The Austin Two Step

Austin burns in the background static of our Jeep’s rearview mirrors – that great mecca of creative culture, shimmering desert oasis in the flat canyon arroyos of central Texas. With antique moonlight towers scattered around the city still keeping an ongoing vigil of her mismatched multi-lingual enlightened citizens below, Austin is a beacon of fresh energy in a burned-out state with too much land and an oversized ego to match. Hoyle and I (of Hoyle,Tanner of course) will be home soon, intermingling once again in the heart of Cajun Country, where the fiddle cries in the night like a lost coyote drunk on too much red beans and rice. For now, Texas blacktop – bubbling in 100+ degrees like a molten river of liquid tar, rolls away beneath us. Cedars howls to his favorite harmonica tunes. And these two road-weary travelers share secret smiles at the thought of seeing old lovers, old friends, old family once again.

Still, as much as we feel like home is right around the corner, the Austin skyline is no further than the western horizon through the tinted glass of the Jeep’s rear hatch behind us. She was kind to us. Cedars spent his days making friends, and some enemies, at a local dog park on the banks of Town Lake, while the two boys tried their best to also spend some time outdoors; however, the incessant southern sun kept pushing us to pursue indoor activities again and again. When you don’t work yourself up to these hot summer days, and instead spend the first month and half of the summer in the cool of the north country, then all of a sudden find yourself in the heat of triple digits, it can be real difficult to bear. The sweat pulses out of you like a soggy pair of jeans squeezed tight by Aunt Martha’s strong hands in the noonday wash. When our hosts were busy, we spent our days on a couch soaking up some Austin air conditioner, watching whatever movies we could get our slick mitts on. Thus this list of moving pictures was created…

The A-Team
The Last Airbender
Predators
Harmony and Me
Roxanne
Labyrinth
Shawn of the Dead
310 to Yuma
The Mighty Boosh Season 2
Treme Season 1
The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus
Ong Bak 2

Intense summer sun can do such a thing to the fragile minds and bodies of lofty road travelers. We also took in a few free events, some live music, some tex-mex burritos and tacos, some art – the quintessential Austin candor. Dr. Richard Terp wowed the crowd at the New Movement Comedy Theater and the cool pools of Barton Springs brought both relief and leeches. Good times and a lot of relaxing. A fine way to put a cap on this marvelous summer road trip. We head home with bruises, scars, dirty clothes, leftover backpacking meals, tons of pictures and lifelong memories. We saw so much of this country, but there is still so much more to see. But I digress; this is Austin’s blog. And this is the end of it. For all you faithful readers, welcome your lost sons home. This adventure is coming to a close and there is but one more blog to write after this one. Before then, however, there is only seven more hours of open road and two states to travel through. Home we go. Hoyle and Tanner. To the end. And on and on.

And then this...

The Flatlands

So it’s finally time to find the Southern Cross in the night time sky, point the Jeep’s headlights towards it and follow it to back to the land of our birth. The lush green mountains of the North Country will be replaced by the flat hinterlands of the Midwestern states for a while – grain silos, endless acres of cornfields, the bridges of Madison County and John Wayne’s birthplace. There are lots of long lackluster roads ahead. So it is.

Though our dwindling trip purse is getting thin, heading south does not mean the voyage is yet over. Des Moines and Tulsa are but shady rest havens for our last bit of adventuring to be had in Austin, Texas. There are still a few more blog updates and pictures to be had, a few more laughs and a bit more trouble to get into before we roll back into Lafayette.

The land is flattening and the temperature is rising again. It’s becoming more and more like home as the latitude coordinates get lower and lower. There is many a “sorry” to be given to our friends further West who have been expecting us for a month or more now; however, those apologies are meant for another blog entry. For now, Austin lies ahead, and tonight the Tulsa nightlife beckons like the warm glowing beacon of a light house to a ship tossed hither and thither on the open sea. It summons. We answer. Life goes on and the world burps.

The Twin Cities State

Minnesota is perhaps one of this nation’s greatest playground states. Hoyle and I (of Hoyle,Tanner) decided to pay her a little visit, and as she opened up to us like a delicate Japanese lotus, we experienced her unending pleasures in several stages. Though what was left unaccomplished is great (trout fishing, Isle Royale National Park, a visit to the Mississippi River’s headwaters in Lake Itasca) what we were able to get done in our time there was still fulfilling and much. Below is an outline of those very above-mentioned stages…

Stage One: The City

Red Dead Redemption and Miami Vice on the big screen. Scotch on the rocks. Showers and the end of American hope in this years World Cup. Cedars in the parking garage chasing squirrels on his long walks beneath the shadow of the Somali crack-towers looming ever present in the distance across the interstate. The old immigrant women dressed in their native shawls stare at him suspiciously as we pass, unfamiliar with the custom of keeping dogs as companions in their West African culture.

Huevos Rancheros at Hell’s Kitchen and super friendly racer taxi drivers downtown. Gay Pride Weekend and unguided police horses. Jiu-Jitsu at night and joint pains the next day. Blake Powell, as always, was a gracious and most kind host. We slept in late each morning on the floor of his living room, washed our clothes in his convenient washing machine and stacked pizza boxes high in his kitchen. It feels good to wake up and have no itinerary and nowhere to go. You let yourself live in the present for a moment, forgetting that this life cannot sustain you, that you are only spending money and not making it, and the illusion, though short, is certainly sweet. It’s good to let time drip by every now and then, instead of the way it flows often enough.

Stage Two: Backcountry

Upstate on the Superior Trail – a fairly level footpath that winds its way in the forested hills above Lake Superior. The radiant blue waters, sadly too cold for swimming, follow you to your right in the distance behind the birch trees as you meander northward on the trail. Deer tracks and black bear scat underfoot. The nights are chilly but perfect for campfires under countless luminescent stars and the sweet oaky smell of authentic Cuban Romeo y Julietas cigars. 

We selected a shorter route that allowed us plenty of playtime over the three days and two nights with no need to hurry our pace or feel pushed toward a deadline. The sun does not fully set until after ten o’clock, which kept us up late and made us slow to rise in the morning, lazily soaking up the warm rays like three goose down slugs squirming on the forest floor. Cedars was the only one who defied this behavior, always up with the rising sun, but unfortunately he hasn’t been trained yet to start the campfire or cook us breakfast.

Walking up on secluded lost crystal clear lakes. We shed our packs, and often our clothes, compelled to swim for a while, and sunbathe for just as long. We detour from the trail and follow a lonely road to one such lake. There is no one else around for miles. The lake is rimmed by tall conifer trees and sits inviting us, its surface like smooth glass. Better yet, floating out in the middle is a dock with a slide and diving platform. For several hours, that lake was completely ours’. Treasures like these along the trail are always hard to give up, but alas, the mystery of what lies beyond the next bend compels us ever onward.

Stage Three: Back Backcountry

The Boundary Waters. An interconnected system of lakes and streams that spans about three million square miles along the border between the United States and Canada. This is one of the most secluded places left in this country – a place where black bears, moose and timber wolves outnumber the human beings who decide to enter their territory. This place is wild, untouched, and exists today not very different than it did a thousand years ago. The water is as clean and clear as any freshwater I have ever seen, dotted with rocks and soft green tress and islands. Loons sound their eerie call all night – that lonely cry echoing across the moonlit distance is quite beautiful in its solitude. Eagles loft by overhead riding the currents of the wind that cross the lakes. Entry into this paradise is heavily restricted, permits are required and only so many people can be in the area at any given time. It’s a secluded world. Guarded. Enchanted.

We learned, however, that the Boundary Waters is an expedition kind of place. Our idea of spending a few nights paddling its byways is like a man who extends his big toe into a lake to feel how cold it is. He may certainly feel a chill, but he will never experience the real stinging bitter cold if he does not jump fully in. To really get a sense of what this place offers, we realized, will take two or more weeks – a trip long enough to gain its most interior spaces, far away from the parts of it that are already far away from civilization and the touch of mankind. 

As it was, our short trip got cut even shorter when an unexpected rain shower swamped our campsite for several hours the first morning we woke up there. Water logged and with insufficient gear to handle anymore wet camping, we decided to pack up and head on out. Afterall, even though coming to this area was one of the most anticipated moments of our road trip, neither Hoyle or I felt justified with only spending three days in this place. We would leave before we saw too much, tasted too much, making plans to return again someday to see the Boundary Waters as it should be seen – an extended trip of multiple weeks with well-packed gear specific to the needs of that particular journey. After a mid day swim and a lunch of peanut butter tortillas, we packed up the canoe and paddled out.

Underneath the Lakes

Life under the lakes, away from the predacious phantom hounds that lurk in the back alleys of the G20 Summit section in Toronto, may not be as golden and gorgeous as the backcountry of Canada on the north shore of those same lakes, but leave it to Hoyle and I (of Hoyle,Tanner) to make a good time out of any time granted us. After being turned around by stiff-lipped Canadian customs guards, we drove back onto good ol’ American soil and headed south through Amish farmland until we rolled into Syracuse and laid our lowly heads down for the night. With the ‘Cuse behind us, and after a nice shower in a wonderfully abandoned hostel, we meandered through the rest of New York state and finally pointed our bug-stained grill towards the West. Later that day we reached the Buff’ (Buffalo) and lingered a mere moment gazing over the mighty maw of Niagara Falls, mingling with the cast of international sightseers that spend hours giggling in various languages and snapping more pictures of themselves standing in front of the falls than is necessary. For a couple of guys who’ve spent the majority of this trip in the quiet solitude of some of the east coast’s greatest wildernesses, sights like Niagara Falls, with so many crowded human bodies ogling the wonder of nature, wear on us quickly. After avoiding a few more Canadian border crosses poorly recommended to us by our GPS, we finally managed to flee the area and be on our way.

Next came Detroit – one of the saddest, most forlorn cities these two travelers have ever encountered. Our good friend, Brock Laborde, there shooting a movie for a couple of months, shared his upscale hotel room (minus a microwave) with us for the night. After being caught in a massive downpour and taking shelter in a doorway from lightening strikes exploding on the tops of the skyscrapers around us, we wandered the downtown scene in search of a place to get a few drinks. We forgot that this was Detroit. At times, it felt like the three of us were the only souls walking those streets. The place was a ghost town. There was not a single bar or club open in the midst of that mighty downtown area. Not a single one. If New York was the liveliest metropolis we’ve ever had the chance to play around in, Detroit was the most abandoned and left behind. Other than the corner market where the most wonderful little twinks were discovered, the only other facility open that night was the MGM Grand casino. Pockets full of poptarts and winnings on the slot machines, we drank a few mixed drinks and ended the night watching what might be the next best thing to come out of Comedy Central. Time will tell. The next morning B fed us breakfast on the top floor of the hotel and then kicked us out to prepare himself for a night with the ever popular band, We Landed on the Moon. 

Chicago came next and was a blur. We had time to pick up a deep-dish pizza and that was all. With ten pounds of dough, cheese, peps and sausage on the dashboard, we cursed through a few more tollbooths and slipped into Wisconsin. Another fire in another state park outside of Madison. Devil’s Lake State Park. Four out of six beers from a six-pack (the other two were stolen in the night off of our picnic table by beer bandits). In the morning Hoyle and I swam a mile out to some jumbled boulders on the side of a mountain in some of the most attractive water we’ve yet had the chance to dip in. Lounging on the shore we got the call that a friend of ours’ was trapped in the Chicago O’Hare airport due to a nasty layover, so instead of carrying on north, we turned back around and went to the rescue. 

And now, as I write this, the three of us, plus Cedars, are heading north again to Minneapolis in yet another rainstorm. The deep-dish, after 24 hours, has finally been finished. Tonight, we enjoy the flavors of another big city. I think we’ll be in Minnesota for a while. There are many wonders in this state to partake in, and there will be much tale to tell when it is all over. Both Hoyle and I are reaching the limits of our pre-planned budget, and the time to start heading south is nearing. But not yet. 

Canada: Off Limits - Forever

A quick update: No pics...

Canada is on fire. And Hoyle and I never made it into the burning country. Apparently there is a G20 Summit in Toronto, which is the very city we were aiming to visit. Apparently the country is on high alert and planning on battling a horde of protestors and potential peace terrorists. Apparently, Hoyle and I have lived a pretty eclectic and off-beat life style, out of the mainstream and with enough random adventures in cities and countries all over the world to make us look suspicious to Canadian authorities. Add a sordid past with a confusing criminal record sort of deal, long road trip beards, tons of miss-matched camping gear, a pseudonym website and very, very dirty boys and you’ve got every reason, as a Canadian federal customs agent, to pull those boys inside the interrogation room, separate them, berate them with irate questions, strip search their car, threaten one of them with arrest and eventually turn them around and send them back to America. On top of that, one of us is banned from ever returning to Canada for the rest of his life. Forever.

Basically, all this means is that instead of going over the Great Lakes and entering Minnesota from the north, we are now going under the Great Lakes through Pennsylvania, Ohio and Michigan. Oh yeah, and also that Canada is off limits (forever) to one of the members of the Hoyle,Tanner team. Cedars, however, was given complete clearance. The Canadians welcome him through and through. 

All in the Upstate

The people who live in these mountains hike hard. These are no meandering lower Appalachian trails with gentle climbs and switchback ascents. When you climb up to the highest peak in New York state, Mt. Marcy, you go straight up its bristling fur-covered knobby backside. The small shrub pines choke the trail, at times making it hard to see ten feet ahead of you. And if the trail isn’t covered in scented stinging pine needles, its littered with boulders of all sizes, trickling water, deceiving quicksand-like marsh pits or uncut trees draped across the path – all ascending with radical steepness. If your burning thighs and calves don’t slow you down, the incessant black flies just might. Still, Hoyle and I, along with Cedars, climbed ever onward.

Lush greenery abounds in these mountains that spill water in every direction. We were always crossing streams, directly from boulder to boulder or over long swinging bridges. At the summits you enter an alpine climate, as the mountain steward told us, where the fragile plants live in an ecosystem not unlike those found in the artic tundra of Alaska and northern Canada.

On the back side of Mt. Marcy we met up once again with the fabled Hudson; this time at its headwaters in Lake Tears of the Clouds, where it is as fresh as it ever can be before flowing south and dumping its acquired collection of gurgling brown refuse into the ocean not far past the Statue of Liberty. But up on the mountain, that part of its story is very far away. Up on the mountain, everything is very far away. The endless miles stretch out to a vanishing horizon of fading green peaks. This is New York at its finest, at its most beautiful.

The chipmunks wrought havoc on Cedars’ psyche, always one step out of his reach. Nonetheless, he cannot help but give chase each and every time. Just as Hoyle and I (of Hoyle,Tanner) cannot help but continue to pursue the open road. She is a wench that refuses to offer satisfaction, always cunning, always calling. Her treasures are endless. Her lessons invaluable. But not unlike every other thirsty road-weary traveler, we pay our six pesos and enter her bedchamber – time and time again.

Now the Adirondacks slowly disappear behind us. Ancient barns and farmhouses on rolling forested hills surrounds us. Canada lies before us. We make one last stop at the site of the 1980 Lake Placid Winter Olympics for some delicious New York chili and beer. With bellies full and bodies black fly bitten, we throw ourselves at the Mounties and the great Ontario lands beyond. 

New Times in Old Forge

Within an hour after driving into Old Forge, an upstate New York hamlet in the Adirondack Mountains, someone asked us if we’d like to raft a river in the morning. Apparently, the Hudson wasn’t done with Hoyle and I yet. On Friday morning, we were underneath the river riding a subway train from Manhattan into Hoboken. On Saturday morning, we were on a whitewater inflatable raft with the two owners of the ARO River Company paddling Class III and IV rapids in the headwaters of that same river. Welcome to Old Forge. Welcome to good times. In the winter, Old Forge is a quiet blanket of snow-covered trails and a haven for thrill seekers on snowmobiles. In the summer, it’s a lost paradise for seasonal folks looking to get away from the surrounding big cities. Basically, it’s a quintessential summer town. For 3 – 6 months in the middle of the year, the population triples. Still, it never has a feeling of being overcrowded or stuffy. Walking from bar to bar at night, one might encounter a black bear or a startled deer just as likely as one might encounter some tipsy stumbling local. For two nights, Hoyle and I were one of these locals. 

Our sleeping arrangements found us tucked into what was once the town’s icehouse back in the early 1900’s. From there, we ambled with our hosts to the taverns around the corner, wherein two nights we were on a first name basis with half the people there – the bar tender, the owner, our river guides, and several motorcycle bikers passing through, among others. This was small town. This was familiar to us. In a place like this age isn’t the standard for judging demographics of a local haunt. Instead, it’s camaraderie and storytelling, a thirst for whiskey shots or local beer and a mutual enthusiasm for adventure. By the end of the night, everyone knows your story and you know theirs. You’re all friends and you genuinely mean it when you say you’d like to see each other again someday. I guess, in a way, I finally understand that song from the show Cheers.

This country is wild and still loosely untamed and largely overlooked by the rest of the nation. It has a feeling of being tucked away, but unlike some pockets of civilization in the Appalachians for example, these aren’t rednecks or backwards people. They love their country, they attend its top schools, and they love the land – fishing and hiking and boating and sharing a spirit of cleanliness that comes from the fresh breeze that blows in from the high mountains. I don’t think they mind being sort of forgotten. And it feels good to be among them, forgotten along side of them, in a place well worth discovering.

Still, as refreshing and pleasant as it is here, the adventure must continue. This place will be remembered well along this journey. But for now, Hoyle and I are prepping to head back out to the trail. Our plan is to spend a couple of nights in the northern part of the Adirondacks, do a loop trail up to the highest point in New York – Mt. Marcy, and then continue on. It will be time to head west then. Perhaps into Canada. Time will tell. And destiny. And the spirit of adventure. And all that jazz.