Home is Where The Tarp is

Andrew preparing breakfast at Little Cottonwood Canyon park and ride

I was fully loaded now. I had snatched my pack from the jaws of Greyhound and now all the gear I needed was packed all around my driver’s seat, from warm coats, to snowshoes to a new climbing harness and shoes as I started down the road from Colorado to Salt Lake City where I would catch up with my friend Andrew.

My streak west from Denver took me past Fort Collins, past shrub and red rock, under big sky and on through Laramie, over the plains of Wyoming with the hood of the Mazda pointed at the setting sun.

That morning, I had swept inches of fresh snow off of my windshield. Now, the temperature was warm enough outside that I kept my driver’s-side window open. The remaining snow had melted down to patches in the April sun. To the south, the white-capped peaks of the Medicine Bow Range defied changing seasons.

I stopped to fill my tank in Rawlins, home of the Wyoming State Penitentiary. Just outside of town were the leagues of desolate plains and a row of unfriendly looking mountains. Anyone making a jailbreak was going to have a helluva time on the other side of the fence.

There were still plenty of miles for me to travel and it was getting dark. I had my headlights on through Evanston and over the Utah line. Soon I could perceive the bulk of great mountains rising up off either side of the road and then canyon walls that closed in the road as it twisted downward. I kept the car at 70 in the middle lane to pass tanker trucks on the right. Even so, plenty of hotshots passed me on the right, weaving perilously over the road.

Finaly, I turned onto the beltway that wraps around Salt Lake City. I called Andrew to bring me the rest of the way to the park and ride in Little Cottonwood Canyon that had been his home for the past couple weeks. He had just finished a winter as a ski instructor at Snowbird. After a rather toxic roommate situation caused him to leave his apartment, he set up a tarp in the woods behind it where he slept in a sleeping bag. If a tarp and sleeping bag seem like a Spartan living arrangement, keep in mind that this is how Andrew hiked the entire Appalachian Trail.

When I finally arrived at the parking lo, he started his small aluminum can stove and cooked us a meal of macaroni and cheese.

A couple thousand feet below us, the Salt Lake City suburbs shimmered halogen orange like a phantasmal ocean.

There were still plans to be made for hiking, skiing, climbing, getting to California and finding out where we would live and sleep while doing this.

Now it was close to midnight and the obvious place to sleep was Andrew’s tarp.

When we finished eating, I followed him up a trail through the brush nearby to the where he had set up camp. I threw down my sleeping bag and zonked out.

Luxurious accommodations

Going Back West With a Missing Bag

Author's note: I have many, many posts to write about my adventures in the west so far. The stories go back about a month back and hope everyone gets a chance to read them all. I will try to crank posts out in a timely fashion so the narrative doesn't get too stale. 

My journey began after the Boston Marathon, going from the east coast toward California. Following posts will describe my times on snowy slopes of Utah, through the canyons and up to the mountains of California. Before I got there however, I saw the first two-thirds of this country through the window of a Greyhound bus.

Call it the moment of trust, the leap of faith if you will, a trust that once I put my baggage in the hands of the Greyhound Corporation I will see it again when I arrive at my destination.

What I remember most vividly is that I was in the terminal in the New York Port Authority. There is the bus taking me out to Cleveland as I embark upon the long journey to Denver and other points west.

There are three important items: My black Jansport daypack, loaded with laptop, camera, and snacks; my orange parka in a compression sack, ready to use it in case I freeze on the ride at night; and of course my trusty blue rucksack, loaded with clothes and other items I will need in the weeks of adventures to come. That’s what’s going under the bus, but I can’t let go of it without a little trepidation.

Lord knows that over the last 10 years, it’s been almost everywhere I have — from the summer that my dad and I hiked the Long Trail, through the Hundred-Mile Wilderness of Maine, to Ireland and Peru and Wyoming. I go to chuck it under the bus myself. But one of the attendants tells me not to. We do that, he says. I can put the bag down on the cement like a good little passenger and sit down with an easy mind.

Well far be it for me to get in the way when far more qualified professionals are on hand. I step on board and forget about it.

Fast-forward 11 hours and I’m walking around the bus in Cleveland in the dark. It’s almost three in the morning and I don’t see the pack anywhere. The crowd picks up their baggage and files into the station to get new connections. I’m alone on the platform, packless.

“Did you find your bag sir?”

Shit, now I’m scared.

Sure enough, the company has lost the pack somewhere. Do they know where they lost it? No. Maybe it disappeared at the port authority. Maybe they unloaded the wrong bag in Newark. I can see about getting it back when I arrive in Denver.

There is nothing to do but get back sadly into line and catch the next connection west.

I had barely managed an hour of fitful sleep earlier because of the crappy seats and the fact that hot air was blowing directly into my face. I guess they’d gotten the memo about the frigid bus I’d ridden last time and decided the best way to handle that situation would be to bake all the passengers alive.

I pass out on the ride to our connection in Dayton and then going to Indianapolis. I look out the window to see flooding in Illinois, where groves of trees have turned to swampland. After St. Louis, I see enormous trees floating down the Missouri. As night falls again, I drift back into sleep.

I awaken to a whiff of cigarette smoke drifting past my nostrils.

Uh oh.

The bus grinds to a stop along the breakdown land. Midnight in God-Knows-Where, Missouri.

The driver opens the door to the aisle. He’s a burly guy and he looks pissed. He had explained the rules about smoking. It is a motherfucking federal offense to smoke in the bathroom and anyone who smokes gets kicked off the bus. Even so, some dumbass just had to go and put his dick inside the hornet’s nest.

“Who was smoking?” the bus driver shouts.

Silence.

“Who was smoking?”

Whoever it is, will end up on the side of the road in a hurry.

Another passenger turns around.

“Some dumb motherfucker is going to make me late for my connection!”

“Sir, you can’t swear here,” the bus driver said, suddenly appearing comparatively calm.

“We’re all adults here!” the passenger shoots back. “Whoever was smoking needs to get off this bus.”

But who is the culprit? The lambs are silent.

“Where I come from, snitches get stitches,” one woman offers.

The bus driver scowls. He will have the police investigate when we get to Kansas City he promises us. Then he locks us behind the aisle door and puts the bus in gear.

The mystery smoker has escaped.

When I get o Denver the next morning, I go to the information counter to ask if my bag has turned up.

They have no idea where t might be, but tell me that if I wait, it might arrive when the next bus from my connection pulls in at 11 p.m.

This is not the news I was hoping for, but I am still glad to be in Denver where I have friends putting me up for the night. I was smart enough not to leave anything to valuable in that bag anyway.

Better news begins the next morning, when I get back into my car and drive to the bus station. Lo and behold, my bag is waiting for me there. It has survived the long journey through the darkness and we are reunited at last.