Roam Away from Home: Part I

Escapism 

April, 2013 - Death Valley National Park, CA

My mouth tasted musky and stale, and my eyes felt puffy as Alice urgently shook me awake.

"Mmmmwhatsup?" I groaned.

"Yo dude," she replied with uncommon worry in her voice. "Steph's on the phone. Something's wrong in Boston."

My first thought went to our cat, Neko, who has a propensity to fill Steph with worry. I walked out of Alice and French's guest room, climbed over a still sleeping Tomek, and shuffled into the kitchen to pick up the phone. When I heard Steph on the other end of the line, I could tell it was clearly not about the cat.

"Rory," Steph said with a start. She sounded on edge. "Have you been watching the news?"

"Uhh, no," I responded sluggishly. "It's like...quarter to 6 here."

"Well you should turn it on. Like...a lot of shit went down last night."

"What do you mean?" I was no longer in a sleepy state. My eyes were wide and my heart pounded in my throat. Alice, French and Tomek all stared at me.

"They shot a cop." She started. "And the police were like chasing them all through Watertown and they were throwing bombs and everything. And now no one knows where they are? I don't know. We're on lock down. Charlie's coming over. Your mom called me this morning to tell me."

I was speechless. My friends all gathered around me, their eyes pleading with me to tell them what was happening.

"Are you okay?" I was finally able to muster.

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know. I'm pretty freaked out."

"Turn on WBUR," I mouthed to French. He made his way to the computer and soon I could hear Bob Oakes voice in the other room.

"The cop they shot, it was right across the street from my office," Steph went on.

We talked for a little while longer before I got off the phone to call my Mom and thank her for checking in on Steph. Steph had wanted me home, but with the city on lockdown and Logan surely shuttered, there was little I could do. What's worse was that I would be likely out of cell service for the next three days. As Alice whipped up sausages, biscuits and gravy, I walked outside to clear my head.

Death Valley extended beyond view before me. A dust storm at the far end of the valley obstructed the sight of the distant, sandy mountains. Around me, clay and red spires jutted into the clear sky. The air was hot and crisp with the taste of dust. The silence filled my ears, with only the subtle breeze licking my hair. The hot concrete patio warmed my feet. I stared off at bighorn trails coming down from the bluffs behind the house.

What the fuck am I doing here? I thought.

*     *     *     *

Boston, MA - Several Days Earlier

I walked into my office on Huntington Avenue groggy. I had spent the weekend reenacting the Battle of Lexington and Concord with my British unit His Majesty's First Foot Guards, and that Monday morning, I had awakened at 3 AM for the skirmish on Lexington Green. While many institutions offer Patriots Day off due to the Boston Marathon, my work did not, so I'd struggled to bike to work, winding my way through Boston, past throngs of spectators and barricades.

Work, thankfully, was laid back. We had a hot dog party for lunch and there wasn't much pressing business, so I spent much of the day reading The Atlantic and watching the hordes of people walking to the finish line across the street from my office. A loud boom ricocheted between the downtown towers. Several of my coworkers rushed to the window that overlooks the Prudential Center and Lord & Taylor, so I joined them filled with curiosity. A large black cloud rose over the buildings.

"Maybe they're firing cannons," one of my coworkers reasoned. "You know, cause it's Patriots Day?"

I'd been around cannon fire all weekend and could tell that that wasn't the sound. I said nothing, for fear of appearing a paranoid alarmist. Another boom echoed down the corridors of Boston and another plume of smoke rose up. By this time, people began streaming down the roads between Boylston and Huntington. Some people were running, others were walking calmly, as though they were leaving the Marathon normally. Three bros rolled an eight-foot high basketball with Greek letters on it down the street.

I kept trying to send out texts, but nobodies' phones were working, so I rushed to the computer to message friends. Before long, one of them sent a photo posted on reddit showing a large explosion on Beacon Street. After that, the news started pouring in. Two explosions at the finish line. Many injuries. Pandemonium. I'd parked my bike on the sidewalk, so I ran down to get it out of the way of the now countless ambulances parked in front of my building. The streets were chaos. A group of pre-teen boys walked up to me and asked how to get to Downtown Crossing. I tried to remember how to get down there, my mind was fogged with confusion. I gave them some directions, but don't know if I sent them the right way. I grabbed my bike and went upstairs.

We waited in the office for another hour before leaving out the back. Joined by some of my coworkers who live near Brighton, we made our way through the back streets to avoid major roadways. The streets were flooded with people and cops were everywhere. Walking past bars, we saw people silently glued to TV screens, watching. Steph called me frantically, asking how long until I would be home. When I parted ways with the last of my coworkers, I hopped on my bike and sped home -- the streets were now devoid of cars. Steph and I spent the rest of the afternoon watching the news, slowly sipping on bourbon. When night came, we turned the news off and put on 30 Rock, but our minds wandered.

Work was cancelled the next day, as we were within the police investigation radius. I asked Steph and my parents if I should cancel my upcoming trip to Death Valley. I was scheduled to depart on Wednesday night.

"No, you should go." They said. "It'd be good to get out of the city for a few days."

My plans went unchanged.

By wednesday, my office reopened. Biking through BU and Kenmore, nothing seemed different. Just Boston on a nice spring day. When I got to Mass Ave, however, the scene changed. State troopers covered head to toe in kevlar, strapped with assault rifles, patrolled the streets. Turret-mounted National Guard humvees blockaded Beacon Street and barriers were set up to stop traffic. Fire trucks and police cars thundered down the street, sirens blaring. Work was quiet. No one really spoke. We mostly just stared out the window, watching events unfold across the way. I went home at 4 and got ready to fly to Las Vegas.

*     *     *     *

My gut jumped. The plane was dark, the sound of the engines droning muffled the quiet chatter inside the cabin. I heard a slight "ping!" and saw the seatbelt sign glimmer on. We were going through bone rattling turbulence. Again, the sound of a dull thud and my stomach jumped. The melted ice and whiskey residue in my cup tipped over and snaked across the tray table. My stomach began to grumble and cramp and suddenly I realized I needed to vomit. Next to me, a sleeping couple in their 30s blocked my way to the aisle. I did a quick mental calculation: Do I wake them up to go to the bathroom, or do I use the barf bag? Quickly, my mind turned to the prospect of waking them up by vomiting next to them, so I opted to go to the bathroom. Once there, I took a few deep breaths and felt at ease again. I arranged myself in the uncomfortable chair and looked at the map. We were over Missouri. The turbulence continued to Nevada.

It was dark when the plane landed, the warm, dry air kissed my face as I walked onto the jetbridge. Looking out on the darkened valley, I could see lights of Las Vegas glowing sickly above the city. To the west, the specter of a setting sun silhouetted the shadowed mountains. I gave Steph a call to tell her I'd landed and to see if everything was okay in Boston. If she was upset with me for leaving, she hid it. Exiting the airport, I began a confusing bout of texting with Alice as she tried to direct me to her current location. After I finally found the car, I was cheerfully greeted by my friends.

Tomek wouldn't land until the next day (which was more than fine--it had taken some effort to coordinate our trip anyway), so we had about 18 hours to kill. Originally, we'd considered camping for the night at Lake Mead, but my late arrival killed that idea. So, instead, we dropped our gear off at the dreary Four Queens Hotel and wandered around the Fremont neighborhood. Illuminated by the neon lights of Sinatra's day, the neighborhood now stood as a dusty relic of the days of Old Las Vegas. Pings and flashes erupted from various casinos and restaurants. Disheveled young men with backwards baseball caps and floral swim trunks sauntered down the walkways, eyes fiery red with booze and anger, looking for a fight, as the spectacle of the Walkway of Lights danced above us. We wandered into a piano bar and watched a few acts while sipping tall boys of PBR (which does taste different out there) before heading back to the hotel.

The next morning, we packed the car and made our way to breakfast at the unpretentiously-named "eat."  Peering over the menu, I saw a word I had not seen before.

"What's this say?" I asked Alice.
"It's called chilaquiles. You should get them, they're good."

"Chilaquiles -  scrambled eggs, turken, jalapeno mango sausage, corn tortilla chips w/ red & green new mexican chili & pico"

What the description neglected to mention is that chilaquiles are more accurately called "breakfast nachos," or as I like to say, "breakfast fucking nachos." The meal came out in a stately casserole dish, with fresh-made salsa and a generous glob of unmentioned guacamole. Even writing about it makes my stomach pang. Our bellies delighted with fine food and dark coffee, we got back in car and made our way west towards the mountains.

Towering red rocks stood above the highway, like the statues of Argonath, as our car wound its way through boulder-covered scrub desert: Red Rocks National Conservation Area.

Wandering up the trail, the sun warmed my skin. It was late April, so the heat was not yet oppressive. It was a nice change from the balmy spring weather back East. As we walked aimlessly through the open desert, Alice told me how it was unwise to approach a desert tortoise, as they might urinate and die of dehydration if harassed. Ahead, we spotted a large, adobe-colored rock, about the size of a one story cape home, pock marked with nooks and crannies. We followed a sand-covered channel that carved its way up the side of the rock, acting as a trail to the top. Hoisting ourselves up to the crown of the boulder, we sat and looked out on the valley before us, the wall of mountains behind, and the endless desert all around. In the distance, a vulture circled an unseen meal and the towers of Vegas were distorted by the waves of heat. We wandered up the trail, climbing over smooth rock faces as we pleased, before our water began running low and we turned back.

By the time we made it to the car, we realized we had about 40 minutes until Tomek landed, so we raced back to the city.

Tom squinted and beamed when he saw us.

"Yoooo!" He hollered, holding the "o" for a while before he broke into a delighted laugh. We all embraced before dispensing with the necessary small talk. How was the flight? It was fine. Did they feed you? Just a cookie and a coffee. Did you sleep? No.

The day was getting late and we were all hungry, so we made our way to Tacos el Gordo for tacos. It was located in a strip mall, next to a touristy tchotchke shop and a liquor store fortified with bulletproof glass. Inside, the florescent light faltered, slightly strobing the dining area, and we watched large cuts of mouth-watering meat sizzle on the grill or rotate on a spit. Although I don't "dine on swine," Alice urged me to try the spice pork, so I obliged and ordered one of those with a lengua taco to boot. People from the Southwest enjoy fighting over who has the best Mexican food while simultaneously reminding East Coast folk that ours is barely better than taco bell. While I disagree that East Coast Mexican food is garbage and am too ignorant to say which western state has the best Mexican food, I will say that Mexican food out there is something to behold. The second I bit into that taco, all my worry about Steph, Boston, the bombings and not being able to check in back home with ease (not much cell service in Death Valley, even on Verison), all of that vanished. I was man. I was eating taco. Taco was wonder. That was all. And before I knew it, they were gone. So I ordered another, wolfed it down, and got in the car to head further West.

We pulled up to Alice and French's new place, just down the street from their old apartment. A cool breeze blew across the valley and the stars glistened silvery behind swift passing blue-grey clouds. Their new puppy, Ethel, yipped excitedly, her wagging tail whipping her backside back and forth uncontrollably, her big feet stammering clumsily as we walked through the door. We dropped our gear and grabbed a beer before heading out to the driveway to look out on the valley, dark and grim in the night. It was hard to discern the mountains in the distance, how far the desert expanded before us, but the presence of the open grandeur of the place loomed like a ghost in our midst. Alice and French explained the itinerary of the weekend. We would make way for the Alabama Hills at the foot of Mount Whitney for a night of car camping before heading to Panamint City for a backcountry excursion. She pointed vaguely across the valley. Tomorrow, we would be heading away.

*     *     *     *

Tom and I listened intently to WBUR's telling of the previous night's events over the computer speakers as Alice and French worked on our breakfast, the smell of sizzling sausage permeated the house. We sat around their small kitchen table, Ethel waiting patiently by our feet for falling food, and talked soberly about what was happening in Boston. My brain working feverishly and my stomach fit to split, I excused myself and walked to the bluff overlooking the park staff village. The valley stretched out before me, a plume of dust traveled across it, revealing the endless beyond. 

The air was still and silent but for the sound of rocks and dirt crumbling under my feet. I called Steph to check in and make sure she was all set. I'd call her and text her whenever I had service, I told her. She told me to go have fun and that she'd update me with any developments. I put my phone back in my pocket, lingering on the sight of the park as I worried about venturing into it, out of reach of anyone who might need me.

We passed swiftly through the park, down to the belly of the valley, passing the bleak, open range and the kaleidoscope of browns painting the distant mountains. The rolling sands of the Mesquite Dunes rippled along the horizon and I rolled down the window to feel the dry, broiling heat of the desert. 

The road swept up before us, rolling its way towards the rising hills and away from the valley floor. The sky above us was clear and burning blue, and a haze hung in the mountains, like a fog that distorted our view, making the ranges seem distant, untouchable, unknowable. Before long, we were in the middle of the mountains, snaking along deep canyons and slopes. And oh! the colors of the mountains: Ivory to turquoise to adobe to blood red to charcoal to black. Rivets dug and wove into the sides of the hills like towering termite mounds. Beyond us, Panamint Valley opened up, a with blinding silvery sheet glazed across the playa.

Our ears popped as we dropped into the desolate valley. There was not another car in sight. No buildings to be seen. The only manmade object visible was the sweltering asphalt before us. As we sped across the playa, the distant mountains charged towards us, bulbous and lashed with white stripes. Back into the mountains, we stopped at Father Crowley Point, a dark, gaping canyon like a wound in the side of the range that emptied into the valley below. Alice and French told us that sometimes fighter jets will dive into the canyon, bringing to mind a certain scene from Independence Day, but there were no jets today. Instead, we found the Park outhouse riddled with bullet holes, likely fired from a high-powered rifle. Through the door were about twelve good-sized holes, with more perforating the stone structure. I opened the door to the bathroom, which rattled with lead from the still-trapped bullets. Only one had made it all the way through the door. Its resting place was in the wall above the toilet--about head level if one was sitting on the toilet. We joked about taking a group photo in front of the bullet-riddled door, but agreed that it was too grim (and probably bad medicine).

From there, we passed through more scrub-covered desert and dusty mountains. The land immediately around us flattened out and the road took a turn, revealing a stunning sight: The Sierra Nevada Mountains. They were still capped with snow, looming imposingly in the distance, an impossible tower of granite on the horizon slowly came towards us. I could only imagine the early settlers, after toiling through such unforgiving land, seeing the sight of those mountains must have been like a punch in the gut (or maybe a little lower). But for us, who did not need to make it through those mountains, the view was magnificent. As we came closer, blasting our way past Owen's Lake, the emerald forest at the mountains' base gleamed vibrantly in the midmorning sun.

Passing through Lone Pine, we made our way into the Alabama Hills. Big, bulbous rocks--ranging in scope from van-sized to building-sized--were scattered across the land haphazardly. The place looked like The Flinstones' Bedrock. There were a few other cars parked about, with rock climbers scaling their way up the face of these monoliths. We found a cul-de-sac to claim for ourselves (it's a big place and we didn't want to share our space with others) before grabbing a duffle bag full of rock climbing gear and making our way to a nice spot to scramble up.

The area we were climbing in was shaped like half a crater; a semi-circle surrounded by towering, tan colored boulders, some over 200 feet high. They grew and expanded beyond the cove floor, with the peaks of the Sierra Nevadas looming above them. Across the way, on a big, flat-faced rock, several climbers made their way to the lofty summit of the 200-foot boulder, appearing like lizards basking in the afternoon sun. The rock we chose was much more manageable. At 75 feet, a novice climber like me wouldn't have too much trouble.

French--the best climber in the group--attached his harness and lines, and made his way up the rock as quickly and adeptly as a mountain goat. Every few feet, he found an anchor and attached the line. He made it to the top, admired the view for a time, and rappelled back down to give Tom a turn. Tom nimbly made his way up the rock face.

"Move your right hand about two feet up," Alice shouted as Tomek searched for his next hold."Good. Now your left foot to where your knee is."

After Tom, Alice took her turn. And then it was my turn. I emptied my pockets--wallet, leatherman, pipe and tobacco--to make the harness fit more easily. I'd handed my phone to Alice, but after putting my harness on, I took it back thinking maybe I could snap a photo from the top.

It was tough going getting up the rock. My friends shouted footing suggestions as I ascended. Finally, I got to the top and pulled the line out to brake. I looked up at the snowy Sierras as the dry, warm breeze from the desert floor warmed my skin.

"How is it up there?" Alice shouted.

"Quite nice!"

"Take a picture!"

"Fuck that!" I replied, as I couldn't maneuver my phone safely out of my pocket. I enjoyed the view for another moment before making my descent to the ground, when I noticed my pocket shake. As anyone who's had a cell phone for a while knows, sometimes you get a "ghost text," or feel like your phone is vibrating in your pocket even if no one is contacting you (or if you don't even have it in your pocket). I figured this was what was happening--we were in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and I hadn't had service for hours--so I ignored it. Until my pocket vibrated again. And again. And again.

I quickly rappelled down and took off my harness. Ethel greeted me exuberantly, with enthusiastic tail wags and kisses.

"My phone was going crazy up there. I wonder what's up."

Now normally, dear reader, I try to avoid using my phone while in the great outdoors. But aforementioned factors encouraged me to try to stay in touch with the outside world.

I took of my harness and pulled out my phone. Eight new texts. Most were folks asking me if I was okay, but the ones from Steph were alarming. The police were hunting for the bombers in Watertown--just across the river from our apartment. The city was still on lock-down. Everyone was ordered to shelter in place. Our friend Charlie was still over keeping Steph company. She had yelled at our upstairs neighbor for smoking a cigarette on the front porch--maniacs were on the loose after all! I shot her a text back. Stay safe. Don't open the door for anyone. I love you. Then I lost service again.

Throughout the afternoon, we kept climbing the egg-shaped rock, finding different paths up the side of it. Between climbing and being the anchor, I followed Ethel as she chased a kangaroo rat from hole to hole.

Every time I summited, I'd get more texts. I'd descent and respond. Mostly they were from Steph, and I was happy to get to talk to her. Otherwise they were from friends and neighbors who knew my residence's proximity to the action.

Are you safe? They all asked.

I'm in the middle of the desert in California. Couldn't be safer. Thanks for asking. I'd reply.

*     *     *     *

On my last climb, the texts from Steph got confusing. The shelter-in-place was called off. Then it was back on. SWAT teams were storming people's homes. One of the bombers was dead, killed by his brother. No one knew where the other one was.

By then the sun was waning and we had to set up camp and make dinner. I shot off one more encouraging text to Steph before I lost service. And that was all I knew for the rest of the evening.


After setting up our tents, we all cracked a Great Basin Icky IPA and wandered around our rocky cove. I tried to put my worries of home out of my mind and stay in the present. We found a cave in the rocks and wandered our way through it. Eventually, the cave narrowed to a foot-and-a-half wide slit in the rock. Alice scrambled through it and I followed, almost getting stuck at the end (what a fun way to spend the night that would have been!). At the bottom, we found a sandy den with charred burns on the ceiling--an old shelter from a passerby in the past.

We rejoined Tomek and French on the boulder above the den and watched the sun set behind the desert. As we were now in the shadow of the mountain, the air cooled rapidly. The land before us was baked in an orange glow as the shadows of the mountain crept across the desert, jagged and random, like the teeth of a beast slowly devouring the land into night. 

Back at the camp, we enjoyed a few more beers and started our dinner. We set about dicing up potatoes, onions, peppers, carrots and sausage before dousing them with olive oil and wrapping the mix in tin foil. Thrown onto the grill above the fire, we listened to our meal sizzle appetizingly as we sipped on cans of Olys. The tin foil blackened with charred markings, we opened up the wrap and scooped generous mounds of the food onto our plates before covering it with cheese. The entire meal was devoured in short order.

The sun left us and the sky turned royal blue, displaying a wondrous spectacle of stars. Big, beaming planets, clusters of distant suns and the Milky Way nebula slowly came into focus as the night grew darker. Thousands of miles away, police were firing hundreds of rounds into a boat containing the bombing suspect. The city watched shocked as he was pulled bloodied from his hiding place. My family, friends and coworkers all sat and reflected about what this all meant and where our city would go from here. But under the starlight, next to our campfire, I knew nothing of this. Surrounded by friends with a cold beer in my hand and food in my belly, I looked out across the quiet desert, said a silent goodnight to Steph, wandered to my tent, and remembered no more.