Homecoming

I just got back from a nice nostalgic trip around Walnut Township, Thurston, and Baltimore. I've been home for a couple of weeks now, but it still feels pretty surreal. It still feels like I am on Christmas vacation, and I will be headed back to Vancouver at any time now.



I left New Orleans (and it's Gulf and Bayou culture) knowing that I was solidly out of any kind of desert or Southwest. It's weird: I'm not sure exactly when the transition happened; probably somewhere in Texas, I couldn't tell. I was now going to slowly meander my way back into my most familiar culture: Southern into Midwestern.

Cruising along through Mississippi and Alabama, I dreamed of what those areas might look and feel like. I've written about stopping in Birmingham before, so I guess it isn't all alien. But it seemed rushed, but Nashville was the reward.

After getting into Nashville super late, I slept and prepared for a "touristy" day the next day. Once awake the next morning, I was greeted to a terrible terrible car noise. When I slowed down, whether it be coasting or braking, my car made this terrible scraping noise. I later learned that it was my front brakes which had pretty much been shot. Makes sense seeing as though they were never replaced and I was doing tons of mountain driving for the whole trip.

After a delicious biscuit breakfast and bus ride, I took the car into the shop. In the meanwhile, I explored Midtown Nashville. I found the Parthenon, which I had totally forgotten existed:

I also got coffee at one of the coolest coffee shops I have ever been to. Three Brothers Coffee folks. Check it out when you're in Nashville.

There was a surprisingly large amount of development going on in Nashville. Especially in a part of the city called The Gulch. New high-rises and apartments were going up like mad. I wonder what is making Nashville, Nashville all of a sudden?

After a night of seeing the bars and neon Broadway, I slept easy and took off for Ohio the next day. Soon enough I was in Kentucky, then Louisville, then Cincinnati, then Columbus. I rode the Outerbelt through the evening and pulled up to my family's house around 8 PM. I guess that ended the road trip?

Nashville's Broadway.

Same building looking the other way. So much neon.

Just like that, the trip was over. I ran to Pennsylvania the next day to spend Thanksgiving with my best friend and her family, so I guess that was technically a little add-on. But I've done that many times, and will do it many times more. So I don't think it really counts.

It's funny how such monumental things get off to, and end, in a simple low-key instant isn't it? There was no grand sending off party, no grand reception. Simply just pulling out off a curb parking space, and pulling into a driveway.

Today I watched the sunset over the Ohio plains, and it created a wondrous pink and red glow. I still contend that Ohio has some of the best sunsets I've ever seen. But this time there was no longing that I would not be able to experience that for a while longer, because I would most likely see the same thing tomorrow night, and for many nights after that. I don't know if that means it "lost value", but something about it is different.

As I toured around the countryside after my dentist appointments and errands in Lancaster, I couldn't help but feel so satisfied. I felt like I had done well, and that even though I went through some turbulent times and thoughts in my experience, I have concluded it well. Did I want to conclude it? Simply browse through some previous posts to see me wrestle with that. But in the end, I think it was the best decision.

While I want to keep exploring, keep driving into places unknown, I also am comfortable right here for right now. It's an amazing feeling knowing that you're home.
























I've been struggling with how/if I should end this blog. Aside from the name being the obvious moniker that is not true, it feels like I've solidly transitioned onto another step of my life. Or at least into an "in-between" spot. And it doesn't feel "right" to keep posting here and keep up with a theme if I'm not geographically in the spot to experience said theme. Maybe I will create a new blog later, and if so, you will know about it. But for now, expect this one to be wrapped up for the most part.

If you would like to still keep up with me in a more personal/reflective note, please check out my other blog: "Wonderful Ramblings of Life" I will keep that one semi-updated with things going on that are not specifically place based but simply life based. Check it out here: http://wonderfulramblingsoflife.blogspot.com/

Casinos, Lights, and High Dry Desert

Since last blog post I have been traveling across the desert Southwest for a couple of days. I started out after Death Valley going into Vegas. What a difference from the flat desolate landscape of the salt flats 200 feet below sea level. Coming into town the lights, billboards, and advertisements were overwhelming:

I had never seen anything like it before. A whirlwind of modern and intricate displays lined Las Vegas Boulevard, up and down the strip. Each casino an estate to itself.

New York, New York Casino, complete with mock ups of iconic skyscrapers.

All of this reminded me that only a mere 30 miles away was one of the largest and most popular dams in America. The Hoover Dam.

This beast of a dam has 8 generators total, four in each state whose line it spans. The electricity flows directly to Las Vegas. On top of the dam itself was numerous pieces of artwork to commemorate such a massive undertaking in America. The style was solidly Art Deco, but if you've ever played Bioshock, you'll see that it goes beyond the simple mosaics and geometrical patterns. It goes to an Ayn Rand level of industrial conquest. One piece that stood out was the memorial to the workers who died while constructing the dam:

The text that flows across the middle (through the worker) reads:

"They died to make the desert bloom."

The worker is shown in a struggle with water coming up to his waist. On either side is more information and commemoration to the memorial.

It's this attitude I think only native Southwestern people can understand. I still have a hard time comprehending why exactly people would want to settle in such harsh environments (such as the desert), let alone want to develop such an area to attract others. It just seems like there is too much work to justify creating an area where people can live, especially if there was no incentive beforehand.

I did learn that the Hoover Dam's prime purpose was flood control and water storage, which does make a lot of sense because the Colorado River controls so many flood plains and irrigation for a massive part of the Southwest. In the old visitors center there was a program that highlighted how the Hoover Dam (and other dams) helped provide water and flood control (as well as power) to communities all throughout the southwest.

But it still confuses me as to why people would settle there in large droves to begin with. Why not stick with the fertile and rainy lands of the east? Why did we need to continue and conquer the desert?

The dam had many motifs to this, and I guess the best reason I can come up with is because we could. Because the people of that time wanted to show their dominion over the land, and did so. It still is hard for me to grasp to this day, and I still wonder why we didn't just leave the desert alone, because I cannot fathom that ideal of conquering and manifest destiny.

After enjoying what Vegas had to offer (public drinking, smoking in buildings, etc.) I headed out for the Grand Canyon. The Grand Canyon seemed kind of underwhelming compared to what I had heard of it. The entire place had signs and guides ensuring that people did not get lost, and that you knew what you were getting into if you were planning on hiking down into the canyon. 

Also, that is snow you see on the edge there. The park was ridiculously snowy and icy, which was reassuring because there was a mile drop if you slipped and fell. We did run into some folks who were gearing up to go hiking down to Phantom Ranch (the lowest point in the Canyon where there is a popular campground). They were wearing shorts & sandals to hike a mile down into the Canyon, and I wonder how they did.

I feel like I should have had more awe and inspiration when I visited, but I couldn't muster myself to appreciate it nearly as much. The Grand Canyon 

After the Canyon I went to Flagstaff to spend the night. There were snow covered mountains, and the "desert" ended up colder with a lot more trees than I thought.

A whirlwind through New Mexico followed. More snow covered mountains came and went, and I eventually descended into Santa Fe. It is amazing to think that such a city has been around since the 1600's. Such old establishments and culture in America, a place that in my mind started in 1776.

After Santa Fe & Albuquerque I traveled to Carlsbad Caverns and saw the massive cave system. The elevators were broken, so I wasn't able to go up or down directly to the cave, although I think I got more from hiking in and back out than I would have by going back up in the elevator. A sense of accomplishment, if you will.

After New Mexico, I hauled across Texas. I know that Texas is a place, and that people live there and take pride in it, but I was running out of time, and I had no desire to stay and see anywhere in the state. Keeping at 80 miles an hour across the oil fields and through the swamps, I barreled towards Louisiana, and New Orleans.

The New Urbanism

So I've been on the road for a couple of days. It really makes me think about the whole idea of "The New Urbanism". Basically the idea is that as more and more jobs and opportunities come up in the cities, more and more people will be moving to them. This is usually hailed as a good thing because the denser people are packed, the easier it is to manage them, and make sure they get access to all the things they need.

I have been wondering about whether or not this is a good thing. I mean, for the longest time people have been congregating around street corners in order to sell goods, and collaborate into communities. But never have we gotten together into such size before.

On Thursday I headed out for the coast. intending to take U.S. 101 down to Crescent City California. I got a late start, so took I-5 down to Eugene, and cut across to the coast that way (instead of going to Tillamook). The ocean was beside the car all day, and I passed through small towns, content with the coastal one way thoroughfares and main drags.

These towns are small, quaint, and close, ensuring people can get from place to place easily, and to the regional hubs with somewhat ease.

The next day I traveled to Santa Rosa in anticipation to visit San Francisco the next morning. This was a gradual step up from the small coastal towns I passed through the day before. Driving through the Redwoods made me forget I was on my way to one of the largest and most upcoming cities on the West Coast, if not the entire United States.

The woods were encapsulating, and really took my imagination with their majesty and grandeur.

Me at the aptly named "Big Tree"

 Me driving my car through a tree.

The day ended with a trip on California State Route 1, as I played the Decemberists album "Castaways and Cutouts". The end song chimed in as I rounded a cliff and up through a coastal meadow, and I was content and nostalgic.

After a windy road back to Santa Rosa (and delicious Vietnamese food), I set out for the Golden Gate Bridge and the massive cultural megalith of San Francisco. Arriving at the bridge, it came out to be larger than life. It is still hard to believe that such a structure can be conceived of, and built, in the 1930's.

The ride across was amazing. The 1930s art-deco style reigned supreme, and there were so many bicycles and pedestrians on the shoulders (which were huge, clean, and had their fare share of people on them).

Coming into and around San Francisco I saw the money. The dense apartment blocks, the wide avenues, the businesses, the new cars, and the money. There is so much money in San Francisco. It's amazing to see how exactly the tech startups and industry has affected the town.

I saw the transit, the sidewalks, the access to services that people get in San Francisco. But I also saw the gentrification, the homeless, and the exclusiveness that urban density brings. I saw all white, all suits, all Porches and Bentleys. This is the side of the "New Urbanism" that I can't quite accept.

This urbanism has the unintended side effect that the very people it's trying to link up are pushed out of the urban core because of it's unobtainable affordability. The very people it's designed to conglomerate to support (seniors, people with disabilities, minorities, and general low income earners) are forced out because they can no longer afford the place they may have once lived, and therefore now cannot live in the dense areas designed to centralize services.

Chinatown

TransAmerica Tower 

Financial District

The Castro

F Line Trolley

After the rush of San Francisco, I turned my sights south towards Bakersfield, in preparation to see Death Valley the next day.

I will not lie. I did not have high hopes for Bakersfield. I was expecting a smaller town, with a couple of stoplights, maybe a mall, etc. I was completely wrong. The hours spent driving to Bakersfield (from San Francisco) were through sun setting barren hills (to Stockton area) and then down through the Central Valley. Along I-5 I smelled things so horrendous that dissuaded me to ever visit the Central Valley ever again. Giant livestock operations, fruit orchards and vegetable fields spread for over four hours. But Bakersfield itself reminded me of a midsize Midwestern town. It had a mall, housing developments, and a somewhat sizable downtown with a couple of buildings over three stories.

Bakersfield is a balance. It is an urban core and center, but does not have a robust urban support system. It allows its residents to stay where they are, but without the benefits high density brings.

At the other end of the spectrum is the Interior Basins of California. These are places that have towns of 100 people or fewer. These places are most likely family run to cater to the stray tourists that may come through, and if not tourists, military bases that may be nearby.

It seems neigh impossible to imagine life this isolated. Towns are 60 to 100 miles away from each other, and require hours of driving through rugged and near impassible terrain. One wonders why people may even choose to settle here at all, and why places haven't been abandoned all together.

The desert out here is vast and harsh. It does not forgive those who traverse it. The polar opposite of the "New Urbanism" is Death Valley. A place with one tourist hotel, two gas stations, and hundreds of miles of uninhabitable wastes. There are salt flats, scrub-lands, rock fields, and simply just miles of dust. It is quite a sight to marvel at.

A rare water hole in the salt flats of Death Valley

The salt path to the salt flats.

The flats themselves, ever expansive, harsh, and unforgiving. 

The Devil's Golf Course. Aptly named because the salt formations are tricky holes to walk across.

Death Valley is an amazing place to visit. It shows you the intensity of what a barren landscape can look like. The elevation dips below sea level in many places, including Badwater Basin, the name of the salt flats above.

That sign says "Sea Level"

Standing down at 282 feet below Sea Level, I was thinking to myself: What if this "New Urbanism" isn't so great? What is so wrong with people living in small, closely connected communities, similar to what they have on the coast. We don't have to choose between living in dense, urban centers, where we can't afford anything but have access to everything, or out in the middle of nowhere, where we can afford things and may have piece of mind, but access to nothing else. Let's settle on something in the middle. Like the Pacific coastal towns have worked out.


I've been struggling with this my whole experience in my field of transportation, and as I make my way back East, I can't help but think to myself: "What do I believe when it comes to this?" I can't quite say yet, but I find myself in Las Vegas tonight, the place where they play everything up, and make everything a show and a performance. I am off to see the sights tomorrow, starting with Hoover Dam and some museums, and ending with an evening on the Strip.

With the salt still fresh on my lips from the valley of death, I charge forward into a city that never should have been, in a region of this country that is full of my own locally perceived contradictions in order to find out more. Because that's what life is all about isn't it?

Making a U-Turn

My time in Vancouver, Washington has come to an end. One of the last reflective experiences I had was walking across the new Tillikum Crossing Transit Bridge in Portland. I thought it was silly that the architect recommended walking across it to get a new view of Portland and the Willamette river, but I soon learned there was truth to it. Got some awesome shots and really gave me a good final perspective on the city.

I'm already on the road, in Crescent City, California. (For reference, it's right across the border from Oregon. So I'm not too far into the state.) One of the weirdest experiences I've had crossing a state boarder is having a state employee ask if I had any fruits or vegetables in my car. I forgot California did that.

The experience has been surreal at best so far. I haven't had much time to reflect upon leaving because of all the packing and last minute things I've had to take care of. I finished listening to an audio book on the trip down with a friend accompanying me to New Orleans. The book was "Wolf in a White Van" by John Darnielle (of the Mountain Goats). It was quite insightful.

The gist of the book was about a guy who has an accident and ends up creating a role playing game by mail while in recovery. I can't say much more about it easily. It deals with lots of themes, and is well worth a purchase/read.

As I was driving US 101 in and out of the coast there was a stellar sunset.

The rugged Pacific NW coast is well worth a drive during your lifetime. It follows rocky outcroppings and sheer cliffs down to the Pacific, with small spits of sand inviting the brave to the chilly waters. The ocean stretches out beyond comprehension, filled with the colors it seems even nature could not come up with randomly.

The end goal of this journey is to make it back to Ohio. I'm still not sure where to go next, and I'm not really actively looking at the moment. My goal is to collect myself between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and really establish what I'm going to be doing for the next couple of years.

The Pacific Northwest has been quite an adventure. I've seen and enjoyed most of what Portland has to offer. I've made excursions to Seattle, the San Juan Islands, Mount Saint Helens, Hood, and Adams, the Oregon Coast and Dunes, the Washington Coast, and the forests, deserts, and towns in between.

The main question is, and what I hope to solve, where to next?

Race & Reconciliation in a Southern City

When it comes to disability, I've always been a bit squeamish on how to go about talking about the whole ordeal. I've never really given it much thought, and I'd like to think I'm not that ableist and that I tend to treat others equally and with respect. But you can never know, right?

A while back I traveled to Birmingham to confront a little of the latent racism that I was inevitably raised with in small town America. That was quite an experience. I learned that it's okay to confront yourself, and you don't have to play the nice not racist white guy all the time. I learned that not all inner cities are as impoverished as the nightly news programs lead you to believe.

I remember being in Thurston, Ohio, and hearing every night the local news: Another shooting in Columbus. A brutal stabbing in the Short North. Police found 5 pounds of cocaine in the back of a minivan in Reynoldsburg.

The city was a dangerous place. Bad things happened there, and therefore, bad people lived there.

Said locations in relation to my hometown of Thurston, Ohio.

So you can understand my hesitancy to go to a southern city with a majority black inner city. But I wanted to see the historic sites of the civil rights movement. I wanted to see the church that was bombed, and the marching grounds of Martin Luther King Jr.

Getting out of the car, I found everything was just as peaceful as it was in any "white place" I'd been in. The city had a beautiful downtown core, complete with plaza and historic monuments. There was the 16th Street Baptist Church where the little girls were murdered. And across the way was the park, surrounded by tall commercial buildings. Everything was normal, and on the surface, all was calm.

I wasn't though. I had never been in a place where there were so many people that were different than me. I saw so many black faces, most happy. At worst was the guy's car who had broken down, and he was couldn't get it to start. In my mind though, he could go off at any minute. Anyone of the people not like me could get angry and lash out, and swing a punch.

Talk about being manufactured. Why in the world would anyone do such a thing to me, a random guy from nowhere Ohio? That day helped lift the blinders off, and to realize that... People are people.

I shouldn't be afraid of some grandfather with his granddaughter just because their skin is different than mine. I shouldn't be afraid of the mother with the stroller and her toddler waddling beside her just because their skin is different than mine.

It was then that I realized that I shouldn't be afraid of acknowledging some of the backward views I had drilled into my head in my youth. Nor should I think I am one of righteous holy, and an exemplar of equality, as we were always so quick to defend against when talking to those of different skin colors of us. We should just take it as we are, and not be afraid to confront the uneasiness that might well up in us sometimes.












So remember that part when I talked about disability? I got off on a little bit of a tangent, but it is a tangent worth knowing to get my approach towards my interaction with disability today.

You might think this is a ruse to go check out my other blog, but I feel as though a coupled posting is relevant, since this blog is all about place, and the feeling it evokes. The other blog will relate some of my feelings towards disability and how I had a serious privilege check today at work. If you'd like to check it out head over here.

Ash & Pumice

There is a sense of bliss that comes when walking through the ashes of an active volcano. The sandy pumice is still fresh on my boots as I write this.

I fell asleep last night to the sounds of shuffling tents and chattering of people and dogs. Not my idea of a camping trip, but the absolute silence of 1 AM made up for the distractions.

It's weird when I go camping. I have a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night for no good reason. Sure, I'm uncomfortable, but that hasn't prevented me from sleeping in the past. Maybe it is to experience that uncanny silence and darkness, where your view is only illuminated by the moon and stars that shine through the trees.

Of course, there are small noises in the night too, simply the activity of the forest coming through to take advantage of the food leftover by clumsy campers. That's why you always lock up your food in your car: to make sure your campsite is not pillaged by the creatures in the night.

I woke up again around 5 AM, to a glow of a sun about to come up in half an hour. I promptly fell back asleep though, in the warmth of my sleeping bag against the mid 40 degree weather of the mountains.

My next distraction came at 7 AM, with the yelling of kids and the barking of dogs as the minute hand slid past the quiet hours into the loud hours. I tried to go back to sleep for a while, but I couldn't shut it out. Around 8 AM, I was not too happy, and decided to high-tail it out of there.

I took off towards a place called Blue Lake Trailhead. I figured: "I have all the time in the world! It's only 9:30 AM!" The car climbed alongside a rising ridge, and in usual mountain fashion, overlooks were plenty and stunning:

Finally, the climb plateaued in a very thin forest littered with boulders. Rockfalls were everywhere, and the trees were all dead and splintered. Eventually I figured it out: This must have been remains from an eruption. Maybe the 1980 eruption? I'm not sure.

At first it looked like a logging operation, but when I pulled up on the final leg of the gravel road, I saw the path of an eruption flow. Little did I know, this rock flow would lead me to the lake, which I believe was also formed because of damming from said eruption. The trails lead up and down alongside the flow, and eventually out onto the road of rock.

All this time there was rushing water off to the western side of the flow. Its noise was straight out of a recording of nature you find in Target. The trail was not far, only a mile in, but it was stunning to cross such an alien looking landscape. And of course, all this time the giant herself always loomed above me, visible through the clouds at different points.

The lake itself was serene. It was cold. Glacial melt I was assuming, or snow runoff? And it was blue. The water was so clear, I would have gone swimming if the outdoor temperature was not 55 degrees.

Hell. I thought about it anyways, to live life on the edge. Then I remembered I was at least 50 miles away from the nearest medical clinic, needless to say a mile out from the actual road. The idea of hypothermia was enough to encourage the carpe diem right out of me.

I sat at the lake for a bit, playing my fiddle and reflecting on life. It was one of the few times where I could actually play without fear of annoying anyone. There were obvious campsites at the edge of the lake, complete with fire pits, but I wasn't about to haul all of my camping gear a mile at a time across rock and ash to try to set it up. Where's your horse when you need one?

In the end of the day, I spent about an hour up on the freezing pumice plane, playing away, wishing the clouds would vanish for the sun to come out and warm my bones. It did eventually.


Mount Saint Helens, or in the Klickitat language: "Loowit", has captured my imagination ever since I arrived here. As a little kid I always was fascinated with volcanoes, and never did I think I would "grow up" to come to play around the very volcano I watched documentaries about back in Ohio. Her very power and presence is commanding. It dominates the horizon with Mt. Hood (Wy'east), but St. Helens is malleable. It has exploded, eroded, glaciated, and steamed; something that large chunks of rock should not do.

The mountain symbolizes the impermanence of the earth, the very thing that we take for granted. When looking, you can tell: There is more to this than meets the eye. There is always something else behind all of these wondrous things we can see in our everyday world.

US 12 and the Cascade Transition

Rain Shadow. The term conjures up different meanings for different people. Out here in the Northwest, it refers to the fact that the Cascade Mountains prevent much of the soppy rain from getting to the eastern side of the region. But with that very sop brings the greenery to life in the west. It is what makes the Pacific Northwest the place for young development and high, liberal standards of living. It allows prosperity, and the host of issues that come with it.

After about six months, you start to lose track of the mountains on either side of you. The Coastals are the first to go, because they are shorter, and demand less of your attention. Then the Cascades in the east go, because it's just something you get use to. The ultra-high peaks are the last to go, and I still marvel at their size from time to time; still questioning to myself how such things with such size can exist in this world.

Green valleys tend towards the steep western slopes of the Cascades. Flat gravel rivers tend to be the norm because of the glacial erosion and volcanic forces that created the valleys. It makes for amazing farmland, fertile with nutrient rich ash infused soil.

As you climb, the fields and streams are replaced by lush evergreen forests and rushing rapids. The trees bristle with life, and you start to venture into National Forest lands, uninhabited by none but government sanctioned ranger and gas stations, resort lodges, and dry, snowless ski slopes.

You keep an eye on those volcanic giants the whole time, as they dip and dive behind the wooded hills.

As you crest the highest point on the road, within minutes the scenery starts to change. The trees become a paler shade of green, and droop. The soil goes from dense underbrush and roots, to open forest floors with a pine needle carpet. It doesn't rain here nearly as much, and so the forest had to adapt, and to separate its species for less water, and dustier soil.

There are more open plains: Places where the trees couldn't quite make it because of a lack of water. Soon the scene turns into solid rock that rises up into massive megaliths of dirt on the land. The grass is about the only thing that can survive these steep and treacherous hills. How does anything live out here? Who in their right mind would think to settle here?

Irrigation. It's the only thing that keeps this valley alive.

When driving into the Yakima Valley from the south, you come out of the desolate empty hills that make up the Yakima Indian Reservation onto this plain of Eden. The valley floor (around halfway up the picture) is just painted with green. Green fields, green orchards, green trees and towns. And brown hilltops. Desolate, isolated hilltops where agriculture does not work.


The Cascades serve much more than simply a barrier for rain. They symbolize a divide among the cultures of Washington and Oregon. To the West lay the lush, fertile forests and farmlands; home to the burgeoning tech giants and environmental firms of the Pacific Northwest. To the East there is dry, infertile desert land. Depressed towns with little to no reason for existing outside their irrigation. Impoverished families with no hope of upward mobility; stuck forever in their circumstance of where they were born.

Liberalism, and the populations that accompany it, drive the politics from the West. State capitals are in the West. Urban centers are in the West. Interstate corridors of prosperity are paved in the West.

Fading conservative bastions are in the East. The dry high desert demands the rugged individualism you find in people, along with the fear of change, and the fear of abandonment. The towns are smaller, the people more xenophobic, and the roads much dustier.

Yet in the East there is much, much more apparent diversity. So many privileged neighborhoods in the urban centers in the West are exclusive for one ethnicity, and one group of people, and those tend to subtly stereotype urban societies, neglecting the minorities that live within the exact same area.

In the small towns in the East, minority groups are visible. There are Mexican restaurants, Spanish advertisements, and decorative colored banners adorning many of the main roads around migrant settlements. Yet they do not hold power either. There is more of an outward racism and fear from leaders and citizens in the majority. There is positively no appreciation or embracing of the migrant populations, nor acceptance from the majority into the area.


Though their populations are different, there is much more that links these two sides of the Cascades besides Interstates and US Highways. But the mountain chain divides and separates in more ways than just weather.


What amazes me is how apparent and striking the change is. Within an hour through the Cascades you are in an entirely different world, one radically different, but still with hints of familiarity and similarity.

I believe that there is no such thing as "nowhere". Anywhere you can travel is "somewhere". You just need the will to look.