The Forest in the Winter at Sunset (1845-67), Pierre Rousseau, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

“This painting is terrifying,” she said. I had to agree. Two figures, central in the frame, are dwarfed by the literal awesomeness of the forest. The sky is an ominous orange, perhaps because of a fire, or one of those cold winter sunsets, where the cold creeps in as sun descends.

Geese fly overhead, in their classic flying vee. They have the sense and the ability to go south. Where can these pour souls escape to? They have only a narrow path through the tangled brush, puddles to slog through, and precious minutes left of daylight.

As I read the placard accompanying the painting, every tool of analysis from high school english classes comes rushing back from my forgotten memories. The classic types of conflict: man vs. nature, man vs. self, man vs. man. These two hold on to each other to weather the storm. They cooperate against nature. But if the forest is the soul, and the sunset our human frailty, then against whom do we fight? We can’t very well take on the entire world and win.

We walked here from Columbia; first twenty blocks south, then through Central Park, then another ten blocks while we got unlost. She’s supposed to know where she is; at least she lives in this city. I am totally useless without a map and compass. At least this urban jungle is a grid, we have the advantage of several orthogonal paths through the underbrush.

On the path through the park, we passed business men and women exercising themselves. Step out of the office, into this small rectangle of nature, protected by expensive running shoes, goretex jackets and an iPod. Not these two, they run for their very lives. As if they “had the very whips of their masters at their backs.” Perhaps this is Fangorn forest, and one of these crooked trees is an Ent.

“What do you want to do with your life?” I asked, by way of an introduction. “Environmental science,” she replied. How typical, I thought. All of these rich girls want to save the world. I always thought she was more of the physics type, but then she grew her hair long, and her curls became dreads. And I knew we were on different paths through this jungle.

The hunched figures hurry along to make it home alive. I navigate the subway system and try to find 139 Canal Street and the Chinatown bus. I am successful, and catch the last few seconds of the Superbowl in my dorm. Are these two so lucky? No post-victory riot awaits them, only the trial of living one more day. And for that, we are grateful.

–

Wrote this for 21W.730, the writing class I had to take because of my own laziness when taking the Freshman Essay Exam. Note to self, don’t be an idiot, take all written tests seriously.

Three hours to Boston, my first time driving in the city where I’ve lived for the past three years. I missed the exit to Cambridge; an inauspicious start. I circled around through Government Center and cursed the designers of that impossibly ugly City Hall. Picked up Chase and Marko at precisely the appointed times, and we were off. That is, once we could find an on-ramp to the Mass Pike. What should have been a few easy turns ended up being a trip through Brookline and into parts unknown. Things were not starting well, but spirits remained high.

Our first fillup was in Southbury CT, the state with perhaps the highest gas prices on the East Coast. We had been warned to avoid paying the steep taxes, but we funded some poor Connecticutian’s college education at $3.15 per gallon. Marko maintained that this isn’t expensive at all compared with his experience of nearly $10 per gallon in Britain. Impressive, but the price still shocked Chase and my American sensibilities. Marko was intrigued by the first full service station he had seen, although he disputed the economics of paying some poor shlub to breath fumes all day.

Had lunch at a stand somewhere in CT; onion rings and a burger, the perfect authentic fast food. Went through New York and eastern Pennsylvania without incident. Some interest in visiting Gettysburg on the way past Harrisburg, but no agreement. Much discussion of the suitability of the -burg suffix for town names in a place where the Germans left long ago.

Arrived at Ken’s house to steaks and wine, as expected. They were delighted to see us, and it was wonderful to have someone else ask the penetrating questions of Marko, so I didn’t have to. Later some of Allie and Jackie’s friends arrived, and we were soundly beaten at Pictionary. I had some difficulty at drawing, due to my handedness and general lack of artistic ability. I was able to decipher some of Chase’s scribblings due to our long hours doing problem sets together.

Crossed briefly into West Virginia, causing some consternation from Chase as to my direction finding abilities. A consultation of the map revealed that this was the tiny spine of that state that pokes between Pennsylvania and Ohio, and that I was not as incompetent as it may sometimes seem. We stopped at a rest area in the ten miles we were in WV and made some derisive comments, which were not appreciated by other travelers. Back into the car before we got strung up, and into Ohio.

Around Columbus, Indianapolis, and countless other cities which did not arouse the slightest bit of interest. Dinner in at a Bob Evans somewhere in Indiana. Ordered an entire peanut butter pie for dessert, upon calculating that three slices would each cost $2.99, whereas a six slice pie would cost $9.99. Our engineering sensibility was greater than our appetite, and we had to request a pie tin for our booty. Arrived in Springfield to Chase’s adoring parents, not too late for some relaxing conversation around the television.

Left Chase in Springfield, and set off just the two of us. Slightly easier to hold a conversation with just two, no one set apart in the back, but also no one to pick up the silence. I’m quite comfortable in silence, but unable to tell if my companion is, and so can lead to awkward moments. None with Marko, and so we were well matched.

Lunch in Kansas City, Missouri or Kansas, I can’t remember. Our guidebooks each recommended a single place in the whole city, and so we had to find it. The midwest’s best barbecue at Arthur Bently’s. When a 300 pound (20 stone, to use Marko’s units) black man wearing a Chiefs jersey entered, we knew we were in the right place. Had a giant pulled pork sandwich on Wonder Bread with cheap local beer. The wall was adorned with celebrities enjoying Arthur’s ribs, including an sinister looking John Ashcroft.

Onward through Kansas, passing by the Oz museum, as we were still in Kansas and hadn’t a pair of ruby slippers. Drove through a wicked thunderstorm. Attempted photographs of lightning, but my reflexes were never fast enough to capture their fury on film (or 4 GB Microdrive, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it). As quickly as the storm rose, it passed, and the stars appeared. Stopped at Wilson Lake state park, the site of perhaps the only lake in all of Kansas. Marko spent his first night in the car, and I set up the tent in the dark, and climbed in for a fitful sleep.

Wilson Lake SP, KS

Wilson Lake, the only one in Kansas

Drove through miles of empty Kansas grassland, discussing the American condition and the suitability of farm subsidies. Stopped for lunch at the Real Country Grill in Wakeeny KS, only a spot on the map, and less of a mark on the land. Only a gas station and a place for grub, although some of the best biscuits and gravy I’ve ever had. Far and away better than Bob Evan’s, and a rival to Ruth Powell’s. Cruised across the rest of Kansas, and into Colorado. Excited to see a new state, although little changed until Denver. Through that city, and stopped on the other side at Dinosaur Ridge. Nice to stretch our legs in the cooler mountain air, and see some three toed tracks across ancient seashores. Incredible how much the landscape can change over geologic timescales.

Back in the car, up the mountains and happy to be done with the flatlands. Planned on stopping to commemorate the continental divide, but passed it in a tunnel on I-80, and got to Vail before realizing our misfortune. So no ceremonial marking of that great watershed event, only the knowledge that it was all downhill from here.

Lunch in Grand Junction, CO. Stopped to ask for recommendations for “cheap, local, tasty food” at the youth hostel, and some wise-ass offered Taco Bell. Instead went to an excellent pizza place almost under a bridge. Got an excellent large “all-the-way”, with anchovies and Avalanche on tap. Almost finished the damn thing, but we each gave up on our last piece. It made an excellent breakfast the next morning.

Mesa SP, AZ

Mesa Lake State Park (more TBP)

Through Glenwood Canyon, an impressive engineering feat, and a lot of fun to drive. Turned off I-80 at Mesa, expecting a short drive to a campground. Ended up ascending nearly 4,000 feet to the top of the aforementioned Mesa, and nearly running out of gas. Stopped at Jumbo campground, which appeared closed due to the tree across the entrance. But that wasn’t enough to stop the other occupants, and so we joined them. Met three men around a campfire, next to their motorcycles. They had plenty of bourbon, and offered to share. We weren’t about to turn them down, and we joined their party. It turns out they are aircraft engineers at Boeing, and one of them was MIT Aero/Astro class of ’65. We shared stories of our alma mater, and discussed how it had and hadn’t changed over the last forty years. Four drinks later, after exhausting all possible topics of conversation, I stumbled to the tent, and shivered my way to sleep in the cold mountain air. Although I was wearing a well insulated jacket and sleeping in a down bag, I faired better than Marko, who had only a sweatshirt and the car to keep him warm. We resolved to sleep at lower altitudes in the future.

Window Arch

North Window from Below

Out of the rockies and into Utah. Turned off the highway to see Arches National Park, which was worth every extra mile. Red rocks curved across the brilliant blue sky, created only by erosion, not a divine architect. It was great fun to climb on the slickrock, up to the ceiling of one of The Windows, and peer down on the desert from above. Very interesting to see the multitude of foreign tourists coming to see the best of America. A group of elderly German folks was as impressed with the scenery and astonished by the heat as I was. We had a moment of cross cultural understanding over the one water fountain in the park, as we both drank happily from the spigot.

Leaving Arches, we ventured further south to Moab, the home of mountain biking. Lunch at an excellent diner, with an ice cream bar inside for the perfect dessert. A patron there suggested we stop at Dead Horse Point State Park, and we followed his advice. It would be only a short distance out of our way, although 25 miles later we disputed that claim. Atop a mesa, looking down on the Colorado carved lanscape a thousand feet below, we didn’t need to see the Grand Canyon. The mesa came to a neck only five yards wide, which according to legend, cowboys used to trap wild horses, culling the strong ones and leaving the weak to die in the harsh sun far above the river below. Seems like bad business practice, and is probably exaggerated by time.

Marco at Deadhorse Canyon

Taking a panorama (TBP)

Back on the road, and north to Salt Lake City. Took a cutoff through Price, on what we would learn was the deadliest highway in the country. The police officers who stopped us were quite clear that our speed needed to be controlled on the sweeping downhill curves, and we were let go with a stern warning. I guess our stories checked out, and Marko’s accent made us seem as the naive travelers we were.

Keeping our speed in check, and on the lookout for law enforcement, we rolled into Salt Lake City at nightfall. We checked into a cheap downtown motel, showered, and went off looking for what fun there was to be had on a friday night in the Mormon capital of the world. We found a single bar within walking distance, that closed at 11:30. We drank quickly, and were kicked out into the night. Perhaps there was more fun to be had, as the crowd in front of a club indicated, but we were tired and in no mood for dancing.

Mormons

Creepy Mormons

Had lunch at a vegetarian restaurant, which appeared to be the coolest place in town judging by its clientele. Had a wonderful pesto pasta, which stopped my hunger but didn’t make me feel as if I was full. We stopped at KFC for seconds on the other side of the Nevada wasteland. Made it across that entire state, surrounded by biker gangs and truckers, all enjoying the scenery once we got off past the Bonneville salt flats. There was little sign of civilization until California, and we were careful to watch the gas gauge.

Stopped for dinner in Truckee, where we ate at an upscale yuppie bar, with a nearly twenty page wine selection. Luckily they also had a wide array of taps, and we toasted to the end of our journey together. Spent the night at Donner Lake State Park, the site of the infamous early pioneer camp. We didn’t resort to cannibalism, although we had discussed our feelings about it, and decided it was perfectly acceptable under the circumstances. One should be able to sign away one’s right not to be eaten, if one so wishes. What sort of country is it where you can’t decide that you want to make someone a tasty meal as your last wish?