Collecting myself following this 6,000-mile road trip, I seek words that reflect the depth of my experience as well as document the adventure itself. While it was an ambitious itinerary, both liberating and enslaving, that I committed too—with calamitous potential—things went remarkably smoothly. I left the morning of September 3rd and returned home the evening of October 5th—the ferry running strangely on time—exactly as predicted. In between those dates I visited with virtually everyone planned upon with plenty of serendipity along the way, offering affirmation of my connectedness as well as challenging lessons. Each of my seven decades was represented by at least one friend or relative. Below I describe what was most memorable from each day.
There were two trips in the past that I set aside time each day to journal—Britain in 1976 and Nicaragua in 1984—but on this pilgrimage I felt more tightly scheduled, my time divied up between driving, planning the next day's driving, interacting with hosts, playing some guitar, and waiting for the EV to charge—the latter I usually combined with walking or eating. I was also more focused on being in each moment rather than documenting it, the result being that I missed taking photos of some hosts that I wish I had. It was a nomadic life for 33 days, adapting to local terrain and sleeping arrangements. As Monica only wanted to join me for the MA portion, flying to and from Boston, I lacked a navigator—requiring me to pull over, or seek alternatives on my phone while driving, at each veer from the plan. Early on an already-broken wisdom tooth broke further, creating nerve pain following most eating. As the pain usually abated after roughly 30 minutes, I didn't seek emergency dental work. Thankfully, it held off getting really bad until I got back to my island dentist.
In distance electric vehicle driving my mood pendulates from over-confidence to panic—though I imagine growing accustomed to that swing builds resilience. The first charge I had planned on that first day was to be in Ellensburg, WA. But as I neared that exit I got this notion that I could make it just fine to the next charger in Moses Lake. As I wended the steep incline on the far side of the Columbia River I began feeling foolish, as I was obviously going to dip below the recommended 20% of battery power, Moses Lake being a lot further than my quick glance at the map had suggested. I also did not realize that the app I was using to locate chargers had not been set to filter out Tesla ones, useless to my VW ID4, which requires the CCS connector for "fast" charging. The app then did show one other charging station in that city's north end. I limped in on 4%, struggling to read its screen in the scorching sun. The temperature was in the 90s and the charger wouldn't accept my credit card. I called the phone number printed on the charger—a relatively obscure Shell Recharge machine (nowhere near any Shell gas station)—and was on-hold for 25 minutes. Finally a man came on the line who was able to initiate the charger from where he was. It was a humbling first day out, stirring trepidation over the overwhelming number of miles to go.
I slept at an Air B&B in Liberty Lake, WA, before continuing to another in Montana. The latter was a room in a single man's house with limited guest privacy, mandating interactions with him and his pets. He was colorful but didn't seem particularly concerned about the toilet not flushing properly.
By the next night I was in North Dakota, at a motel listed on ABB, newly appreciative of the privacy provided. I was starting to get used to the variety of EV chargers, finding those by Electrify America and Chargepoint predictably reliable, while those by other companies were idiosyncratic, some accepting credit card directly and some requiring you to open an account unique to them. I think it was Medina, ND, where I pulled in to an out-of-service charger, the only fast charger showing on my app. That's when I became more careful to scroll down to user comments, where I would have seen warning not to count on this charger. I noted a level 2 charger at a nearby Chevy dealer and backed in there expecting to be stuck 8 hours charging. But a salesman came out to offer me a new fast charger in the back of the building which he would let me use for free. We chatted about the sparse network of chargers in that region; he was clearly a proponent of EVs. In most cases, charging is expensive—especially the more reliable and faster chargers. Days I was covering 500 or so miles ended up costing at least $100.
Considering how close I came to finding no chargers, I never got stranded—increasing my faith in general that I will be OK even when lacking control over my circumstances. There was no logical correlation between the miles remaining and the battery % showing on the dashboard. As descending a mountain pass could increase the miles considerably while the battery % would edge up by only a few points, it was a mere guess how much further I could realistically drive. Most who've driven through MT would be familiar with the Clark Fork river that winds around the interstate. At one point I pulled off next to it, where I chatted with a young eastern-european-sounding trucker who had done the same, and shot this video.
ABB next put me in the home of a young Russian couple in Fergus Falls, MN, and the charger in that town put me across the street from the farmers' market. Both situations offered engaging conversations, the latter with a climate activist who asked passers-by to place a pin in a long pin cushion marked off with degrees of climate urgency. She said she could tell by my t-shirt I would choose the far end of the spectrum. The market offering no organic produce, and most of the pins placed far short of mine, forged an outsider alliance between us.
Using the app Outly I located a swimming quarry halfway across MN. I swam around it twice, reminded of Lanesville. One must walk half a mile in from the parking area, which helps limit the partying and litter but also made for extra exercise when I had to return to retrieve my swimming cap—finding it submerged under just a foot of water.
At the MN/WI border is where I had my first reunion of the journey. John was my best friend during my freshman year at Cranbrook, 1968-69. That being his senior year, I had not seen him since—though we had exchanged letters and eventually friended on FB. I was overcome with gratitude, not only for the welcome he and his wife gave me on this visit but for the stable friendship he offered me at such a vulnerable time, 55 years before, when we pulled all-nighters on hallucinogens and Savoy Brown.
I departed just after John headed out for another day of sailboat racing, locating my B&B in Richmond IL. The homeowner chatted with me for a while, sharing her story and that the room across from me was occupied throughout each day by a man who has not paid and keeps prolonging his stay. I hope she can get the support she needs to resolve such dilemmas.
In Euclid OH I reunited with my college roommate, Nick. We reminisced about the cultural divide we experienced with our housemates back at Hampshire College, shared notes on parenting challenging children, and renewed our role of encouraging each other's music-making. We walked the Lake Erie shore before I got on the road to Utica. I declined an offer from my ABB host there, a single male truck driver, to watch the presidential debate on Fox.
Finally making the Atlantic coast, I arrived at the Steele family homestead in Folly Cove (now owned by my sister and her husband)—convening with my brother and his wife for the first sibling reunion since our mother's memorial service. Monica arrived in the middle of the following night, picked up by a Rockport driver who still charges only $70 for a midnight ride from Logan. She was surprised to learn that we had stayed in his basement apartment through ABB on a previous visit. Being able to sleep in one place for the next five nights was stabilizing, as was swimming in the cove, and I enjoyed every minute of the sibling connection time. Nancy brought me to a modern dance performance—performing in the final number herself—representing a wide range of ages and skill at a new venue in downtown Gloucester. It was inspiring to see how the community continues to express itself through dance. I got to reconnect with some I had performed with decades before such as Dawn, Lou and Mary Helen.
Folly Cove had a greater accumulation of sand than any of us had ever seen in the past, making entry comfortable at any tide. As I snorkeled around Folly Point I saw more bass than at any previous time—helping to make up for the lack of starfish, in my perception anyway. Our stay was disrupted by Monica having to be hospitalized two days, which fortunately—after many tests—turned out to be nothing serious. It was a chance for me to revisit the scene of my own birth as well as that of my father's death. At one point Nancy walked us to our parents' gravesite, which she has lovingly tended. Being there in our car allowed me to retrieve artifacts that included the ship model dedicated to me by the cast of Clear Away, 25 years before, and the guitar built for me by Michael Cone at its 50th birthday.
We took a side trip up to Newburyport for the friday night meal group—which I had joined in 1977 around the time our affinity group was arrested at Seabrook—still active after all the intervening years. Monica and I hung out afterwards with Mike and Barb, sharing our common experience with children on the spectrum. I'm having another gratitude attack, for the support they offered 22-year-old Jeffry as well as in subsequent years.
The easternmost point—which I just realized from a look at the map—of the journey was actually Barnstable, where Monica and I make a 3-generation connection with her sister's extended family. Our grandniece and grandnephews appeared to pick up right where they left off with us more than a year before, ever self-advocating around attentive adults. Our niece (their mom) Julie owns a yarn shop, inspiring Monica to begin knitting me a wool cap. It was raining a lot there, but we got in one last swim of the season at Craigville Beach. Here is our selfie (Bea, Monica and the two Jeffs) as I departed—leaving Monica there for another few days—to maintain fidelity to my itinerary. We had all just spent a while looking for my car fob—which Monica found had slipped from my pocket into a shopping bag.
In the years 1990-94 I had lived with my first wife, Julia, in Turners Falls, MA. Though Julia lives in neighboring Greenfield, she was not going to be around for a visit. So I revived my connections with two other friends from that era.
I plotted a course there that included stops in Waban and Framingham to spend a couple hours respectively with Justin and Willie. Justin had been my apartment mate 1983-86 in Cambridge (the apartment featured in the Love Story film, I understand) and we found a lot to connect regarding mental health, him being a clinic supervisor and me having become a therapist in the time since. Willie had been a fellow musician on my brigades to Nicaragua and a compañero in solidarity activism (1984-90). We were arrested together as part of the Days of Decision action at Boston's Government Center; I recalled when he led us singing in detention.
Cheech put me up that night, still living on the highway practicing accupressure massage and hypnotherapy. I had been her client in the former and created music for the latter. We compared a slew of insights we had developed since that time. The next morning I met with Michael, a fellow classical guitarist. Through FB I had seen that his prison guitar class was ever needing instruments. I had brought two of mine that I could spare along with two donated by Orcas islanders responding to my local FB query. Michael determined that one of the guitars, built by Tom Knatt, was too high quality to be used in prison; but he had a student who could not afford a better instrument that he suggested he could gift it to. That I have since received a thank-you card from this man would make it an "open adoption". Michael offered a demo of the 7-string banjos he had commissioned and I played him my 8-string guitar. We identified with each other's leveraging of privilege and passion to share music with those who would benefit from it. Before departing Greenfield I aspired to swim again in the Green River, but found that the dam had been opened at the town beach, making the water too shallow. I still experienced a living connection to the flowing being of this river, much as with the old friends hosting me, finding myself driving up the dirt Green River Road so as to maintain the conversation.
It was a relatively short trek to Catskill NY, where lives my dear friend and dance-drama collaborator Carl. Our work together mostly dates from 1997-2004. He led me on a walking tour of the town and drove me to the Frederic Church estate. He and his wife co-lead a virtual meditation group that I attended. They were among the hosts with whom I felt encouraged to bring up the grief work of Francis Weller, having brought copies of a page of quotes from him.
 |
From Catskill it was fairly convenient to drop in on my brother Jon and his wife Leann to see them for a second time, briefly, in their Kingston home en route to Irvington NY. There lives Angela, who traveled with me on an artists' brigade to Nicaragua in 1985 and who co-owned the house in Turners Falls with Julia and I. It had been at least 30 years since seeing each other. Though now battling Huntington's disease she still sports the same smile and takes pleasure in singing and playing piano. I further enjoyed getting to know her husband, having music, psychotherapy, and parental challenges in common.
I was to stay the next night with Monica's cousin (actually her cousin's son) Joe and wife Judy, just south of Philadelphia. On the drive there I was turned back at the bridge over the Delaware River because the only options for getting through the tollgate were cash or EZ-pass. I was directed to a gas station/convenience store with an ATM. After a wrong turn I found it in the downpour but the ATM would not accept my credit card. I phoned Joe to explain the dilemma and a man with perhaps a middle eastern accent, who had overheard me, offered me a $100 bill if I would pay him back online. I told him I just needed $6 to get over the bridge, so he handed me $6 and said he did not expect to be reimbursed because "it's what Jesus would have done." The employees of the convenience store smiled and nodded at us, the event having apparently brightened their daily routine. Returning to the toll booth I was delayed behind a semi who was being sent on the same goose chase, the driver apparently having assumed likewise. In spite of this I still arrived early enough for Joe and Judy to take me on a tour of the opulent Longwood Gardens and out for a fancy Italian meal. We had stiimulating discussions about mental health and theology.
I treated myself to two nights with cousin Doug, who has known me the longest of all my hosts, having been born just two months after me. He and his wife Louise live in a Baltimore townhouse, a small footprint with many stories. They dropped everything to maximize our time together and create enriching experiences, taking me to the art museum and the symphony. We had probing conversations about the state of the country and related mental health issues.
 |
| c. 1967 L-R: Aunt Janet, me, Jon, Doug, Nana |
My prow turned westward as I reunited with Marj, who I performed regularly with in the years 1981-89—mostly as part of the Boston-area flute, viola and guitar trio Primary Colors. She is now in Cuyahoga Falls OH, working primarily as a hospice chaplain. I also stayed two nights to give ample time for us to prepare a flute and guitar piece to play at her church. I sensed us both being moved by our performance synchronicity, our unified phrasing picking up right where we left off 35 years ago. She took me on some wet hikes in the area and we met her ex-husband for lively dinner conversation. I credit Marj with pushing me gently toward a Christian outlook, and now we both find ourselves members of the Episcopal Church.
Some weeks before this trip I posted to the Climate Psychology Alliance, of which I am a member, entreating potential hosts among my climate-aware therapist cohort who may live along my driving route. Only for one did the timing work out, my next stop in Willow Springs IL. Shelly and her husband received me graciously, which I endeavored to repay by playing guitar music for them. She and I shared excitedly our overlapping insights about trauma, attachment, and the state of society. I feel blessed to count her as my newest friend and hope we have opportunities to continue our collaborative thinking.
From here on it was mostly about getting home. Monica had been part of facetime calls with most of my hosts but it was no substitute for me physically being home and she certainly deserved a break from worrying about me having a road accident. I developed new gratitude for those who maintain safe highways, posting reduced speed limits that keep one from barreling down a precipice. But I still had about two thirds of the continent to traverse, so the following days were long on driving/charging and short on interacting. My final ABBs were in Albert Lea MN, Rapid City SD, Bozeman MT, and Spokane County WA. The morning temperatures were starting to dip into the 30s. The climate-crisis events encountered along the way were minimal, particularly given what was happening in SE US. A wildfire in Dayton WY was visible for miles driving out of Sheridan and the rain was so heavy entering OH from PA that cars were spinning out, but my route was never flooded out.
Having an audio accompaniment to my drive was the key to survival. Most often I listened to my 128 gb thumb drive containing music collected over the decades—tracks sounding in random order. I also streamed five Shakespeare plays (found on the Shakespeare Network, apparently created for radio many years ago by a British cast), sought out NPR stations, and on weekdays streamed Democracy Now. It was only in a few mountainous areas that such streaming failed, surprisingly. Crossing from SD into WY as the rising sun was casting long shadows on the multi-hued rock faces and grasses, the Adagio from Mahler's Third Symphony came up on shuffle. Usually I don't ascribe a divine hand in choices made by the randomizing algorithm, but this may have been the exception. I was brought back to perhaps 30 years ago when I was painting the studio trim at my parents' home and my dad was on crutches following knee surgery. This same movement was playing on the radio as he was making his way towards the bathroom, trying to hide his weeping. He muttered, "I can't handle music like this. It undoes me." Here, 26 years after his passing, I broke into sobs of my own, sensing his presence in the passenger seat as we beheld this sublime landscape together.
I took a detour to visit the top edge of the Bighorn Canyon wildlife refuge, where there was no canyon but the Bighorn River at least—continuing my soul-of-the-river pilgrimage. The water felt warm enough for swimming but the current looked treacherous, as may be seen in this video clip.
I photographed this bird—according to my identification app, a black-billed magpie—that I started seeing often along the highway, in this instance to remind me of the tableau behind my back:
Charging at a shopping center parking lot in Bozeman MT, a stream caught my attention with a row of grass and trees along it—a thin line of natural habitat maintained amidst the concrete carpeting of consumer-land. My first thought on seeing a group of vacation trailers parked nearby was that it was an area set aside for travelers such as myself. Then I realized that it was an entire neighborhood of folks living here full-time with no other place to go—the city having at least provided them with porta-potties. It struck me as habitat loss of the human kind; people driven here by lack of affordable housing; a gig economy monopolized by store chains where once thrived family businesses; perhaps some of them working across the parking still unable to afford housing.
In central WA I took a chance on the scenic route up the eastern bank of the Columbia through Wenatchee and Leavenworth—failing to anticipate that many Seattle folks would opt for an outing to Leavenworth on a sunny autumn Saturday. Before I encountered that backup however, I was enraptured by the drive up the Columbia River, stopping on its banks in E Wenatchee. The water seemed surprisingly clean, and not any colder than Folly Cove. I paced to-and-fro before determining there were likely enough potential problem between here and the 6:30 ferry to Orcas that I'd better get back in the car instead of the inticing water.
Not only did it take a long time to get through the lights in Leavenworth, the CCS chargers were being overwhelmed by EV drivers being rude to each other. Up until that point I had experienced other EV drivers as warm and considerate. The next functional CCS charger turned out to be over Steven's Pass in Sultan. I did my best to focus on deep breathing till then. The reds and oranges on the mountains' steep slopes plummeting into the winding rushing creek were stunning to witness, even from behind the wheel.
While this journey was meant to guide my next steps, I don't expect they will be revealed all at once. For now I am appreciating my legacy of close ties having been forged from each decade of my life. My sense of the nation along this route is that a small minority of folks are concerned about global humanitarian crises to the degree that I am. I had brought the sign I display at our weekly Orcas anti-war vigil on the chance I might encounter a similar gathering en route, but I did not. Whether our country ends up governed by a fascist cult or a neoliberal democracy-on-crutches, I sense we will need to depend on one another more in our uncertain future than at any point in the past. I close with photos of Monica, Moshi, and I on our first Moran Park hike following my return.
