Cast It All To The Wind: Overland to Machu Picchu

By Bill Girvin

At first, it seemed an impossibly long journey, hitchhiking and taking buses and trains going overland from San Jose, California, all the way to Machu Picchu, Peru. Thousands upon thousands of miles needed to be traversed across third-world countries, where he didn't speak the language or understand the customs. It was all so different from what he knew. He caught a few hours of sleep when he could, constantly driven by a quest to reach his destination before the money was gone and there would be no way to make it home. Ahead lay desert wastelands, unimaginable illnesses, dense jungles, and eventually the towering frozen mountains of the Andes. Along the way, new friends were made, old friends visited, and a few strangers waited, hoping to steal what little he had. What could drive someone to take such risks, going all that distance alone, just to see the Lost City of the Incas? This is the true story of the common man who was living his dreams, hoping to find himself and visit civilizations much different from where he came. Doing that, he'd find out just how fortunate he'd always been.

www.billgirvinwrites.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662473470

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Cast It All To The Wind

Overland to Machu Picchu

Bill Girvin

Copyright © 2022 Bill Girvin

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-7346-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7351-7 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-6624-7347-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prelude

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

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28

29

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31

32

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49

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53

Epilogue

Acknowledgement

About the Author

By the author of:

The Volkswagen Van

Lucky

The Legend of Trolltunga

Quest for the Fountain of Youth

When the Road Calls

This book is dedicated to my incredible patient wife, Rosemary, and our good friends Louise and Betty and my sister Diana for their countless hours of editing and suggestions. Without their guidance my efforts would have been hopelessly lost. They were my road map to finish this book and keeping my memories alive for generations to come.

My legs get weak at times when I look down

some unfamiliar and winding road

as it disappears into the darkness of night.

When those moments arrive, as they always do in life,

I find the strength to venture on by remembering–

There is no reason to fear anything.

After all, I have a worthy destination

in mind at the end of the road.

To never try to reach that destination

is the only thing I should ever fear.

–William Girvin

Prelude

From a young age, I had suspected I was different in many ways than most other people. I didn't know this for a fact but believed it to be true. I wasn't necessarily smarter, wealthier, or happier than they might be—just different. Some suggested my priorities were backward, that I was confused about life, a wandering soul jumping around like a leapfrog in a pond. As I ventured into my late teenage years, I was often reminded by my elders that everyone's goals for achieving a satisfying life should be grounded with a college education and, after that, striving for a high-paying job and raising a family behind a white picket fence in a big house with yellow daisies out front. It didn't matter if you could afford it or not. Had to have one! That may have been okay for most, but it wasn't on my immediate bucket list. I had little need to own a home to remind me where my roots belonged. That thought was stifling and meant a million obligations that I had no inspiration to fulfill. I wanted the opposite.

I longed for what I believed to be the ultimate freedom. I simply couldn't understand the thought of working an unrewarding job, day after day, like most of my friends complained about. While I loved being in love, that wasn't in the cards either. I didn't want the responsibility of kids, at least not yet. Instead, I strived for no commitments or responsibilities—except to myself. I longed for days of freedom to come and go as I chose. I knew I was the happiest when I had nothing at all! As funny as that state of mind might sound, I was grinning from ear to ear even when I was homeless. Only then could I truly be free from the binds of society.

It had been three long years since I'd last experienced that addicting euphoria of no responsibilities. At that time, I had been traveling throughout Europe, Asia, and the Orient, trying to start an import/export business with one of my best friends, Mike. Along the way, I met a new love, Claudia, who was traveling alone and joined us on that six-month adventure going around the world. It had been a rather arduous, overland journey to India in a $350 run-down Volkswagen van, buying goods to bring back to the United States to sell. That didn't work out as well as I had hoped, even though I did double my money.

It wasn't long after our return that I went to visit Claudia at her home on the opposite side of the United States in New York City. During our brief rumble in the hay, she had commented on how different I looked, reminding me of my appearance when our paths first crossed in Amsterdam. Back then I'd had waves of curly hair most girls envied that danced upon my shoulders in the wind and fell halfway down my back. Then there was the bushy bird's nest of a beard to match. It was now absent from my tanned face. By this time my locks were neatly cropped just below my ears, still golden from the California summer sunshine. I no longer looked like the wandering hippie others had called me, the lost soul with no purpose in life.

Claudia liked the appearance of the new Bill Girvin and said I looked ten years younger. For several days we had reminisced about our experiences on that journey to India. During that visit, it had become obvious, and I was sad to imagine I'd never see her again. Fortunately, our shared memories will never be forgotten in a book I wrote about that journey, When the Road Calls.

I had managed to save around $800 since those days with Claudia, which was enough to take me pretty far—if I lived frugally. All I needed was to decide where I wanted to go. It was time for adventure! I thought about heading north to Alaska or Canada, but I had already done a good stretch of those roads once before, hitching up to Canada and hopping freight trains, making my way across the Rocky Mountains. I never liked to backtrack. I also knew that if I was gone for any length of time, my ass would get frozen through and through in the tundra camping outside in the winter months. Thoughts of heading north left a bad taste in my mouth and were cast aside like a rotten apple. I enjoyed warmer weather, much warmer than the far north offered. Lacking funds to afford a plane ticket going east or west limited me, so I'd be heading south.

I'd read a story in a periodical once about a lost city of the Incas in South America called Machu Picchu. It was said to be a pre-Colombian fifteenth-century site located on top of a mountain ridge about 7,970 feet above sea level in the Cusco Region of Peru. For hundreds of years, it had been buried in the lush, overgrown jungle until 1911 when it was uncovered by a famous American historian and explorer, Hiram Bingham.

Since that time, the jigsaw pieces of that ancient puzzle of a city were slowly being put together so the world could try to understand why it had been built in such a remote location. As I was preparing to travel there, historians were really no closer to knowing its historical significance. All they had were a bunch of clues that went nowhere. Another mystery was what happened to all the people? Had they died of some terrible plague like smallpox or abandoned their homes for religious reasons? None of the scientific community had any idea at all as to what had gone on. To me, that made Machu Picchu all that more exciting of a destination!

What people did believe was that the Incas started building Machu Picchu around AD 1400 and then abandoned it a century later during the times of the Spanish conquest. Some historians thought it might have been a hiding place for Inca royalty. Because it was so remote, the Spanish never discovered it during their mass destruction of so much of that incredibly sophisticated Inca Empire. Over the centuries, the civilization that once lived there had disappeared, and the jungle had reclaimed its dominance, burying it from both sight and mind. To me, it was one of the Wonders of the World, the perfect destination for a real-life adventure.

After choosing where to go, I checked with close male friends to see if anyone cared to come along, which they didn't. They had other agendas and paths they were heading down. So once again, I would be hitting the road alone. One summer day, I simply told my landlady I was leaving and asked if I could park my run-down Volkswagen bug alongside their home until I returned. Since I was her favorite tenant, one of seven living in the house, she said that wouldn't be a problem. I also had a beat-up bicycle that I locked at the top of the stairs that led to the front door of the home. I gave her a set of keys in case she needed to move either of them. Everything else I owned was sold, given away, or would join me on my adventure. That same day I walked into the office where I'd been working at a retail clothing store called Mervyn's and, out of the blue, quit my job. When I told them where I was headed, they'd looked at me oddly or perhaps with envy. I'm sure they didn't believe me.

It was July 2, 1976, when I left the San Jose end of the Bay Area. My thumb pointed the way south. I was hoping for a quick ride to get me movin'. I had no idea if the roads even went all the way to South America. The only thing I knew for sure was that when I crossed the border into those third-world countries, it would have been useful to have studied Spanish in high school instead of Chinese. Chinese? Why did I always have to be so damn different? I bowed my head as if meditating in silence and said a prayer for good fortune to be on my side and my guardian angel to sit upon my right shoulder to help guide me safely the entire way there then, hopefully, back home again.

Thirty-eight days into my journey

1

I began sliding backward off the face of Huayna Picchu as the slippery mud, pea-sized rocks, and freezing water splashed into my eyes, making it near impossible to see. I squinted and prayed for some nonexistent handhold to magically appear. I was picking up speed before I even knew what was happening! My survival instinct kicked in simultaneously with my ill-fated slide. My physical reactions were more like a wounded bird trying to take flight with my arms flapping madly in thin air. I was doing my very best to prevent my demise quicker than I would have liked. On this particular journey, I had been ill for so long there had been times death seemed more like a friend than an unavoidable adversary. Right then, that thought was gone. I was fighting to live.

Sliding down the face of the mountain, I squinted my eyes to keep out the sludge, hoping for a secure rock or twig or anything to grab ahold of to stop my fall. All day long, the heavy tropical downpour was doing its best to saturate the cliff, making it near impossible to reach the top of the mountain. I had known before I even started my solo climb that it was a foolish maneuver, risking it all just for a view of the valley floor far below and the lost city of the Incas tucked away among the lush jungle of Peru. That questionable maneuver was typical of my modus operandi. I knew better. Still, I always tended to ignore any obvious consequences from my ill-advised actions. Being young and stupid, I was convinced I'd live forever.

Just before plunging to my death, my foot hit a solid boulder poking out of the mountain's face like a wart on a chin. That boulder was my savior, and moments later I'd be kissing it—slimy moss and all. I dug my fingers into the thick, oozing mud and came to a jutting halt, practically breaking both kneecaps. My heart was racing too fast, my breath taken away—again, partly because of the altitude. I dared not move for a few seconds until I wiped the goop off my face and things came into focus. Then I knew I'd be okay. That wasn't the first slip of the day. More like the fourth or fifth. Still, I had to keep going. I wasn't about to give up. Not now, dammit! Not after thousands of miles of traveling overland to get here. Not after starving myself half to death or enduring all the sleepless nights crossing the frozen snow-covered tundra of the altiplano in the Andes Mountains. There, the wind had cut through me like a samurai sword, slicing away at my soul as I bled out icicles. I was so miserable I'd felt like I had no clothes on at all, no protection from the bleak elements in the back of those open-air trucks I'd hitched a ride on along with those South American Indians. They were the poorest of the poor who couldn't afford so much as a bus ticket. No way was I about to quit my ascent, not after going through all of that and much more to get where I was!

Far below me, I could see the rock chiseled ruins of Machu Picchu, the lost city of the Incas. A smattering of tourists wandered about like ants on an anthill. They were out of focus, too far below to see their tiny expressionless faces. I didn't know any of them anyhow, so it didn't matter. None of them would have been of any help. Hell, none of them even noticed me being my foolish self. I was just a speck of dirt on the face of the cliff clinging high above them, covered in slick mud and decaying vegetation. I blended in well. I had become one with the mountain!

My eyes looked up for a less slippery path. I dared not continue on the one I'd just slid down. That new man-made trail was the width of my body and had turned into what looked like a steep brown-colored playground slide for kids. Since my last slip and slide, it was even slicker still as the rain continued to pour from the puffy clouds above, making it glisten and churn into a shallow brown waterfall. Somehow, moments earlier, I'd lost the path I'd been following upward. It had been partially hand-carved by the Incas over four hundred years ago. The rest of the path was confusing, illusive, chiseled out by the elements of nature. Where had those handholds gone that were so critical in making it safely to the top of the mountain? I had no choice but to find them again and continue.

I slowly inched my way to the right, clinging to rocks and branches with both hands, testing the soil with my feet before putting any weight on them. I never knew if my feet would hold steady. Would the next step be my last one? I was becoming demoralized by all the near-death experiences. I was beyond tired. Then came that recognizable shaky feeling beginning with my arms. Then my legs, saying they were ready to give up. Quit. All four of them begged me to go back down. They'd had enough. I stopped for a few moments, rested, and then convinced them otherwise.

Again, I wiped the mud and water out of my eyes and believed I saw a path that might hold my weight. I had to try to carefully make my way there. I was less than a hundred feet from the top of the mountain. Just a miserable hundred feet remained. I couldn't give up now.

What siren could have possibly been calling me, hidden within the misty jungle clouds that shrouded the jutting peaks of the volcanic mountains that surrounded me? That siren sang a song beckoning me upward. The mountain was alive, challenging me to ignore the pouring rain, ignore the slippery pathways to a merciless death. I could hear it in the voice of the wind—all will be worth it in the end, it sang. It told me the continuous cold that numbed my sickened and drenched body was an illusion. Still, I found it almost impossible to cling to the rock and mud face of Huayna Picchu. Ignore it all, all the pain, and just keep going up. Originally, I thought only I could hear that siren, but I wasn't alone.

From above, a boulder bounced with a deep thud off to my right, continuing downward, taking everything in its path with it and crashing far below before coming to a rest at the base of the mountain. I looked upward to see if more rocks were soon to follow, gravely concerned it was a landslide coming to end all the fun I was having. Instead, I saw two other climbers, coming down the mountain in my direction.

Sorry about that, one of them hollered out. Amazing! They spoke English. It's a bit slippery, but you're almost there and the view is spectacular.

And here I thought I was the only one foolish enough to try to reach the top! I hollered back.

No, but you are officially anointed to the rank of the crazy people like us! That comment made me smile.

I've been reminded by a few others that my brain had seeped out from between my ears on more than one occasion, I said with a sly chuckle. It was nice to know that I wasn't alone, after all, on the face of the mountain. There was a sense of false security that came with that thought.

Go more to your right. The ground's not as muddy, and there're some handholds beneath the moss and weeds to grab ahold of.

They were right. It only took a few slippery steps to reach the Inca path that I had lost. I was going to make it up, all the way to the top! Then, I only needed to worry about getting back down. Going up was always the easy part.

As I reached the two guys, we introduced ourselves, and then they immediately began making their descent, complaining about their need to get out of the cold, damp weather and the mud and to cure their hunger pains and their thirst, but at the same time, they mentioned how they regretted leaving the spectacular view behind. They were right about the view. It was unbelievable and worth every agonizing second it had taken me to get there.

Reaching the top, a smile lit up my face. For a moment while I rested, I did my best to memorialize the incredible scenery that surrounded me: the ancient ruins far below, the raging river at the bottom of the valley, the tall green mountains that I'd become one with. Resting gave me a reprieve from the slippery slope to reminisce about the countless miles I'd already covered to get where I was. It was as impossible not to look back as it was to look down, below me.

I'd gone all the way overland to Machu Picchu, Peru, from the San Francisco Bay Area! What a memorable journey it had been—both wonderful and regrettable at times. Just like the peak of Huayna Picchu that had called me to climb its face that sopping wet, freezing day. That long and winding road had once again sung my name to seek out adventure. I had no choice but to go in search of the origin of that siren too. The lust for adventure, my drug of choice, had been injected into my veins like a hit of heroin. I was truly addicted to the adrenaline of life and travel. I always needed more.

I may have been far away from home where I was, but soon I'd be headed back. My smile grew wider. I was cold, hungry, tired, and alone, but I had made it to my destination safely, and my spirits were soaring on the winds with the birds of the jungle.

I couldn't help but wonder how I had managed to find the courage to take that first step when I started out hitchhiking from the San Francisco Bay Area. What had been going through my mind when I stuck my thumb out that day, asking for a ride, standing alongside some freeway entrance, hoping the driver was headed south? That was all I cared about—keep heading south. How did I ever get all the way to the top of this mountain with the ruins of Machu Picchu so far below? And how will I ever get safely back down again off this damn mountain and then all the way back home? It just seemed so utterly impossible. That first step to get started on this journey perhaps wasn't the hardest one after all. Ah, yes! The journey going overland to the jungles of Peru. I remembered where it all began.

Day 1 of my journey when I first left the San Francisco Bay Area

2

It felt like I had been here before, countless times. Déjà vu was reaching her mysterious fingers back into my mind to taunt me. She was speaking softly, cautioning me about my wild ways. I was at another inhospitable freeway entrance where I hoped to catch a ride. Years later, people would probably think it unimaginable, getting into a car with a complete stranger. For me, it was the cheapest way to travel. All I could afford. Worth the risk, even if things turned out bad.

Damn that hurt! I screamed out in agony for the second time that day. I had once again managed to poke my ribcage with the handle of my cheap metallic frying pan as I unloaded the faded blue beat-up backpack off my shoulders. I swung it to the ground at my feet where it rested. Did I always have to take everything imaginable with me whenever I hit the road?

I had days of food supplies, which, for the most part, were nonperishable; an outdated travel book on South America for ideas of what not to miss; three different maps to give me the general idea of where I was headed; miscellaneous clothes for both warm and cold weather; and a well-worn pair of tennis shoes besides the hiking boots I wore daily. Add on the necessary eating utensils in addition to the cooking pots and pans hanging on the outside of my pack, a flashlight to see my way in the wilderness and not tumble off a cliff in the dark, twenty feet of rope for a variety of reasons, even a first aid kit for emergencies that always happened at the worst of times. I was loaded down and hunting for bear. Atop my backpack was a small two-man waterproof pup tent I would be calling home. Where I was headed, it would be the rainy season and the tent was a necessity. On the bottom was my mummy sleeping bag, warm enough to barely survive in the snow and unbearably sticky and uncomfortable in warmer climates. My 35-mm camera was safely hidden in the middle of the backpack to keep it from getting broken or stolen. I loved the memories it offered. Alongside it were my harmonicas. Their job was to help keep me entertained when lonely nights grew long and sleep was hard to come by or rides too few and far between.

I had no idea how many months I'd be gone and once again neglected to pack light. I always suffered from making that repeated mistake. My aching back was proof of that. I could easily pass for a walking, Saturday morning garage sale and sounded like a one-man band with the pots and pans clanging together, keeping time with my stride as I'd make my way down the road. I was a sight to behold and tended to attract more attention than I liked. Sometimes, it helped with getting rides. Sometimes it helped with getting girls. Always, I was expected to have a story. I didn't disappoint.

While waiting for my first lift, I once again read the postcard that arrived the previous day. What a coincidence! It had to be fate knocking loudly at my door. It was from a past love, Heartie Anne. I met her while hitching up to Canada a few years back and then lived together during an unbearably cold but beautiful winter among the snow-covered hills in Woodstock, Vermont. Our friendship had endured even though as a couple we failed. My fault. I was too young and she eight years older and ready to settle down. That meal wasn't on my menu. Still, we kept our heartfelt promise to stay in touch. Her salsa-stained postcard said she was going to summer school in Mexico, of all places, at the University of Guadalajara. I'd be passing that way in the days ahead and sent a letter back announcing my intentions to stop in and say hello. Hopefully, I'd be welcome. If not, I'd be moving along quicker than a jackrabbit.

Hell, if the U.S. snail mail is so slow, I can only imagine how long it would take for my letter to reach Heartie in Mexico. No doubt I'll beat its arrival. I smiled imagining what it would be like to surprise her and just show up within the next couple of weeks.

I knew where I'd end up my first night on the road—about four hundred miles away in Topanga Canyon just outside of Santa Monica. There would be more laughs and memories to share with my longest-standing friend, Ron Krueger. It was the Fourth of July weekend and the two hundredth anniversary celebration of our nation. That called for a short side trip, camping around Lake Henshaw and Mount Palomar. We both deserved some quality time together getting caught up on life. After that, Ron would be dropping me off along the roadway like a hot tamale, and I'd continue on south into Mexico. I had no idea where I'd be rolling out my sleeping bag after that. It didn't matter as long as I was headed in the right direction—south.

Growing up, Ron and I seemed to stir up every hornet's nest in a fifty-mile radius of our homes in Cupertino, California. It was rather amazing we'd only been caught once by the police. Actually, they were the American border guards at Tijuana, Mexico, where we were crossing at 2:00 a.m. a few years back. We were sixteen years old and deserved to get pulled over, wearing sunglasses, sitting on stolen telephone books to look taller and older than we were. At the time, it sounded like a good idea, driving all the way from the San Francisco Bay Area to Mexico hoping to get laid by some pretty senorita. Obviously, his parents didn't know of our intentions when we borrowed their car for the weekend.

This day, rides came quickly, and I had little trouble getting to Topanga Canyon by dinnertime. I banged on Ron's front door. There was no reply. The only sounds came from a passing car with its wheels squealing around the corner and a few bluebirds perched high above chirping in a pine tree. I peeked in the kitchen window, and the place was as empty as a beer bottle in a pool hall. Just a few days before, Ron had assured me he'd be around.

My sixty-pound backpack slid off more smoothly than the last time. I took one arm out of the strap and swung it like a wrestling move to my knee, avoiding the frying pan altogether. From that point forward, that would become my signature move for lowering it to the ground. While deciding if I should just hang around or give up on Ron, I saw a note attached to his garage door. He had uprooted across the street to his landlady's house, Dottie, and said she was expecting me. Dottie's hospitality was just what I needed.

You must be Ron's friend, Bill. I'm Dottie. I saw you across the street. He's told me all about you. It's nice to finally meet you. Come on in and make yourself at home. Ron's been out of town but due back late tonight. Are you thirsty? Hungry?

It's good to meet you too, Dottie. I'm parched and would love something cold to drink. I was also hungry enough to eat roadkill but felt I was imposing as it was. It was always awkward mooching a meal off someone I didn't know.

I heard you were coming from the Bay Area and heading to South America. That's pretty exciting! Did it take you long to get here? Dottie asked with a curious smile. She was a beautiful woman, in her early thirties. Nice shape. Hippish dress. She looked and acted comfortable having me there. I had to assume that she and Ron were an item. Who could blame him? She was a catch.

Actually, I made pretty good time, but it's been nonstop, and I'm a little beat, I said, returning her smile. I lowered my monstrosity of a backpack into a corner of her family room, barely avoiding some antique furniture, and did my best to get it out of everyone's way. Dottie had a handful of squealing kids between six and ten years of age that rushed toward the entryway, peeking around the corner of the kitchen wall to see who I was. I could tell Dottie was good people by the way she spoke kindly with them, asking that they come out and introduce themselves.

Ron wouldn't show up until the wee hours of the morning. My evening was spent entertaining Dottie and her kids with an array of slightly exaggerated stories about mysterious faraway lands and adventures I'd been on. I did my best to keep their full attention, their mouths gaping wide. There were tales of how our Volkswagen van narrowly avoided going over steep cliffs in the snow-covered Himalaya Mountains. Then the battles with the Pakistanis, Iranians, and Turks who harassed us endlessly, trying to kidnap Claudia, the woman that had joined our traveling band of hippies. I shared enlightening tales from our visit with the holy gurus at the Golden Temple in India. I dared not leave out the miseries and horrors of the damned we'd seen in Afghanistan. I hoped Dottie's kids would know how lucky they were that their biggest worry was if they had enough fireworks for the upcoming celebration. Then, I finished the evening with my favorite story of all—my adventures in the most beautiful place on earth: Shangri-la, the Heavenly Valley of Kashmir. We all drifted off to sleep not long after my tales were told.

Wake up! Wake up! I'm home! Ron was happy to see me, and as expected, he was not about to let me get away with a good night's rest. Shaking me awake, he had to hear everything about my South American journey before bouncing to the topic of politics. Between Nixon, the Vietnam War, Ronald Regan as a presidential candidate, and potential terror attacks throughout the U.S., we had plenty to kick around like the old tin can life was turning out to be.

No doubt the world is looking at us like we're a complete joke, I said. Can you believe Nixon was such a crook they forced him to resign? Watergate had broken loose like a dam overflowing with filthy sludge from a torrential rainstorm. It seemed like everyone on his team, from President Nixon on down, turned out to be worthless liars, crooks, possibly heading for jail.

Imagine, a movie star possibly becoming president of the United States? Ron cackled with laughter. How fucking funny and weird that would be! Remember him in that stupid movie with some monkey? Ronald Reagan! Who would have guessed that guy would actually have a shot at being president. Ron switched subjects without taking a breath. The big two-hundred-year bicentennial celebration for the Fourth of July is almost here! he exclaimed excitedly, like a little kid holding a pack of Black Cat firecrackers in one hand and matches in the other.

With the state of the world in disarray, I have no idea what to expect, I said, hating that I sounded so negative. I wouldn't be surprised if half the country got evaporated by a terrorist attack. Camping in the wilderness seems like a safer idea than blowing up a box of fireworks or getting blown up ourselves. Ron nodded, knowing this had been on many people's minds lately.

Finally, at 4:00 a.m., a little sleep arrived. We woke to the pounding sounds of Dottie's kids racing back and forth from the hallway to the upstairs bedroom. The air was filled with their squealing laughter, thrilled that Dottie had just agreed to get still more fireworks for the evening celebration. They already had enough to blow up half the neighborhood. The kids had convinced her they needed more. They were headed to the beach for a reenactment of the Normandy invasion by the American troops during World War II. They were typical kids and managed to put an amused smile on my face.

After a quick shower and repacking my belongings, I thanked Dottie for her hospitality and jumped into Ron's car after tossing my pack into the back seat. It was past time to go camping. When he started that pile of rusty tin on wheels, it sounded like it wouldn't make it around the block.

No sweat! This baby will go another million miles! Ron always was the optimist. I liked that characteristic about him best.

With enough food to feed an army, some cheap pot that would give us more of a sore throat than make us stoned, and enough vodka from a local mini-mart to float our boat, we fled town. It was getting late by the time we arrived at the top of Mount Palomar after narrowly escaping a mishap, thanks to Ron's somewhat distracted driving while talking.

Just as we arrived at the top of the mountain, Ron's car began to sputter, and he noticed he had neglected to keep an eye on the gas gauge. He was hopeless that way and super intelligent in so many others. Fortunately, we were on the top of the mountain, and it was downhill all the way to the gate of the campground. We silently rolled in and came to rest on the side of the road, just a short distance from our campsite. We'd worry about getting gas the next day.

It had been a warm evening, with clear skies and the Milky Way dazzling us overhead. By the time we arrived, the campground was almost completely full of suburbanite escapees. That was not unexpected considering it was the biggest holiday in the history of the United States. Scattered among the trees we could see small contained campfires with families sitting around shooting the bull, swapping lies, eating, drinking, and enjoying the peace and quiet away from the city. Just like many of them, while we were setting up our camp, we discussed where we thought our lives might be heading.

It seems like all my life I've been driving the fast lane to get through college so I could kick-start my career. Always pushing. No breaks ever, Ron admitted.

I think your dad had something to do with that, I said. I knew he did. Afterall, we'd been neighbors back in elementary school. He always wanted you to reach your full potential and probably did a good job of keeping you on track.

Maybe so, and hopefully it will pay off someday, but right now I'm running as fast as I can on the treadmill. I may love my job in the rag business, but there's always so much pressure to do better each year. New customers to be had! My designers always want higher sales volumes, and I've got no choice but to pick up more clothing lines to represent before I can grow to the next level.

Sounds important to me, and at least you have a direction in life. I'm still lacking that and not sure what I want to do with my life.

You'll figure it out. You always seem to do pretty well. I only wish I could take some time out and join you. I know it'd be great fun.

All you have to do is quit your job. That's what I did, I said, shrugging my shoulders as if I didn't have a care in the world—at least for the moment.

Doing that would be a major step backward. I'd be starting all over again and giving up everything I worked so hard to get. How does anybody do that?

Ron had a career, and in some way that was an advantage for him in life. In other ways, that was his problem. I'd had a minimum-wage job. Those were easy to replace. I couldn't blame him for falling into that trap at such a young age. Most of our friends were right beside him. After all, society expected us to do that with our lives. For me, life was too short not to enjoy it and travel while I was young and fancy-free. There was plenty of time to settle down.

After a long, exhausting talk, we still hadn't figured out how to solve all of the world's woes. Imagine that!

It was comfortably warm outside, rather balmy with no clouds in sight. We decided to call it a night and rolled our sleeping bags onto a couple of old beat-up blankets Ron had brought along. The leaves and weeds on the ground beneath us were soft enough to make us comfortable for the evening. This was my favorite way to fall asleep, looking up at a million twinkling stars overhead, wondering again what was out there in the blackness of the universe above. I was still convinced we weren't alone and some creatures much like ourselves were wondering the same thing, looking out into the universe back in our direction.

That was my last thought for the evening, and my eyes became too heavy to keep open. I did wake a few times throughout the night to the sounds of animals in the woods calling for their mate. It was a very peaceful sound, one that made me feel more at home there in the woods than I ever could feel between four walls back in the concrete jungle. I fell back asleep and dreamed of Inca ruins covered in jungle vines and the lost civilizations I'd soon be visiting.

3

The first rays of light peeked between the branches of the surrounding evergreen trees, waking the many children that had been camping. As they were filled with excitement, their squealing laughter woke us earlier than we would have liked. Who could have blamed them for being so excited, especially being the Fourth of July? Crawling out of our sleeping bags, both Ron and I were amazed at what a gorgeous view of the surrounding valleys we had atop Mount Palomar, above the five-thousand-foot level. The air was crisp and smelled of pine trees. Everything felt fresh and clean.

We had planned to eat a little breakfast and then enjoy a day hike around the mountaintop, but those plans had to change. Since we'd run out of gas last night, we needed to locate a gas station. Fortunately, the road was mostly downhill to town. Putting the car in neutral, we pushed it out of the campground and went as far as possible before it started back upward. We did our best to roll off the side of the road, stranded a few miles away from help. I was left to guard the car as Ron caught a ride from a passing motorist. An hour later he returned with a gallon of gas and directions to a favorite spot for the locals to camp.

We hiked along a crystal-clear mountain river that sparkled in the sun and rolled over medium- to large-sized granite boulders. There we found the perfect swimming hole with small waterfalls surrounded by tall shade trees and giant slabs of granite to lie on and tan in the sun. That day, more discussions were shared on the political mayhem of the U.S., the collapsing economic demise of the world, and the hopeful movement toward natural energy resources. Never a boring moment with Ron, but a guaranteed exhausting one instead.

Sometimes I feel like it's almost impossible for the country to last another two hundred years, I started out. Just think what would happen if one of the nuclear power plants had a meltdown.

It would contaminate an area about the size of New York, Ron added. No one could live there for thousands of years! Plus, what are they doing with all the nuclear waste?

From what I heard, they're storing it under some big mountain in Nevada. I don't think anyone really knows because they don't want to freak us out if it leaked into our water supply or was taken over by terrorists and used against unsuspecting citizens.

That's a pleasant thought, Ron said with a disgusted look on his face.

What about solar power from the sun, the giver of all life for the entire planet? I suggested. It might be in its infancy as an industry, but it sure sounds safer and someday could be a viable and very important source of natural, clean energy. What about wind power? The people in Holland have been using the wind as a source of energy for a super long time. Why aren't we exploring those two options?

I agree. Makes no sense to me either, said Ron. I think it's because the oil companies control the votes, and there's too much money to be made in gasoline, coal, and nuclear power. Once those are gone, then they'd have no choice but to find another source of energy.

Did we always have to be so serious? We were both convinced that as long as our country was grounded in greenbacks, we'd continue to go downhill and take the rest of the world with us at a lot faster pace than Ron and I had done that day, coasting with no gas in the car from the top of Mount Palomar.

Suddenly we were interrupted by a forest ranger who informed us camping was strictly forbidden in that area and we had to get the hell out. With that being said, we mumbled some obscenities under our breaths, packed up our things, and made our way back to the car under his watchful eyes.

Just south of Carlsbad we found a campsite off of Carmel Valley Road in an overflow parking lot that was darn right gross compared to where we had been alongside the river. The one good thing about our new camping spot was that they had showers for $2. I wasn't sure when I'd be getting my next one and wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to not smell like a boy's locker room.

That night we made it to the beach to watch the two hundredth Fourth of July celebration with fireworks shot out over the ocean. We had hoped the colorful display that lit up the sky would also help raise our morale, which seemed to have slipped into the dumper from our long hours of browbeating the world, but it didn't.

Before dark, we gathered enough wood to light up our campsite for a few hours. Ron, like myself, was a lover of maps, and the rest of the evening was spent scouring through what I had brought along. With the first map, we traced the direction I'd be headed through Mexico. Then it was on through Central America, and with the last map, we reviewed my route in South America. I showed Ron the area on my map where I hoped my next stop, Mexicali, would be after he dropped me off. From past experiences in Mexico, I knew it was wise to avoid hitchhiking there. From Mexicali, I was planning to catch a train to Guadalajara to visit Heartie Anne as she studied in summer school. Just needing to have three separate maps made me realize that once I reached Machu Picchu in Peru, I'd be a long way from home.

I slept fairly well that night, enjoying what was my last night in the United States for some time. I was excited about the adventure ahead and wished Ron could have found some way to join me on the road I was destined to travel. We had been such good friends for so long I think we would have made great traveling partners. No doubt we would have gotten into a little trouble here and there, but that would have made for more fun than a busload of kids heading for Disneyland. Plus, I'd never be lacking for someone to talk to! That was for sure.

Ron woke me around 6:00 a.m. the next morning, which was much earlier than I would have liked, but he wanted to get an early start to beat most of the traffic back to Los Angeles. Who could blame him for that? If there were two things that people always complained the most about in LA, it was the traffic and the smog caused by the traffic. It was simply horrendous, and I could never understand how anyone would want to live there.

Before we parted ways, Ron went back to the trunk of his car and pulled out a pair of binoculars and handed them to me. Although they were used, there was little doubt in my mind that they were still very valuable to him.

I think you'll really enjoy having these along, especially when you get into the Andes Mountains. No doubt you'll spot a few things in the wild that you might never be able to see otherwise. Just stay safe and bring them back to me when you return.

That's a great idea, Ron. I appreciate the thought. I'll find room to squeeze them in here somewhere, I said, beginning to open up the outside flap of the backpack and burying them for safekeeping in the middle alongside my camera. I'll do my best to return them to you safely someday. Not sure when that will be, but I do plan on heading back your way again at some point. We parted with a handshake at the crossing of the roads in our lives.

Ron pulled