Author: prayerfullife7

All was not lost, although most of it was; I had lost all my clothing except what I had on, my wallet, money, identification, sleeping bag and mat, tent, and my souvenir rocks, which I didn’t really miss and was happy to be rid of the extra weight. I still had a small shoulder pack in which I kept my journal and pen and my remaining food: several slices of bread, what remained of my jar of peanut butter and my ever-present container of garlic salt.

I didn’t take much time to mourn my losses but noticed a bridge not too far from me that spanned the river, so I crossed into what I imagined and hoped must be Portland. I found a visitor’s center which confirmed my hopes but I couldn’t find a good place to catch a ride south. I was tired and had lost patience for waiting on the side of roads so I just started walking south through the streets of Portland. I didn’t have a plan and wasn’t sure how I’d make it the remaining six hundred odd miles home so I just walked.

My hopes were raised when I passed a Methodist Church and some of the members were out front doing some weeding. Though I hadn’t attended a Methodist Church in some time I still felt like here were my people, plus Methodists are known for social outreach and aiding those in need. I was sure to receive some help, perhaps a little money, or food, or maybe a place to sleep for the night. With new-found joy I approached the group and told them a little about my story, how I had been hitching back home and lost my backpack on the train and had nothing left, and I inquired if they could offer any assistance to aid me in my plight. Their reaction was far from what I expected and not only was it unhelpful but it was actually cold and disdainful. I felt ashamed, for myself, and for them. This isn’t what John and Charles Wesley had in mind when they began their church based upon their method; this wasn’t the good news, but instead it was turning ones back on a stranger. I tried a different line of inquiry hoping they just didn’t understand, I couldn’t conceive that these members of my church family would turn me away without even a measure of kindness. In the end however that was all I received, a small measure of kindness, as one of the older ladies in the group gave me a half-smile as she wished me good luck.

So with a half-hearted smile to fill my stomach and an insipid blessing to keep me warm, I left and looked for a place to sleep, as it was growing dark. Not far away I found a bench under a lamppost in a remote corner of a small neighborhood park. It was a safe place, protected on three sides by trees and shrubs and well-lit. It was a long, cold night but thankfully I had been able to pull my jacket off the train so I had some measure of comfort as I lay on the bench and tried to sleep.

But sleep was difficult to come by with the sounds of the city in the distance and other neighborhood activity nearby. These sounds exacerbated my feeling of loneliness somehow and I longed to see some friends again and to talk with someone that I knew and who knew me. The light and shadow cast by the lamppost upon the surrounding shrubs gave them character and depth and animated them to my mind. As I sat up and scanned the foliage I could begin to discern distinct shapes within their branches and leaves. In time I realized that I was in the company of numerous animals and fantastic creatures who were interested in making my acquaintance and sharing their stories with me. Suddenly the night was not nearly so lonely as I began to converse with my new friends, these shrub-creatures, and inquire of their habits, proclivities and adventures. There was Mr Frog who was recovering from a very difficult day, and he was joined by Rat-Man who fancied bowler hats and dainty foods, farther along was a group of squirrels and a porcupine discussing recent events over tea, and further into the trees lived a troll, not particularly handsome, but with a good nature which made up for his physical shortcomings. I shared my difficult predicament with them and they all expressed concern and offered me encouragement, telling me that tomorrow would certainly be a better day. Mr Frog could relate and was certain things would look brighter for one of us or the other; and he guessed it would probably be me that things would take a turn for the better. I consoled him as well and also wished him a better tomorrow. Eventually the night passed and the morning began to awaken, and with the gathering light my friends slowly faded back into the foliage and disappeared among the shrubs.

I continued my walk south, not sure of my plan, but I sensed that I was beginning to lose my ability to cope with my situation, and that I needed to find some help soon.  I perceived that my emotions and my mind were fraying around the edges, and this awareness gave me insight into the mental difficulties of others who live permanently on the streets. I was afraid of losing my mind and my grip on reality and this scared me and made my heart grow with concern for anyone in a similar situation. Living on the street, the loneliness, existing on the margins of society as a pariah, enduring the elements, with little food and fear of attack at night, can take a tremendous toll on a person.

I begged for some change and called my mom. I explained my situation and we worked out a way for me to get a Greyhound bus ticket home, leaving the next morning. That night I found shelter under a pickup truck canopy in a store lot where these canopies were sold. I found one laying on the asphalt, opened the back hatch and climbed inside. It was cramped and it was cold laying on the asphalt, even with a piece of cardboard underneath but I felt safe and nobody knew I was there. I passed the night, sleeping a little, but waiting with anticipation for the bus that would arrive to pick me up early the next morning and take me home.

8:00 am arrived and I was standing at the bus stop expectantly. I had the address listed on the ticket and the correct time but the bus didn’t come. A few minutes passed and I began to worry. I couldn’t conceive of another night spent on a bench or under a truck canopy, or another night without anything to eat.  As I was considering this possibility, a Greyhound bus turned the corner, but stopped on the other side of the street, heading the wrong direction. Like my error with the train, I grew confused and I determined this must be a different bus since it was on the northbound side of the street. I watched the bus unload one or two people and I grew uneasy and anxious. What if it is my bus and I’m about to miss it because I’m on the wrong side of the street? I called out and started to run towards it as it moved away from the curb. I didn’t get very close by the time the bus turned the corner and disappeared, leaving me standing alone in the street. I couldn’t believe how stupid I was and why didn’t I walk over to it and just ask where it was going? Why did I wait so long just watching it, assuming it wasn’t my bus? Oh what a sorry idiot I was, and a stranded one too.

Frantically I found some money from some frightened soul who probably thought I was out of my mind and I called my mom again. I had come unglued by now and she could hear it in my voice. She talked me back down to a place of relative calm and said she’d work it out, to stay with her, not to worry, that she needed me to keep it together. After a call to the bus company she called me back at the pay phone where I stood in a daze, and told me there would be another bus that I could take the following morning. That was good news of course, but I heard it as if through water, muffled and distant and drowned out by the sound of my own thoughts and emotions crashing down around me. It was a beautiful sunny, late August day, with just a slight crispness in the air, hinting of fall coming soon. I could appreciate as I stood digesting this news that someone was enjoying the weather but I couldn’t find any joy in it. I was stuck another day in purgatory.

I thanked my mom for all of her help, assured her I’d be okay, told her I loved her and hung up the phone. I don’t remember the rest of that day. I suppose I lived it, since I did get on the bus the next morning, but I have no recollection of anything that happened after that phone call until the next morning when I got on the bus, sank into my seat and fell asleep, finally, finally heading home.

(to be continued)

~FS

I came to Alaska for more than just a summer job and an adventure; I also hoped to find out who I was, to discover myself in an essential way, at least in part. I believed that I would find this by returning to the place of my birth. As I boarded the ferry in Skagway I was excited because I was finally on the leg of the journey that would take me literally to where I began: Ketchikan. I had great hope that returning to my geographic origin would shed some light on my true self.

The first thing I did upon disembarking the ferry was walk to the home my family had rented back in 1969. I knew the address and could recognize it from family photos. Seeing that old house in person filled me with a reverential nostalgia. For me this was a visit to a family shrine or historical landmark. It was a place of stories and of dreams come to life. I imagined my parents at the top of the long flight of stairs, looking down at me from the landing near the front door. I could picture my sisters inside at the dining room table having dinner, and my brother alone in his room drawing something; he was a good artist. We were all here, together again, a family for a moment; just like my faint memories from childhood. I stood in the waning light, staring at our home, while the rain fell lightly on my head, remembering, imagining, pretending; and then I heard music. Faint organ music lightly touched the air around me and I looked for its source.

The music was coming from an open doorway of a church just down the street. I took another quick look at our old house and then walked to the church. I stepped inside and sat down in the back to listen to the organist play several more pieces. When he finished he called out to me and asked if I liked the organ. I told him about the amazing organ from my childhood church with all of the enormous pipes, and how I loved to hear a good organist. We both shared a love of Bach and after a short conversation about this, and his revelation that I had no place to sleep, he invited me to his home for dinner and a place to set up my sleeping bag for the night. It turned out that not only was he good at the organ, he could also cook, being the head chef at a local restaurant. He made us both a simple but excellent meal, though admittedly my rations from dumpsters the past two months had lowered my expectations, and afterwards he pulled out the accordion and played a few more songs for me. It was the perfect end to a meaningful night and the next morning he invited me to stay as long as I was in town. He even allowed me to keep my things at his house and gave me a copy of the house key to come and go as I pleased. This was a kind and generous man and a trusting and loving soul.

Later that day I visited the only hospital in town and explained to the receptionist and asked if this was the same hospital that existing back in the 1960s. It was, so I asked if I could visit the maternity wing and even see the delivery room where I had been born. She called to the nurses and I was given a tour. The nurses found my visit amusing and were very happy to show me around. The hospital had two delivery rooms, side by side and connected visually by large windows. The rooms were clad in light blueish-green square tiles and had a very clinical look to them, but they were attractive and clean. It was an odd feeling, standing there in the delivery room, imagining my beginnings in this very spot all those years ago, so long ago. And yet here it was, and here I was, how time hadn’t changed anything and yet changed everything. I took a few photos of the rooms and the nurses, thanked them for their time and kindness and left.

I had a few more hours before evening, when Jay would be returning home from his work at the restaurant, so I took a cab to a trailhead south of town and went on a little hike. More than any other time that summer, I had a forlorn and homesick feeling while hiking outside of Ketchikan. Here I was at the place of my birth, having seen my first family home, and the hospital and delivery room where I came into this world and I felt so alone. This wasn’t my home anymore. I missed my mom and my friends, and Santa Rosa–the town I knew like the back of my hand, and my hill, and my dad. Everything seemed to rush upon me, all the things I loved and felt so far away from up here in Alaska. Suddenly I just wanted to be back home again and done with this trip. I was tired of being wet and cold, and sleeping always in a different place, meeting someone new each day, never seeing anything I knew. I wanted to see something familiar again.

Two days later I disembarked the ferry in Seattle. I had made a cardboard sign for Portland that I planned to use to hitchhike once I made my way up to the freeway. In Seattle, the ferry terminal and the train-yard are very close to one another, maybe a mile walk, and the tracks go right past the ferry. As a joke I held my sign up to a passing freight train heading south as I left the ferry terminal and to my surprise the engineer leaned out the window (it was travelling very slow through town) and said I could hop on a boxcar when he stopped just up at the yard. I should follow him down he said, and he’d show me what car to get on and he could take me as far as Vancouver. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! So I did as I was told and he did what he said he would, and within a half-hour I had hopped my first train and was on my way, hobo-style, southward.

However, I wasn’t certain we were heading south and I began to question where the train was really going because I had never heard of a Vancouver, Washington. I only knew of Vancouver, Canada so I was confused as the train picked up speed, and I began to worry that we were going the wrong direction, and that we would somehow swing around at some point and I’d end up north in Canada again, instead of south near Portland. I convinced myself that this was probably what would happen, but since there wasn’t anything I could do about it I might as well enjoy the ride in the meantime. Riding in a boxcar is very loud and one gets tossed around quite a lot. But once you get used to the rhythm of the train it becomes easy to walk around the car and enjoy the sights from the open door. My car was completely empty; it felt cavernous, and the sound of the train on the tracks was amplified, and echoed from its cold steel walls, roof and floor. But all of this just added to my feeling of excitement and adventure and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.

Several hours later the train stopped. We were on a large embankment on the edge of an enormous river. The engineer had told me when we were in Seattle to be ready to get off the train in Vancouver before the train headed inland; I’d only have a few minutes while it stopped, before it would start again and head towards the east coast. In retrospect everything makes sense, but at the time I was confused about my location, didn’t know the area at all, should have known it was the Columbia River but didn’t, and doubted myself and the engineer. So I pulled my backpack to the door of the boxcar and left it hanging slightly over the edge as I hopped out with the intention of walking up to the front and asking the engineer for clarification. I figured if the train started I could grab my bag and pull it off if needed. I didn’t get very far when, in fact, the train did start up again. I ran back towards my car and as the train gathered speed I saw my backpack approaching me. I braced myself, focused intently on my backpack and prepared to make one sure grab and pull when the moment came upon me. As my bag passed, I grabbed and swiftly pulled it off the train; although I didn’t, and it didn’t. Instead, I only pulled my jacket off, which I had wrapped and tied over the end of my backpack. I dropped my jacket and turned just in time to watch my backpack as it rounded a curve, and then disappeared forever on its journey to who knows where.

(to be continued)

~FS

They explained how they had wanted to stop for me the day before when they had seen me in Tok, but since they were staying at the RV Park in town it didn’t make sense to pick me up. They apologized to me about that, but then, when they saw me again this morning they were happy to have another chance to give me a ride. I was grateful they had generous hearts and took a chance on picking me up. Though I smiled and I juggled while hitchhiking, to put people at ease, I was pretty rough looking, with an unkempt beard, worn clothing and long hair that was dreadlocked, and not nicely dreadlocked, but the un-manicured kind that looks like vermin might be living in there. I knew that I was a safe person and wouldn’t hurt anyone, but I couldn’t expect others to know that just by looking at me.

The three of us had a lovely time on the trip down to Skagway. They welcomed me and made me feel like family; and quickly we were sharing many details from our lives with one another. She had been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer and was only given a year to live so the couple was on what they expected would be their last long vacation together. She was incredibly upbeat and cheery about life and met all of it with a smile. In fact, her symbol was the round yellow smiley face; she had them everywhere in the RV, on her coffee mug, her shirt, as stickers on the RV, and on her sweatshirt. They were both so pleasant, and she was so trusting and kind, that I felt very guilty for what I put them through near the end of the day.

The drive to Skagway crosses the US-Canada border twice. The northern crossing into Canada was uneventful but as we crossed back into the US, just north of Skagway, I ran into some trouble. The border police pulled the RV to the side and asked the couple a few questions about me. When they realized I was a hitchhiker and not part of the couple’s family, they asked me gather my belongings and follow them into the building, while the couple sat and waited for me to return.

Inside the building the two officers assigned to me, had me put my backpack on the counter and proceeded to pull everything out for an inspection. Their first query was why was I carrying so many stones in my backpack? I almost said, “It’s because I’m a stoner” because I thought that would be funny and lighten the mood, but I thought better of it when I saw the ill-humor on their faces. I had found quite a few rocks in Alaska that I liked and thought were interesting so I packed them along with me to bring home as souvenirs. I had between twenty and twenty-five pounds of rocks in my backpack that I had been carrying around with me a good part of the summer. Thankfully they didn’t find any serious crime in this and they let me keep them. But when they pulled out the forgotten film canister stuffed into a side pocket, and found it half-full with white powder, their faces grew even more serious and I sensed trouble.

I quickly explained that it was only baking soda which my mom had wanted me to bring with me for the summer. They looked at me with total skepticism and unbelief. I assured them it was only baking soda and offered to try some of it right there in front of them, and they could try it too, if they didn’t believe me. They weren’t interested, but had some chemical tests instead, which they could run to determine what it was. They ran several tests on the powder, which took well over an hour, but the results were inconclusive. They couldn’t tell what it was, which struck me funny, but they weren’t going to give it back to me. I was free to leave.

I returned to the couple in the RV and apologized for keeping them so long and explained what had happened. I promised them the white powder wasn’t anything illegal and we continued into Skagway together. When we said our goodbyes I was saddened knowing that I would never see them again. I never saw the people I hitched with again so it is no surprise, but this goodbye touched on something more terminal. I knew she was dying and in the face of that realization I was lost, unprepared, and unqualified to express anything useful or satisfying. I loved her smiley faces, and her smiling face, and after they drove away; I wept.

~FS

The following week I began my journey home. I had parted ways with Yoni a couple weeks earlier so my return to California would be a solo trek. Fortunately one of my coworkers at the fishery in Seward was driving up to Anchorage so I rode with him. He drove one of those little Le Cars which is just a tin can on wheels. An hour or so up the road we rounded a curve and there was a moose in the road. I hadn’t seen a moose before and I was amazed; it was enormous. I thought our best bet might be to drive under it, and I still think we might have made it had we tried, but instead, the moose took a step to the right, our tiny car evaded to the left, and we just missed each other. The rest of the drive north was uneventful.

I spent that night in my tent outside Palmer, about forty miles northeast of Anchorage. The next morning was beautiful, clear and sunny and my spirits were high. Rather than foraging for food in the dumpster behind the grocery store, I decided to splurge and go inside and buy a few supplies for my trip home. I bought a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, some garlic salt and an apple. The apple was magnificent, brilliant ruby red and as large as my outstretched hand. As much as I had grown accustom to dumpster diving for my food this summer it was still a joy to have food I didn’t have to examine first before eating. If I found a head of cauliflower or broccoli in a dumpster most of the outside had to be removed first to get at the core which was still edible; most fruit and vegetables found in the garbage had to be treated this way, cutting away what was bad and devouring what little was left.  But this big apple was special, I could see it was perfect, without a blemish or bruise, and fully intact. I knew this was going to be a great day: it was warm, I was dry, and I had my apple.

I set myself up on the side of the road just outside of town and prepared to hitchhike to Skagway, seven-hundred seventy miles east, where my plan was to take the ferry back south to Seattle. Across the road there was a pasture with several beautiful horses grazing. One large brown horse caught my eye and I walked up to the fence to say hello. He approached the barbed wire from the other side and stood quietly while I stroked his head and neck. I fed him a couple handfuls of grass from my side of the fence, which were beyond his reach, but his eye was on my apple. I had just begun to eat it as I crossed the road to visit him. He liked the grass fine but I could tell he preferred apples, and I couldn’t blame him for wanting mine; it was a wonderful crisp, juicy and sweet apple. I hadn’t had a good piece of fruit in a while and was savoring it, but he looked sad watching me bite into the large red fruit and this made me uncomfortable. I held the fruit firmly in my hand and reached it out across the fence so he could take a bite. He tried to take a larger bite than I was offering, so I pulled it back. We looked each other in the eyes and tried again. I reached out again and this time he took a smaller bite. “Good” I told him as I took another bite, which would be my last. I held out the fruit to him again but he moved deftly this time, and before I could pull back, he yanked the entire thing out of my hand, turned, and ran away. I think he was laughing at me as he trotted away, but I held no hard feelings towards him. I couldn’t blame him, it was a spectacular piece of fruit that he had taken, and I had offered it.

The highways connecting most of the towns between Anchorage and Skagway are just two-lane roads with little traffic. I was accustomed to waiting quite a while for rides on the Kenai Peninsula when Yoni and I had been travelling between Kenai and Seward looking for work. However, out this way, between Anchorage and Tok there was a lot less traffic. I learned quickly that if I didn’t get a ride from a passing opportunity, I may not get another chance the rest of the day; six hours could easily go by before I would see another vehicle and one day I didn’t see a vehicle at all. To increase my chances of getting a ride I decided to juggle rocks when a vehicle approached as I waited on the side of the road. I believed this made me look friendly and non-threatening. Who could be afraid of a juggler, I reasoned.

One late evening, I was standing at the intersection of two highways, almost exactly midway between Palmer and Tok. It had been a long day, with few opportunities, so when a guy in a pickup with a camper on the back stopped and said he’d take me all the rest of the way to Tok, I was relieved. It was about a three hour drive so I settled into the passenger seat to relax and enjoy the ride. It was a beautiful drive as we made our way through miles and miles of snowy landscape. Our headlights illuminating rows and rows of small conifers covered in snow as we rounded curves and undulated up and down across the terrain. Though it was August it felt like Christmas, with all of these little snow-covered trees lighting up as we passed.

Before he picked me up he must have been drinking. He was loose and feeling good, but he wasn’t driving very well. It was a windy road, and he was having trouble staying on it. It didn’t help things when he pulled out a handgun from under his seat and placed in between us and starting playing with it. I suggested that maybe I should drive the rest of the way but he wasn’t aware that he was drunk. Everything was normal from his perspective. From mine however, it didn’t look like we’d make it to Tok. Thankfully there weren’t any other vehicles, and most of the way the roads were flanked with heavy snowdrifts, so if we left the road there was a good chance we’d have a relatively soft landing. But then we’d be stuck in the snow in the middle of nowhere. We drove some time like this, barely staying on the asphalt until I was able to convince him to stop and check a sound I heard coming from the back of the camper. We both got out and took a look. He was getting tired from the alcohol, so after I pretended to repair the imaginary problem, I persuaded him to get in the passenger seat so he could get a little sleep. He liked this idea, so I drove uneventfully the rest of the way to his home in Tok while he slumped, passed out against the passenger window.

When we arrived at his home a few hours later, he was wide awake again and as we pulled up to the house I could see he was agitated. We drove through his front yard littered with junk and parked near the front door. I could see a couple of other guys in the living room through the window and they looked like trouble. I had a bad feeling about this so as we entered the house I left my backpack outside just around the front corner of the house. Without even taking a moment to say hello, as we entered the house, my host starting yelling at the other guys. They yelled back and it escalated rapidly. I excused myself to the restroom and walked down the hallway while they continued to argue. I continued past the bathroom to the back slider and let myself quietly into the back yard. After slowly sliding the door shut behind me I quickly ran around to my backpack and then out to the street and into town.

Tok is a small town, and it was after midnight, so I was alone as I walked under the stars. It wasn’t long before I saw a small hotel with a light on in the front office and an older woman at the desk. I asked her if there was any place I could pitch my tent behind the hotel, or if I could stay in one of the outbuildings on the property. I explained that I didn’t have money for a room but needed to find a safe place to stay for the night, preferably off the street in case my driver and his buddies came looking for me. After some thought, and some hesitation, she called to her husband to show me a room in the barn out back. It was a dark and cold storage room but it had an old bed with a mattress in one corner and they let me stay the night there for free. I had one of the better night’s sleep of my entire summer and woke to sunlight streaming in through a crack in the curtains.

I thanked the couple for helping me and walked out to the highway to begin looking for a ride to Skagway, five-hundred miles to the southeast. This was a difficult place to get a ride. I stood by the side of the road all day, smiling at cars, juggling stones, and hoping someone would stop. One couple in a long RV passed me heading south, and gave me smiles as they passed, but that was all, they didn’t stop. It was around ten that night that I finally gave up and decided to walk. Tetlin Junction was the next little town, about twelve miles away and I figured I could get there by the early morning, or find a place to pitch my tent out of town. I just wanted to make some progress after standing in one place all day.

It was another beautiful starlit night as I started my walk to Tetlin Junction, and it was cold. But not cold enough to suppress the mosquitos. Mosquitos are a big problem in Alaska and they seem to be everywhere, but in some places they are worse than others. Here, this night, the mosquitos were as numerous as the stars in the sky, or as countless as the sands of the sea. I couldn’t get away from them as I walked, and quickly I had bites all over my face. I was able to protect most of my body but I had no good protection for my face so soon I began to feel bites on top of previous bites. It was demoralizing and maddening and I had no option but to keep walking. I considered pitching my tent and seeking refuge but I was too tired to find a place to pitch it and I also didn’t want to stop walking. At least by walking the mosquitos seemed to diminish a little, but when I stopped walking they converged on me like wolves on a dead animal. If I stopped in one place for too long, they too might devour me. It was a long walk, but eventually I made it to Tetlin Junction. I barely remember where I fell asleep that night, but I did someplace, and the next morning I tried my luck again on the side of the road, hoping to find a ride to Skagway.

The couple in the RV that had passed me the day before, drove past again and this time they stopped. I hadn’t been out there for more than ten minutes when they stopped for me; it was either a miracle or a mirage. I wasn’t sure which, but when I ran up to their window, and they invited me into their RV I thanked God for my good fortune. When they told me they would take me the entire way to Skagway I decided it was a miracle.

(to be continued)

~FS