Left Handed Fish
I awoke to the cries of a native animal known as The Big Sissy. A whole gaggle of them, in fact. The ground was a little too hard. Ben was protesting the hardest, and so I dub him not a sissy but a princess – for he alone had a mattress to sleep on. Perhaps I slipped a pea underneath his tender back.
The Old World Lives
Greybull was dull in the early morning. I’d slept terribly, though the cabins looked nice and seemed fine. It was a humid night and filled with mosquitoes once the sun had dropped. Another early start. I don’t remember if we showered – perhaps the night before. We were to head to the North East entrance of Yellowstone Park. The owner of the cabins said it was the best entrance, though out of the way. We had all the time in the world on driving days. I sat on my bunk organising my bag, listening to the crunch of gravel outside and the slamming of car doors as Ramona was packed.
Merry Christmas from The Beatlab II: Electric Boogaloo
Merry Christmas guys! From both the Western Seven, and The Beatlab.
Raging Greybull (The Road to Yellowstone)
We sailed down the highway, listening to ‘Go Your Own Way’ by The Mac (Fleetwood, ya dig) and cheerful as ever. Cheerful because it was the second day of what was a three day drive, and that’s better than the first day of a three day drive. We had a quick stop to make at a small national monument that you might have seen in popular movies such as ‘National Treasure 2′ and ‘Team America: World Police’. Mount Rushmore!
Meet Mitchell
Mitchell is a very small town. I do not remember why we picked it. It seemed like a convenient halfway point to Yellowstone. This was a part of the trip we didn’t really have planned at all. After the first half I didn’t even care – we’d made it past the point of no return, so we were getting back somehow. We considered other places too – Bismarck was one of them, in North Dakota if I remember, or the North of South Dakota, perhaps. It was bigger on the map, but not as far, which was unappealing. By this time we liked to bang as much of the drive out as we could, because we realised that driving days were essentially wasted. Especially two parters, like this. You drive for eight hours on the first day, and you drive for eight the next, when you arrive at the destination – and it’s pretty much time to get dinner and think about passing out for a while so you could take off the next morning. Much better to do twelve and then four, because the first stop is some dead-end where we just crashed in a hotel room for the night, and then you can pull in to the main town at lunch time the next day.
Driving Days
Time is a funny thing. Sometimes it feels like you’re falling, falling, falling – that kind of dream like fall which kicks you awake, except it’s not a dream – it’s just the temporal plane rushing past. Days shoot by and never make it to your memory. Other times it feels like you’re falling, falling, falling – and then you go *[i]gloop[/i]*, and now you’re falling through a thick gel. Still falling – that temporal plane is still moving past you, but you’re surrounded by a thick liquid. You’re almost suspended.
Chicago Was Alright (Oh man, I only just realised I already wrote about this)
Chicago! I can barely remember it. Well, that’s a blatant lie. Why am I lying to you? Because I’m a cruel and immoral person, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. I guess we just didn’t do all that much in Chicago.
A decade in its shadow
Ten years ago, many of us woke up to something inconceivable. The untouchable superpower had been hit.
The Dave Matthews Caravan Crosses the Border
We left you stranded on the outskirts of Toronto. Sorry about that – no excuses, other than we were tired, dead tired, and found less and less time for writing you. Well – here we are – racing down a freeway back to the US border (racing, I should note, in kilometres, not miles – a brief affair, sadly). I always stress out at border crossings. I mean, I know we aren’t doing anything wrong, we’re not carrying anything bad. But there could be a rule I missed, or some inconsistency in our passports or vehicle registration – oh lord, I’m starting to stress now.