Reading time: 12 minutes

March 21, 2019. I’m sitting in my van in a McDonald’s parking lot in Flagstaff, Arizona. It’s Thursday night. Since last Thursday I’ve driven some fifteen-hundred miles, sleeping in Moab, Canyons of the Ancients, the Badlands, San Lorenzo Canyon, a Denny’s parking lot in Los Cruces, and the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation.

I’ve shared cigars with a North Carolinian named Carl, carried an Indian hitchhiker named Emerson to a town called Thoreau, showered in the locker room of an Albuquerque high school, wandered the White Sands, talked with strangers, and got drunk on New Mexican wine under the equinoctial full moon, apparently the first in nineteen years and the last for the next eleven.

Now my van is caput; catalytic converter appears to be bad. And I can’t make it over the mountain passes. I’m also out of money, though tomorrow I should be receiving $300 from Matt. So tonight I sleep again in the city before making my final stretch home, traveling through Kanab, Utah, and exploring whatever I will in that region. If the money doesn’t come, I’m prepared to hustle. I’ve got the means and the tongue.

For now, I note some reflections.

I Do Not Like Cities

Traveling America’s back ways and byways confirms again that I feel best in wide open Western spaces, free of billboards and flashing lights, speckled with hovels and farms and cottonwoods, town cafés and antique shops, earthy breezes and red clay-bottom creeks. And silence. Ah, silence. Space for my soul to exhale.

As if I needed the reminder.

“I don’t believe in doing work I don’t want to do in order to live the way I don’t want to live,” wrote Edward Abbey. I’ve reflected on that declaration this week, and since I first read it I’ve considered it an indictment. Still do—because I believe the same thing. Yet every weekday I report to a cubicle located in an expanding city. (Correction: the city’s not expanding; there’s nowhere for it to spread. It’s bloating. Congesting. And suffocating me.) And I’m living not in accord with my beliefs.

This goes back to the same problem I’ve wrestled with for years now, of being a married father in the suburbs—and wanting to be a good husband and father—and being possessed of a desire to rove (and sit still) in a quiet region where there are few people, all of whom have abandoned the Chase. But for reasons economic and social, I believe that my being a good husband and father requires I live in the city.

Alas, I determined months ago to accept my fate. And yet I can’t seem to. Must think harder, must find a solution. I cannot allow myself to die on the altar of familial duty; I cannot bear the thought of shirking it. Must become like Moses and lead my kin into the desert.

First order of business: grow beard, acquire staff.

American Indians Got Shafted

I didn’t set out to study the American Indian, but he seems to be materializing in my peripheral awareness with increased frequency. I recently finished reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, which is narrated by an Indian character named Chief, and is a kind of parable for how American powers destroy the autonomous individual, including the Indian. I’ve almost finished reading The Teachings of Don Juan, which is Carlos Castaneda’s account of his years with a Yaqui shaman. I’ve been reading Good News by Edward Abbey, which involves a character named Sam, an Indian magician with a PhD. And, of course, while traveling the Southwest I’ve visited archeological sites, interacted with Natives, observed them, even slept on their lands.

And here’s what I think: Indians got fucked. Keen and original insight, right? Ok, I already knew this, but now I understand a little. The texts I’ve read have given me a greater feeling for the Indian and his lost way of life. And I see on the Indian’s face the same kind of resentment and dejection I saw on the black man’s face when I was in the South three years ago. Yes, there are racial tensions in the Southwest. Anger appears to be alive and well in the Redskin.

Despite having paid for a permit to sleep on the Res, three different Apache rangers invaded my campsite in the span of eighteen hours. And I sensed that these rangers experienced a kind of satisfaction in investigating my presence. They were polite enough—and I was very respectful to them, feeling sympathetic to their history and grateful to be sleeping on their lovely land and all—but I gathered had I brought to them the attitude I normally bring toward law enforcement they would have taken sick pleasure in arresting me, ransacking my van, and hauling me away, as a kind of tit for tat for what the Anglo has done to them.

I saw the fields of shanties that have been “donated” to the American Indians—in lieu of stolen land. And the shanties are planted on barren dustbowls.

I stopped at Hovenweep, a national monument dedicated to the ingenuity of Pueblo Indians.

What rubbish. The European stomps the Indian into desolated corners of his motherland, then secures shrines to his sustainable and curious way of living, sells tickets or solicits donations, pretends to respect the way of so-called “former inhabitants.”

I saw the signs every few miles: “Report drunk driving. Dial #DUI.”

I also found myself feeling oddly mystical. One evening I caught myself about to make some silent appeal or query to some imagined deity, then snapped out of it. I’m happy to contemplate beauty and the wonders of existence, but to assume such phenomena are backed by entities with intentions and desires seems a dangerous road. It results, I believe, in anxious minds who claim to have found peace. Not sure why I began drifting mystically, but I assume it’s because I’ve been influenced by these various literary and cultural texts. Maybe it’s because I feel admiration for the American Indian, for the way he interacted with the earth, for his stories, his beliefs, his conviction, his reverence, his wildness.

And yet he has lost it. Or it was beaten from him. Most of the Indians I’ve encountered seem bitter if not expressionless, hopeless if not angry, and wrapped up in the American way, selling cheap Indian-like trinkets to tourists on roadways, and promoting cheap booze, tobacco, and gambling to the same. And on weekends they gather in Christian churches that look like Tuff Sheds with crosses affixed to the apexes.

So much for the Indian’s conviction and commitment.

I Get By With Help From My Friends

Christopher McCandless, the free spirit who hitchhiked to Alaska then died when he tried to live solo off the land, wrote in his journal: “Happiness only real when shared.”

I’ve reflected on that sentiment several times this week. While in San Lorenzo Canyon and White Sands I imagined how my experience might’ve been were a friend with me. Or my kids. Or Mindy. But mostly I thought of friends. I was happy, but I found part of me wanted to share the experiences with someone who might have loved them as much as I did, and that would be a close friend, someone who shares my sentiments.

So why travel alone? Why nine days of solitude?

Everett Ruess, that other vagabond who died alone in the wild, said, “I've done things alone chiefly because I never found people who cared about the things I've cared for enough to suffer the attendant hardships. But a true companion halves the misery and doubles the joy.”

Maybe that’s why. Maybe I haven’t found a “true” companion.

I doubt whether happiness is only real when shared, though. The joy I felt on the Apache Reservation beneath the moon and clouds was sublime. I noted in my pocket journal that it was the most beautiful night of my life. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt such peace, such stillness, such overwhelming awe, and it’s hard for me to believe my experience of that night would have been compounded had a good friend been with me.

But I would have appreciated a friend by my side while hiking in the Badlands, exploring San Lorenzo Canyon, and getting drunk out on the White Sands as the moonlight illuminated that sea of gypsum in hues of pink and purple, periwinkle and platinum.

As I contemplated friendship and solitude that night on the Res I wept in gratitude for my few close friends, those I can reveal my whole soul to, and who listen when I do. And my weeping, brief as it was, was an essential part of my solo experience.

So, happiness is real regardless of the presence of others. But, in some cases, yes, “a true companion halves the misery and doubles the joy.” And, in other cases, at times, a true companion doubles the misery and halves the joy.

Ask any honest married person.

What Got Me Here Won’t Get Me There

Several weeks ago I watched a choose-your-own-adventure film, the first of its kind as far as I know. The film required the viewer to determine through input from a remote what choices the main character would make during certain scenes. Depending on choices made, the film would play out differently, like a choose-your-own-adventure book.

I discovered while watching this film that my tendency was to look for a logic. I expected to discover a consistent and existential framework, meaning that with time I would make better choices, as I would be better able to predict consequences. Did it work to the character’s advantage to be cunning, or honest? Loyal or selfish? And so forth.

The film did not yield. There was no consistent logic. Sometimes it paid to take risks, other times it paid to play it safe. Sometimes integrity panned out, sometimes murder did. There was no theme or moral to the story, other than, maybe, that life is absurd. There are no reasons. We just happen to look for them.

We imagine that one framework, one set of beliefs, will serve us well in every context. We look for a logic to existence, and most think they find one. Even more accept one that others think they have found, without ever sincerely looking themselves.

My experience suggests there is no logic, much like that choose-your-own-adventure film suggested. What works well in one situation might not in another.

Here’s what I’m getting to. Exploring consciousness via psychedelic intoxication in natural landscapes has practically become a rule for me. This practice has served me well for two decades. I do it precisely to cultivate enlightening experiences, seek self-awareness, and aid personal development. And if I was ever in the situation to take psychedelics, then it was during this trip—in the Badlands, in San Lorenzo Canyon, at White Sands, on the Res below the Mescal Mountains amidst swaths of poppies and cacti. Each environment was perfect for consciousness-exploration, and each was the kind of locale I’ve sought specifically for such exploration. But I refrained from launching because I did not feel the urge. In each location I felt as though I ought to eat psychedelics, because of the perfect setting. And then I would feel hesitant, and I would sit with that hesitance and try to identify its source. And I realized my soul didn’t want psychedelics, my ego did.

My ego didn’t want to miss out—miss out on tripping at such-and-such place at such-and-such time, miss out on being able to say, whether to myself or others, I ate acid in White Sands under a full moon, or mushrooms on the Apache Res. My ego wanted to avoid the possibility of ending the week with a lackluster account of what should have been a bodacious retreat. My ego wanted the story, the notch in the belt, the novel experience. And so it wanted the trip. Eating an entheogen would’ve been habitual, not intentional.

I deliberated for at least ninety minutes that night below the Mescal Mountains about whether I should drink mushroom tea. As far as I could tell, I was in the most pristine and surreal surroundings I’ve ever been in. The sun was setting behind a cluster of cumulous clouds, rays streaking through and lighting the verdant desert vegetation. The sandy soil was moist and loamy, following fresh rains. Birds of various kinds—phainopeplas, quails, jays—flew from cactus to sage to creosote, singing their songs. Rabbits hopped into hidden washes. Poppies the color of tangerine juice craned in full bloom and shimmied in the gloaming. Other indescribable beauties surrounded me.

And after deliberating I sat and listened—to the air, to the birds, to my body. I did not eat psychedelics. I determined I didn’t need them. By sitting with myself for a while I was able to disentangle my desires, recognize each for what it was: (1) to take psychedelics, for fear of missing out; or (2) heed my intuition.

That night ended up being the most wonderful of my life. I don’t know whether that’s because I attuned to my deeper knowing and forwent psychedelics, or because I consumed wine and weed and tobacco and basked in the glow of moon and lightning under cool clouds and a warm drizzle. All I know is that I was immersed in a peace that lasted several hours, a peace that matched or exceeded any other peace I’ve ever felt.

The point is this: what worked in the past may not work in the future. And what is right in some cases may be wrong in others. But, as my friend and mentor Alex Caldiero says, “the body always knows.”

The challenge is to listen.

The Pathway to Peace is Circuitous

One final thought (it is now April 1, 2019). Perhaps it wasn’t peace I experienced on the Res in Arizona, but bliss. When conditions combine to produce a joyous state, that’s bliss. When one can be in a joyous state regardless of conditions, that’s peace. Bliss is the pinnacle of pleasure. Peace is beyond pleasure. Beyond pain.

Bliss is ignorant. Peace is wise.

I think I have unconsciously supposed that I might discover through frequent and prolonged states of bliss how to cultivate an equivalent peace, hence the incessant pursuit of intense and novel experiences. Hence intoxication. Hence this road trip itself.

Is this right?

I don’t know.

William Blake said, “The road of excess leads to the palace is wisdom.”

And how does the road of excess lead to the palace of wisdom?

It passes through the valley of fire.