The Forward Frontier

By Scott J. Bockus

"Thus, traveling across the country would soon commence, and I was excited by the prospect. So far, I had been in want of a new kind of adventure anyhow, as I had lately overstayed my welcome in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I had learned all the identifications of all the trees, shrubs, plants, animals, insects, rocks, clouds, and soils in that place; and met all the people I had need to. I grew somewhat tired of those mountains - covered in rocks and glacial debris and fir trees - though it remains among the most charitable scenes in all my since traveled ones. But ten months in the north woods can take a toll on the wanderer, and on his mind, and it was high time that I depart from it (not my mind of course, but the north woods). I made my courteous rounds and said my goodbyes to friends, colleagues, acquaintances, neighbors, allies, and even enemies alike; I had more of this last variety then I had made room for. Leaving a comfortable home has never been easy, I should think, in all of human history, but alas, I left it and did it passing by all the hills I had grown so fond of, and all the rivers and lakes and streams and ponds that I had swum in and fished in and admired for so long for their freedom and beauty. Indeed, I was leaving New England and heading the other way; away from that quaint and wonderful part of the country begotten in foliage and stuck in the corner of America like the gold nugget clinging to the quartz vein, and into what I could say was the unknown, or at least what could pass for the unknown if questioned by authorities."

And so, after living in the White Mountains for nearly a year, Scott J. Bockus took to the road. It was the first time he would cross the Mississippi River and the first time he would pierce the west. An insatiable appetite for travel soon followed. The Forward Frontier is a personal account of his first two plunges into the guts of America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503560826

Book preview

CHAPTER I

DEPARTING AND NASHVILLE

Growing up in New England, thoughts of the American West were as far away as thoughts got; indeed they were as far as the moon even; and they always ignited a conflagration within my childhood imagination that could not be extinguished, try as I might. Whether it was seeing paintings of bison herds on the Great Plains, or watching movies set in the desert, or reading about the great explorers of the mountains, I knew there was something special about the landscape, the lifestyle, the open spaces. At school, I found myself dreaming of driving cattle or climbing high Rocky Mountain Peaks; fishing in pristine rivers and skiing through untouched powder, down long snowy trails. My mind was at complete ease, though my grades may have taken issue with the thoughts. It was never one specific circumstance, rather a conglomerate of them; a collage of sorted adventure, rugged as it ever was. Opportunity of land, gold, and success drove pioneers of the 19th century westward; curiosity and determination for things new drove me.

It was first a matter of gathering these traveling companions I have alluded to that took precedent, as I felt it should make the experience memorable and perhaps even enjoyable if common interests prevailed; so I went and gathered three of them and we got to getting about. We met together to discuss how long we would travel for, because unfortunately we were limited to the time they could manage; as I had all the time under the sun, but would be subject to their schedules for the time being, which were limited in scope due to their occupations doing what occupations do. No matter, it was the price I should pay for companionship. Disappointing, why yes, but I concluded it would be better to travel with people for a time instead of by myself for a little more time, for companionship always makes for a better experience, that is, of course, if it does not make for a worse one; at least that’s what I have been told anyhow. We agreed on this first excursion to take place during the summer months, as I have said. It was going to get hot, but we were prepared for that, somewhat prepared for that I should say. After all, we were a party of Yankees from New England who had never been far from home, specifically in July and August. How hot could it get? One can imagine a great deal of misery if he tries diligently enough, but I judged we should find out soon enough, and an easy happiness pervaded.

By and by, we got to deciding our destinations. It is true that planning to see a country as big as the United States is a complicated and challenging, laborious and toilsome task, partnered with a degree of difficulty that is only enhanced by a hastened schedule like the one we should have. And, once we had time to be realistic, the whole thing was quite impossible. It was like trying to get everyone that wanted to see the super bowl a seat in the stadium for kickoff. Our eyes had to be the same size as our stomachs, else we would never manage, so we got together and compromised as best as four men who would call themselves leaders in private company could do. Moreover, our party, out of necessity, needed to be of democratic influence; we needed to be reasonable. I started second guessing my decision to go with a party at all, I had to, there were too many places under the knife ; Big Bend National Park- gone, Los Angeles – gone, San Francisco – gone, the whole state of Kansas – gone. What was happening to my great American road trip? How stirred up about the whole thing I was!

Pondering the situation in no light way, but rather with the highest intensity my young mind could yet administer, I concluded that being with others would trump my somewhat selfish idea of seeing absolutely everything everywhere; from Canada to Mexico; the Atlantic to the Pacific. Everything could never be seen anyways and everywhere could never be visited; it was the idea of sharing memories that won the day, I suppose.

Our plan finally started coming together; it was solidifying as sand becomes sandstone - though I prayed it wouldn’t take as long. We would travel south to New Orleans, west to Las Vegas, north to Yellowstone and east back home. The route would include visits to Nashville, central Texas, Tucson, the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, the Grand Tetons, Badlands National Park and Mount Rushmore. The excitement was set at high and the pace was set at extreme.

Everyone began counting down the days until we departed from Connecticut. Messages were exchanged daily to discuss our plans, but most of the time they were to relay excitement. Preparing for a journey like it got us spun up with contemplation. Whether it was choosing gear, researching the locations we would soon visit and the routes we would soon take, or day dreaming of what lie ahead; an adventuress spirit captured us all. Although we would not be exploring virgin territory with one eye on the tree line searching for Natives or panning for gold on towering peaks never before seen by man, there was a sense of frontiersmen grit in our souls clawing for release. Henry David Thoreau once wrote, Not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and though we hoped never to be truly lost at any point on our trip, the idea struck deep. Would this be more than just a sight-seeing tour? Would we discover anything about ourselves we hadn’t known before? It seemed likely, after all; where better to discover something new about yourself than in a new place, especially a place like the wilds of America? The whole thing was galvanizing!

Now, the preparation for a trip where one does not expect resupply at any point along his path, or doesn’t rely on anyone but himself for the good business of memory, can be somewhat stressful; if he cannot make head nor tails of his essential needs as compared to his mere comforts, then he will no doubt wish he had never signed up for such a journey as he has - I judge the camper who has left the toilet paper at home is quite familiar with the matter. Nor is he without the detriment of forgetful companions either. Rest assured, if he does not bring it, he should not expect it to be brought, and only an act of chance should save him grief if he indeed happens to succumb to his human nature and think passed a key necessity. As it was, presently, I incurred two months worth of checklist items and would not accept the limits of my species; if it was forgotten, then it was not suppose to be remembered.

It was July 23rd, and I had just finished packing all my possessions into 5,500 cubic inches of Navy Blue backpack. Doubtless, to reiterate, I had forgotten anything; this was a trip I had been planning for months and my preparation was second only to the paratroopers dropping into Normandy. There is a moment before embarking on an adventure, one to places thus far uncharted, where the feelings of expectation and the unsuspected leap together over all reservations and are manifested in a passionate awareness of one’s own instinct for his personal frontier. Such awareness existed in me as I looked dead eyed and daydreaming about the back roads of Connecticut in front of me, and although I never pried, I’m sure it existed in my companions as well.

We had lately finished packing our rented four-door sedan to its absolute capacity – including a bountiful red cooler with all our food and drink, crammed between those two ruinous souls in the backseat – and took off Westbound on Interstate 84. The drive from Connecticut to Tennessee is 17 hours long, and we rotated drivers in order to keep a fresh, awake, and alert operator at the wheel, lest someone fall asleep and veer off the road, prematurely ending our trip or perhaps our lives. I was second shift, meaning that I was driving through the intervening states of Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia and Virginia. I began around 8:00 PM and drove until around 3:00 AM. I was the only one awake on that quiet stretch of highway (mostly in Northern Virginia) because my companions had fallen into a grass induced slumber, leaving me to watch the road and keep awake by my earthly lonesome. A blissful peace was my only sober companion. At the hour of mid-night, on the highway with only tractor trailers for company and no strict schedules to keep, I eyed the truck drivers with admiration. That they drove these highway roads through the night over and again without even a hiccup of sensitivity to the first time explorers riding along side them, looking at them for far too long with star-stricken eyes when just as suddenly a herd of deer could have ended their gaze as innocently as it had started. No matter, only some of the rough necks looked back at me and made eye contact. None of them smiled, and if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought two of them cursed me. Perhaps there was a hiccup of sensitivity after all. No matter, I kept looking anyway – they were heroes, to be sure.

Arriving in Radford, VA., I lobbied out of the driver position and became instead, a passenger once more. My companions were by this time alert enough to inquire where we were, and had the sense enough to insist we keep going. Sleep became an issue. Presently, I was too excited to fall asleep, and to pass the hours before arriving in Nashville, I observed the rolling hills and intermittent farmland with an eye for rural exceptionalism as my bag-eyed driver began to worry me some with his very own sleep issues.

A certain nostalgia exists in the ancient foothills of the southern Appalachians, something that conjures up images of revolution to mind, and yet also loans the soul a feeling of serenity - A confusing but most accurate contrast. I ought to think it pervades like a bubble above all the adjacent valleys and farms from Georgia to Maine, and Maine to New Brunswick even; and that Ichabod Crane surveys it on horseback twice a year with shaky confidence and a trembling horse.

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The South has, indeed, a unique kind of kindness; a way of making a person feel at home and comfortable, as if he were on his own town green, or picking apples from his own orchard, or playing in his own backyard, or fishing in his own favorite fishing hole. It is the Grandmother of the U.S., I think. Nor is it confined to the small towns alone. That inviting, warm, comfortable way of southern hospitality has infected the cities of the south as sure as the sunrise. Nashville is a perfect example. It was strange to me that a city could elicit such an emotion; I was used to every last one of them operating in hectic and dejecting fashion. Had I known a city could be so receiving, perhaps I would have holstered my judgment.

Entering Nashville, Tennessee, was a much welcomed break from the long hours spent on the road. My first impression of the city, upon driving into it, was that it was small, rather small, particularly small, at least smaller than I had imagined. For reasons that I couldn’t isolate, I imagined Nashville as a metropolis rather than what it was; a quaint and cozy, and glorified town. It had large buildings as any respectable capitol city should, and a few sky-scrapers that were scraping very little, but nothing that really impressed as a skyline and took hold of the first time visitor. In fact, it was a city much in size comparable to those small New England ones: Providence, Manchester, Springfield, Portland, Concord, Bennington, Bangor, New Haven, and Hartford. I was surprised some, but it was good to arrive in our first city, not to be overwhelmed and swallowed by it like so many. After the long drive we had through the night we were happy to be relaxing and taking a load off before we dove into the night life.

No account of Nashville would be complete without first mentioning the music. After all, a moniker is no light matter and should be elaborated as often as time allows. It is true that I am no country music fan, in fact, I rarely listen to it at all, but there is a quality to it that fits Nashville like a glove, and during my visit, I didn’t want to listen to anything else. Under-rewarded musicians play in small bars all about the city and it is baffling that one doesn’t pay higher ticket prices in order to be in the presence of such talent. In fact, one doesn’t pay any price for any ticket, the bands just play, and do so as if they don’t understand the level at which they are doing it. No doubt a man can go to any other city in the country and sit down at its finest bandstand and not be honored with half the jubilant sounds he will hear if he were to sit down at the grimiest place in Nashville on a Monday afternoon. No wonder, then, how so many accomplished bands are bred and sent from Nashville to the national stage, and occasionally the world stage, and they are always in a deep debt of gratitude to the cities best efforts, I presume.

The amount of this jubilant sound leaking from those burnt brown doors of Broadway Street added so much to the character of the city itself; so much. It was as if the city was inhaling tension and exhaling only the finest music. Indeed, a guitar played in Nashville is an art - just as a picture painted in Italy, or a sculpture sculpted in Paris, or a church built in London, or a Buddah carved in Thailand, or a poem written in New England, or a pizza made in Chicago - and so many different styles of it are dropped everywhere.

We stayed at a Sheraton or a Ramada I think, perhaps a Holiday Inn – nice, but hardly memorable; as is apparent now. We checked in around 10:30 in the morning and got some playing cards out for the occasion. That is we got some playing cards out to play set-back around an oak coffee table the size of a manhole cover until early afternoon.

The game began with the draw for teams according to the sacred custom – the two highest cards drawn are to be on one team while the two lowest cards drawn thus are on the other team – and right away we got to controversy which had surely been stoked by the long hours on the road building up an irritation with one another; a quiet irritation, but an irritation all the same, that caused us some trouble. See, one of us was dealt an ace which by all means is the highest card in the deck, but not according to all present company, so a re-deal was in order. Very well, the cards were re-dealt. Now it was the joker that came up, as we had lately forgotten to take them out of the deck, and so another re-deal was voted upon and approved; all of us in agreement that a joker has no place in any worthy deck of 52 cards; the last agreement we would have for quite some time too. I have yet to come across any respectable occupation for the joker before and since, and would call to impeach it from office if I were a member of congress. I have been told it is a good thing I am no public official. No matter, again, re-deal. We thought we got it right this time, for there were two high cards and two low cards thus forming two teams; four cards in total. Alas, it was not to be, as one of the cards had a hitch-hiking 5 of clubs stuck to its backside, stirring up groans, moans, grumbles, sighs; even an accusation of conspiracy, and eventually a call for another re-deal was the only logical course of action.

By now it was getting some in the room aggravated and restless to the point where two of the party wished to call it fate, and abandon the game altogether. That is until an appeal came from the other in the party and myself to keep playing, as we still had time before the city was ready for us. Know; it was still before noon and by all means we had to exercise patience. We had degraded from votes on re-deals to votes on the continuation of the game at large. The anti-game faction presented their case with evidence, intelligence, efficiency, timeliness, clarity, relevance, persuasiveness, charm, readiness, willingness, respectfulness, kindness, intuitiveness, and even genius. We did not listen. We presented our case with evidence, intelligence, efficiency, timeliness, clarity, relevance, persuasiveness, charm, readiness, willingness, respectfulness, kindness, intuitiveness, and even genius. They did not listen. It was the 38th parallel. Indeed, an iron curtain fell across the room; perhaps a great wall even.

Well, some time passed in heedless debate until finally we adjourned for deliberation, and when we came out of it my confidant had switched over to the other side! It was over, or so I thought. That is until I discovered that one from the anti-game faction had presently switched his mind and was now for the game; we were back at two versus two. How the irony was mad!

It was tiresome work, and our inclination was to rest a short time, but, naturally, this lasted only until we realized we were without beer, and so forth without spirits, and so we took a walk down Broadway St. to look for a package store; deciding to argue some more about the card game over a drink or two; the idea that it would loosen us up for understanding on both sides. To all of our surprise, we couldn’t find one, instead, what we found were bars already open with taps flowing and live music radiating like a meltdown. We looked at each other with the same thought, It’s only 2:00 PM! Is this really happening? We rubbed our eyes and everything was still there so we hustled back to the Hampton Inn (That’s what it was!) to get ready for what would surely be an entertaining night and forgot all about the card game for the time being. I suppose we had passed 3 hours on the debate. How time flies with stubborn games.

As the afternoon began, we entered one bar after the other, and then after the other, we entered into the rest. Each one had its own character and luridness, and they all had that wonderful country music we had come to expect, no, demand. That, and they all had the drinks any self respecting southerner should ever wish for: Hot Buttered Rum, Smashing Pumpkin Cocktail, Hard Cider, Whiskey Punch, Southern Brandy, Alabama Slammers, Southern Comfort, Banana Bourbon, Orleans Streamers, Big Man’s Drop, General Lee’s Stallion, and of course, Tennessee Whiskey and Ten High Kentucky Whiskey. Experimenting with the samples proved an enviable task. As a rule, one does not get far with himself on Broadway Street. Rather, he steps out onto the promenade of sobriety and becomes a different species entirely; with different sensibilities and different objectives. Now, he is more likely to greet a stranger with cordiality or run off with a crowd he knows nothing about. He is more likely to feel courage and avoid embarrassment; to sing, to dance, to introduce himself as a famous tennis player. He is drunk, and he is happy.

By and by we arrived at the Wild Horse Saloon as the sun was setting, and entered cautiously on otherwise unsteady feet. If I was told I had found my way onto a lobster boat I would have believed it, with all the bobbing up and down, and all the wobbling side to side as was going on. As it was, the success was in not getting sea sick and spilling Ole’ Bernie’s chum bucket all about the dance floor! That is where we headed straight to, see - the dance floor. We had the courage now to line dance for the very first time, each of us; which in itself is an activity of high and delicate coordination, requiring the utmost self-control and the purest intentions. I ought to think we had none of these. Even if we had walked into the place as sober as nuns, we should have stood no chance, I think. Presently, we formed what we assumed to be a line in the very back row of the delegation and got to stepping about just as we saw the stage instructor do. We also took notice of the other dancers in line and tried to mimic them as best we could. I put one step forward, lurched over a bit, then three steps back, turned the wrong way around, adjusted myself, then turned the other way, which was now the wrong way again, leaned to one side, bumped into a stranger, leaned to the other side, took two steps forward, bumped into another stranger, burped, took two steps back, burped again, bumped into one of my bumbling companions, and then was back at my starting position. Very well, it didn’t take long before we, as a group of four, were singled out and given all the unwanted intention that the huge ballroom could hold and not exceed capacity. The stage instructor paused for some time and then jumped down from the stage and made her way toward us in the back. Know; it was among 70 dancers that she came to fix us, and fix us she tried, with the noblest intent, but was outdone by our incoherent influences. It had the advantage that she needed, surely, but again, she tried with all her will to stop the disaster at the back end of the dance floor. It was a disaster too, and no natural one could compare. I think she referred to it as a disgrace; but both terms were acceptable, and if used in combination should probably best describe the catastrophe. She counted the steps, named the directions, showed us the moves, guided us by hand, guided us by feet, but nothing seemed to work. And, nothing did work. We were no better off than when we had started, and she gave up on us after much effort and a monumental amount of patience. To tell the truth, we were worse off than when we had started.

Of course, that was no way to finish our night. So long as we were in charge of our basic dexterity’s and capable of standing on our own two feet, we tried in earnest to honor our first night of festivities with the highest degree of effort that our young minds could yet handle and still function properly in the morning; though functioning properly in the morning was not as prioritized as we should have later liked to remember.

We made our way to Printer’s Alley; a much celebrated section of Nashville known for its traditional character and its smaller than usual crowds, and entered into and exited a handful of bars once we had passed under the bright yellow sign arching above the alley’s entrance and goading the inebriated forward. One of the bars was a karaoke bar, so we spent some time; the conclusion of which should find us on the brink of enough embarrassment to shame a defense attorney. Inside, there was a stage just slightly elevated from the dance floor which was situated adjacent to the bar and many of the dining tables. Four or five of them were filled with diners, but the rest were empty due to the approaching hour of 2 AM, or thereabouts. The karaoke was still running, but no one was on the machine. No one was on the stage. No matter, two of my companions took it upon themselves to entertain the room, and for no pay, too. They were far passed the Appendix and through the Glossary of their night anyhow. That they managed to locate the microphones at all was surprising, but that they were holding them the wrong way was about right; ever a sadder sight could not be imagined, even by those quacks who predict doomsdays, I think. It was the most sobering racket I have ever heard. One went into a ear-piercing falsetto and held steady there as the other went low to try and complement it. The result was a hexing curse of sound which drew the attention of every startled countenance in the bar. As the falsetto continued, the other waxed and waned, and moved about all over the board, jumping from scale to scale, and crawling through lyrics like a private through a muddy obstacle course. When the song mercifully ended, the bar cheered and cheered in a most sarcastic way, which of course my companions took for genuine applause, and they walked out two very proud men.

Why, the remainder of the night could be told by an innocent bystander, perhaps even by an officer of the law, and be told with more accuracy than if I were to continue with it, so I shall not. Presumably, we saw the city as it should be seen, and gave it our support; particularly the bartenders, as we visited every last one of them and showed it to them in person.

CHAPTER II

NEW ORLEANS

Leaving Nashville at 9:30 in the morning, we had an 8 hour drive to New Orleans, which was met with lethargy and proved difficult considering the night previous. With a good outlook riding along, though, our excitement lent us the energy that three cups of coffee failed to do, and we made it to New Orleans successfully; in that we got there at all. Upon our arrival, driving through the outskirts of the city, I couldn’t help but look for the signs of devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina which had battered it some years prior. Never having been to New Orleans before, I was worried that the city’s vibrant soul wouldn’t be as vibrant anymore; its magic not as magical, its magnificence not as magnificent, but my worrying was for nothing. I ought to think it looked just the same as it did before the storm. In fact, I was told it did.

We checked into our hotel around 5:30 PM. - the architecture was French Colonial, mostly; the walls were painted with scenes from the war, and the banisters were carved with intricate waves of design. Andrew Jackson was seen here and there giving orders to his troops. The paint and the wood had been giving way to their age for some time, I presume, and large swaths of dull color and splintering wood set the age precisely. The room we settled into for the night was much the same as the lobby, and had a significant amount of wear from the passing years, but was charming enough for the party; our chiefest concern being that it had enough beds for when we stumbled back to it later that night, and enough windows to ventilate it the next morning; which it had.

We met up with a friend from New England who was visiting the city for the first time himself. He had been living in Florida for the time being and was out our way for the weekend. Him living in Florida had no effect on the visit, I suppose, besides his recently acquired distaste for southerners which he had lately come to show - there was no room for cordiality, manners, or form when he was ready to share his opinion. Luckily, he was from the kind of stock to do it in private, among fellow New England men and not spill it on the streets… while sober.

So, the five of us - now six and seven with the addition of two female acquaintances for whom our latest in the party had vouched for – got our things together, dressed up as appropriately as should be expected for such a hot and humid evening, and strolled down to famous Bourbon Street. This heat and humidity, why, it was of the most uncommon manufacturing; suffocating to breathe if one tried too hard - it was July in one of the southern most cities in the country, but even so; my word! Perhaps we had traveled too far south and not given ourselves a proper amount of time to acclimate, perhaps our Nashville hangovers were worse than we had thought, perhaps the heat was was just a creation of our imaginations; no matter, we weren’t to be delayed any longer by it. Heat is nothing, and Bourbon Street is everything.

New Orleans having the best food in the country is quite as plain to see as the plainest things are to see. Indignation wrought from any other opinion than this is warranted always, I think. Thus, our first act of business was to eat, as we had come to consider hunger as normal; that with all the moving about as we had habituated ourselves to.

Over the last century and a half, it is true that New Orleans has mastered the art of Cajun cooking, blending all the best spices into all the best textures into all the best dishes into all the best varieties; especially the seafood ones. To salute their influence individually as French or as Southern would be wrong, and unjust, and laughable even, but to salute them as both together would be worthy of the name Cajun; though something would be missing, certainly; that something is undetectable, perhaps a secret that has been lost to antiquity but remains with us today through the preservation of its many parts. Indeed, whatever it may be - a geographical anomaly, or the ghost of flavors past – we enjoyed it with pleasure, and were grateful for it to say the least.

We went to a restaurant on Bourbon Street and ordered a landfill amount of scallops and clams for appetizers. I hadn’t realized scallops