life, the way to find the essence
of every place, every day: in the markets,
small chapels, out-of-the-way parks, craft
shops. Curiosity about the extraordinary
in the ordinary moves the heart of the
traveler intent on seeing behind the veil
of tourism.


Photos (36) from my journey are viewable at:
http://picasaweb.google.com/whammer.wayne/Yucatan2009Slideshow?feat=directlink

Leaving Cancun in an hour, moving on to Tulum. My wife left yesterday for home and I will continue my two week wandering of the Yucatan for 5 more days. My virus infection is nearly gone and I'm regaining energy. Must have picked up a bug while traveling in Piste or Merida. Inland temps are very hot and the moist A/C I've encountered caused me discomfort. I will try to write a trip report from Tulum, but I may have to wait until going home.

Cancun is quite different from what we saw when last here in 2003 or 2004. Hurricane Wilma kept us out in 2005. Beaches around the Royal Resorts are gone and only rocks prevent wave surges from slapping the resort beach walls. No one swims in the Caribbean any more. Capacity is at about 50%, kind of spooky. Had a wonderful trip from Juarez to Isla Mujerers the other day. Finally got to walk the paths beneath Punta Sur.

More later

Ten years ago Linda and I came to Mexico on a vacation. Realizing that I had forgotten my Spanish from college, I started taking classes through Univeristy Extension and other small ways to learn the language. When I retired, Linda encouraged me to follow a life dream which was to try living in another country for a (short) while. I spent a month in Quetzaltenago, Guatemala living with a family and studying Spanish in an immersion setting. Then I traveled for three more weeks before returning to a snowy Wisconsin Winter. One year later I took Linda with me back to Guatemala for a 10 day visit.

But this trip is different. I´m travelling alone again and I´m wandering deep into Mexico, far from the safety of English speaking resort locations. My Spanish is better now, but still very much at a survival level. I can obtain food, lodging and cervezas, but I have difficulty understanding rapid conversation. How many times can a person ask to have something repeated?

Yet, I´m doing okay. I´ve taken local transportation and interstate buses between Cancun, Piste and Merida. I´ve obtained lodging even though my reservations haven´t been found. I´ve navigated walking through city streets, often going in circles until I figure out the street grid pattern. I´m not so dumb that I can´t ask for directions or assistance. If I´ve broken any local laws or customs, I haven´t been arrested and put into jail, yet!

My inspiration to do all of this comes from, besides my lovely wife, Linda, reading a book "Vagabonding" by Rolf Potts. Though written for long term travelers, it´s advice can help everyone to travel outside of their current comfort zone. Instead of going where you know what to expect, you should expand your life skills and knowledge by experiencing whatever you find when you arrive somewhere. Getting to know the local customs, perhaps language, and wandering off-path will enrich your own life in ways unanticipated. Here in Mexico I am definately outside of my comfort zone, but wow, this is a very stimulating experience!

Later today I will describe some of my journey, which will include a 6 hour tour of the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza, my interesting local bus adventures, and my stay at an International Hostel. I will describe beautiful Merida and an evening in parque grande where people come to enjoy entertainment, food, and each other. Please join me later here in my LiveJournal.

Tonight I'm resting in Chicago prior to a 6:30am departure to the Yucatan area of Mexico. I will wander for 5 days near Mérida seeing several Maya ruins, then meet Linda in Cancun for 6 days, and return to wandering in the area near Tulum for 5 more days. I'll write more as time permits.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

I remember long ago going with my grandparents in their automobile on Sunday drives in the country.

We had nowhere specific to go, nor did it matter where we were or headed to. We might be out for a ride, like today, in the Springtime when the landscape began blossoming into a pallet of color and a bouquet of fragrances that had been dormant during Winter. Car windows were open to allow the outside, inside. The radio was off so that we could hear the wind of our motion wildly roar past us as our car sliced through the air. Occasionally, the sharp song of a red-winged blackbird pierced the turbulent noise like musical notes of a melodic crescendo rising above the ensemble.

In those days we didn't have navigation devices like GPS and Internet mapping, so we simply left home and headed out of town. A destination wasn't our objective and we would drive around until time to return for Sunday dinner. We might travel familiar highways, now quiet from the absence of week-day traffic; or we would take a turn down a rustic looking road where grand trees draped their greening branches overhead or newborn calves grazed with their mothers in the fields. Farms were smaller then, and family homes were nestled between wind-break groves of trees. Silos use to rise high in the sky before foliage bags and ground pits changed the view to horizontal. Next turn might be past a wind-tossed lake or pond where geese and ducks danced upon the waves. Too cold yet for boaters to skim across the surface and the shores were absent of boys fishing or throwing stones. They'd all return next month when schools emptied and vacations began the escape from obligations.

Today, I drove aimlessly as though I was with my grandparents on a Sunday drive in the country.

Life is good!

Martha Beck wrote in the April issue of Opra's O magazine about Just What You Need! "There are two ways of going through life: Gather everything in sight, just in case you need it. Or trust that you'll find exactly what you need, just in time."

She illustrates this perspective with the Japanese method of manufacturing -- just-in-time (JIT), where massive inventories are avoided by ordering parts just as they are needed. As a life coach, Martha explains the dangers of accumulating an excess of things to have, just-in-case (JIC), because you view that "everything good in life is scarce." Viewing life, instead, as "everything good is readily available" can reduce your anxiety by replacing fear with faith, trusting in the abundance of the environment surrounding us all the time.

This simple psychological shift is helping me to change my life. I've been reluctant to toss things away or even to use possessions so that I will always have them and keep them in prime condition. I'm not hoarding objects, yet my collection over a lifetime has accumulated excessively to become unmanageable and often undiscoverable. Cleaning out the closets, basement and garage now feels wonderful and lifts a weight of materialism. Similarly, my wants have diminished as well, because I no longer think I need to have something now or in the future just in case. If I do need something later, I can obtain it easily at that time.

Travel is different for me, too. I used to plan trips as an expedition where I needed to anticipate and prepare for various possibilities. Clothing, weather, equipment; each required my attention during packing for the trip, or gave me anxiety when unanticipated conditions left me unprepared. Now I can relax by thinking, "so what!"

I open myself to the adventure of the moment and a discovery of the unintended. I'm packing lighter and carrying less with me. I'm not distressed by thoughts of just in case; I've become freer by realizing that anything I need is available somewhere, some time. Perhaps, I don't actually need it. If I do need something later, I may discover it uniquely different from my expectations and own experiences. My life will become enriched by whatever lies beyond and outside of me.

Life Is Good.

I spent a day with my lifelong friend, Steve, as he drove his 18-wheeler Volvo semi-trailer with a sleeper cab. We arranged to meet at a Wisconsin Information Center near the Illinois state line on a sunny Friday morning. He was completing a two day transport of huge paper rolls from the East coast to Burlington, Wisconsin. Leaving my car at the parking lot, I would spend the day with him delivering his load until he received a preplan for a new pickup and destination.

What is it like to ride in these behemoths of the highway? How is the culture of the people within this domestic transport infrastructure different from the rest of us on the road? Did I enjoy my latest travel adventure?

When Steve sought employment to re-establish a decimated retirement fund he decided to find something that required training, license, and was vastly different from his information technology career. Truck driving seemed to be part of a progression from summer college jobs as a forklift skitter and as a tour bus driver in Glacier National Park. He obtained his commercial transport license after months of training and thousands of dollars, but with it came nearly guaranteed employment and a definite life change.



Side view and underside view of a conventional 18-wheeler semi-trailer truck with an enclosed cargo space. The underside view shows the arrangement of the 18 tires (wheels). Shown in blue in the underside view are the axles, drive shaft, and differentials. The legend for labeled parts of the truck is as follows:
1. tractor unit
2. semi-trailer (detachable)
3. engine compartment
4. cabin
5. sleeper (not present in all trucks)
6. air dam
7. fuel tanks
8. fifth wheel coupling
9. enclosed cargo space
landing gear - legs for when semi-trailer is detached

Highway men and women may spend months on the road between home visits or live on the truck without a permanent “home” residence. Trucking firms hire experienced drivers who earn their wheels by usually hauling cargo for a year throughout the continental US and since payment is per mile this also is where the money is earned. Being married, Steve, will seek regional routes close to home now that he’s completed his first year criss-crossing America. Fortunately, he’s been gainfully employed during this vast economic downturn, but he’s not immune to its effect. Companies have been decreasing inventories and distribution of goods, so Steve will sometimes wait (unpaid) days between assignments.

Steve’s life as a trucker is similar to that of a turtle. Inside his (metal) shell he moves from place to place carrying his living space and essentials everywhere with him. The cabin contains the truck drive mechanics and his living environment. In this small space -- crawl space -- Steve has a small bunk bed that serves as both sleeping, living and storage space. Like the cabin of a boat, numerous cubbies are stuffed with clothes, tools, books, and whatever can be anticipated as needed, not extraneous. A computer and wireless Internet access brings modern technology connections to Steve for e-mail, maps, information searches, or recreational pursuits like reading and movies. Although his wife prepares meals for him to reheat, many of his meals are limited to the vendors of truck stops and nearby restaurants. He is not permitted to drive his truck to ANY off route destinations: no shopping, movie theaters, family visits. Unlike the hare, turtles have no time for fun as they plod slowly from one destination to the next. On-the-road friendships are impossible when after a ten minute conversation drivers finish telling their road warrior stories and drive away toward distant terminals never to see each other again.

As cargo caddies, a truck is nothing like a Cadillac automobile. The ride is rough and jarring as you feel every disfigurement of the concrete highway. Riding on high pressure tires, 18 in all, and carrying up to 80,000 lbs. gross weight, these vehicles bounce and buck in ways you never experience in your family sedan or SUV. Nothing is done in a hurry. Starting and stopping a semi trailer occurs very slowly -- challenge one of these at your own risk. The driver must anticipate and be deliberate in every action, because it is impossible to do otherwise. The noise of a single truck or a chorus of idling engines is deafening. The size and mass of the cab and trailer are imposing and formidable; how else to describe “big” and “heavy”. You don’t slide into your seat, rather you climb up into it. From your height you look over all other vehicles on the road, your view forward unobstructed while your rear view reflected only by side mirrors. Your trailer length holds your forward motion mostly along a straight line course, turning is by making shallow vectors that veer slowly, obliquely toward a new direction. Backing a trailer into a loading dock (“hole”) progresses through a mess of radial wheel turns at confused angles with inverse logic application. Think about this the next time you back your camper or boat into a narrow, crowded site.

Life on the road has changed Steve. No longer stressed with anxious filled deadlines and program failures during his career in computer technology and business management, he doesn’t mind the long hours that clock his time on the highways of America. Regulations limit his daily and weekly work/rest activity. Comptrollers set his destination and expected arrival schedule. He becomes the captain of his “ship” though always responsible for the safe and timely delivery of his cargo. He and his cab (the trailers are frequently exchanged) ricochet from terminal to terminal throughout the entire country in unpredictable patterns, rarely visiting the same place or city twice. Yet, he and his wife treasure the short times when he’s able to come home and spend time with the family.

I really enjoyed my day in the life of trucker, Steve. In the Fall I hope to do this again, perhaps next time for a week on the road.