Forty Years Across America

              After leaving Las Vegas, Bruce and I arrived at Grand Canyon Village at 9 PM.               We went to a nearly abandoned bar and went into the adjoining rec center. We played some pinball, a little ping-pong, and I played chess with a guy named Mark and got whupped, but he told me about some cool hikes we could take the next day. We camped out on a cold, clear night in Mather Campground, for free.               Looking back on the entire 1978 journey, Bruce and I skipped over so many National Parks and other natural sites with nary a mention, including Glacier, Yosemite, the Redwoods, and Joshua Tree. Fortunately, we visited Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon; but it was apparent we did not have a plan on entering either. For example, we did not even start thinking about hiking the Canyon until we awoke.               Decided on descending the South Kaibab trail, go along the Colorado River, and up the Bright Angel Trail, about 16 miles and 12 hours. [Actua

              October 14, 1978: It was time to leave Hollywood. My journal entries were terse.              Left for Vegas. Called home. Hot drive. Desert. Vegas an unreal oasis with enough neon to facsimile daylight. The Dunes, Caesar’s Palace, The Sands, Hacienda, Holiday Casino, Flamingo, Sahara, ad neon. Slot machines everywhere, from hotel lobbies to bathrooms to the little cafes outside of Vegas.                We drove around looking for a hotel. First drove to Caesar’s Palace, in tattered shorts and undies. We followed the fountains and lights inside with our suits and backpacks, expecting to get a cheap room. The rooms weren’t cheap - $50 – nor were they available. Then followed a one hour search for a vacant space in a hotel or motel. We drove to several places that couldn’t help us, until one hotel worker made some calls for us and secured a spot in the Granada Inn, new place right off the Strip, for just $19 for the night. We showered, put on our suits, and drove to

California was a little rough on me, emotionally. San Francisco was bittersweet enough, but I got downright melancholy at dinner in Santa Monica – and not just because they forgot my grilled artichoke. I sat there, eating and drinking by myself, feeling disconnected, unsure of my purpose. Was this a sabbatical, leave of absence, or just a glorified vacation? Why did I determine at times to stay on my 1978 route without deviation, even insisting on visiting the same places on the same date – but at other times detour to visit friends, family, or new destinations I wanted to visit? Why do I still have no idea when I will return, and – sometimes – wonder whether I will return at all? One thing is certain. The only time I feel lost is when I’m sitting still. When I’m driving or hiking, I feel whole. Nothing settles my burning brain like the hum of the highway, the crunch of my footsteps on a wilderness path, the sight of magnificent clouds receding behind me. No balm, no drink, soo

              October 7, 1978: Awoke in Hollywood. Saw six Rolls Royces. Weird people, cars, cars, cars, smog, palm trees, weird people. Stars on sidewalks, Mann’s Chinese Theatre, “world’s largest pinball arcade,” cars cruising up and down the strip, their occupants aiming at pedestrians, shouting obscenities. Street people singing about drugs (t-shirt: “I like to fuck”), a fat guy with his equally ugly girlfriend and two other guys asked us if we were “following him.” Said “I don’t like people walking behind me. Get in front of me where I can see you.” We ran across the street, not wanting to argue.               Hollywood was our one intended 1978 destination. Bruce had written a screenplay that had attracted the attention of an agent and they arranged to meet. We spent eight days here, and I filled my journal with each one’s detailed minutiae. What did a couple of 21/22 year olds do in Hollywood do with all that time, and not much money? Here are some excerpts: