Freelance piece in Literary Traveler

It’s called Into Denali: Not Quite Following in Chris McCandless’s Footsteps.

I submitted another piece to this online literary magazine, and they sent me an encouraging rejection. Every aspiring writer knows that the encouraging rejection is the first step on the road to success, so I read a few of the other essays on their site and then wrote this piece specifically for them. It was a bit of a revelation: You get published when you give the publishers what they want. I’m exploring this a bit more with some work for The Ann Arbor Observer and pitches to a few other magazines. It’s exciting, tons of fun, and a great opportunity!

Excerpt from Lucky in Adventure Cyclist!

“Mile 5000.” This story is the first time I’ve been published in print media since grad school. Feels good to be back!

uncaged

An animal caged might pace the floor, or sit in one place rocking back and forth. It might sleep all day or bang its head or bite itself, drawing blood.

Why is it doing this?

This behavior — stereotypic behavior, it’s called — is a natural reaction to an unnatural situation. The cage is to blame. The enclosure at the zoo or the bare walls of a research laboratory, after all, are a poor substitute for the dry deciduous forest a rhesus macaque or white-breasted mesite might call home.

And so the macaque rocks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It hunches in a corner and rocks back and forth and tugs at its ears. The mesite grooms itself with single-minded obsession. It digs its beak deeper and deeper, pulling out its feathers in bloody clumps.

You see the same behavior in people, too. Prisoners cut themselves, swallow sharp objects, bang their heads against the wall. Old folks with dementia in nursing homes pinch, scratch, hit, bite, and burn themselves, punch objects, pull their hair. Institutionalized mentally ill patients bite themselves, press their eyeballs, and bang their heads against hard surfaces.

In a cage, self-destruction becomes your only means of self-determination. Or, to put it another way: If you can’t get out of your cage, you might go out of your mind.

Struggling uphill along a breakdown lane on the verge of tears, pummeled by fumes carried on a hot headwind, feeling like I’m biking through dirty bathwater, the only thought on my mind is: Why am I doing this?

Because for all the suffering in this moment, at least I’m not in a cage.

The adventure life puts you face-to-face with fear, pain, hunger, and exhaustion. And until you’ve confronted their absence, you’ll never appreciate the most ordinary things — food, water, rest, safety. It makes you realize that maybe they’re not ordinary after all. Just ask any one of my students.

One of the central tenants of Buddhism is this idea that life is suffering. To an American, that might seem frightening or nihilistic. But to a macaque, its heart pounding, fleeing up a tree to escape a crocodile? I think it might tell you that suffering is the point. Only through the lens of suffering can you can see your life for what it is: a precious and fragile thing you must fight to protect.

And if your life isn’t worth fighting for, what’s it worth at all?

the storm

In my dream, there were birds flapping against my face. I swatted back at them, but they wouldn’t quit. In the background, the roar of a gas station hand dryer.

My body came to life before my brain caught up. I swiped at the air and blinked hard and saw wings and yellow nylon pummeling my face. ??? was as close as my brain could come to a coherent thought.

The birds faded from view, my brain organized itself into some semblance of consciousness, and I came to the realization that my tent had collapsed. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was moving — shuddering and wriggling like a cat trying to escape a hug.

I grabbed hold of the wall and held it still enough to peer through the bug netting, and that’s when the pieces clicked into place: A massive cloudbank was charging over the lake, and the trees were bowed over in the roaring wind. I scrambled out of my tent with one blind thought: RAINFLY.

The air was chaotic and charged, whipping my dress around my legs, twigs and rocks biting into my bare feet. It felt like riding in a car on the interstate with all the windows down. Panicked, still a quarter-asleep, I tried to wrestle my rainfly into place, but the wind kept tearing it out of my hands and flattening my tent. With a lot of cursing, I managed to secure the fly, replace the stakes that got ripped out, and then dive back inside — more to support the structure than to take shelter.

But then a thought came to mind: Is it safe to be right next to a lake in a lightning storm?

Google’s response was, “haha no.”

I shot out of my tent like it was on fire and crashed through the bushes toward… I have no idea where. I was barefoot; I wasn’t even wearing a bra. And then, finally, my logical brain woke up enough to take the steering wheel. 

“What are you doing,” she said flatly. “Girl, you have a bicycle, remember?”

“Oh, dope.”

So I put on my shoes, dragged some driftwood and rocks over the top of my tent and yelled, “GOOD LUCK, TENT!” over the shrieking wind, and then unlocked Lucky and chased my headlight into the wild night. I headed for a stand of trees — maybe I could hunker in there, wait out the worst of it, and then go back for my tent once it was over.

And then I saw it: Shelter! Salvation!

An outhouse! 

I careened over and tried the door — it was open! — and turned on the light. The floor was concrete but clean. No spiders, no bugs, and the toilet even had a lid. As far as outhouses go, this was a palace. I gave a cheer of victory, leaned Lucky against the wall, put down the lid and had a seat.

After a moment, I thought, “Sleeping pad’d be pretty nice right about now.”

And so I rode like a madwoman back into the wild, windy night, rolled tent, pad, and sleeping bag together into a big sloppy burrito that I stuffed into a pannier, and then tore back just as fast as I could, cackling and breathless with the exhilaration of it all.

As soon as I set up my sleeping arrangement, the storm hit.

You know how you count the seconds between the thunder and the lightning, and that tells you how far away the lightning is? There was no counting on that night; they were linked like zipper teeth. And me cheering from my bed on the outhouse floor. 

Before this trip, I probably couldn’t imagine a scenario in which I’d be grateful — profoundly so — to sleep in an outhouse. But that night, I was giddy. There’s a special kind of relief that comes from knowing you’ve hit bottom. I mean, this was undoubtedly the worst place I was going to sleep all trip. And if I was this happy to be in the worst place… I could handle anything that might come my way.

In a world underwater, I had found an air bubble. A safe, dry place to sleep.

the serial killer

Beneath the wan remnants of a pancake-batter sunset, in a patch of woods behind a little league field in Greece Canal Park, our intrepid heroine pushes her bike along a muddy trail and through a miasma of mosquitoes. She has long since given up the dream of an Instagram campsite; like a lonely barfly at last call, she’ll take what she can get. Is that a reasonably flat spot? Hey there good-lookin’, wanna have a sleepover?

I lean my bike against a tree, do a backbend, and turn off my Strava. Time to kick back and relax. And by that I mean… laboriously construct my shelter for the evening!

After laying the ground cloth, staking the tent, feeding the poles through the guides, strapping on the rainfly, locking up my bike, inflating my sleeping pad, laying out my sleeping bag, brushing my teeth, changing out of my bike shorts, and killing all the mosquitoes[1] that had gotten into my tent, I finally lay down… and there’s a rock digging into my spine.

But it’s dark, and I don’t feel like undoing all my hard work and shifting it two inches to the left only to find a root poking me in the kidney and 20 more mosquitoes in my tent. This, I decide, is an opportunity to practice acceptance[2].

I watch an episode of “Breaking Bad” on my phone — because there’s nothing like watching an hour of gratuitous violence[3], alone and in a strange place at night, to help a gal unwind after a 60-mile bike ride. With visions of drug crimes dancing through my head (and a pointy rock dancing between my thoracic vertebrae) I fall into a restless sleep…

…and wake up at 2 a.m. to the sound of a dentist’s drill outside my tent.

Eyes pop open. Silence. What was that noise? Maybe it was just a— 

Rhnnnnnnnnn! 

Nope, I’m definitely not dreaming, and that was definitely closer than before. I turn on my flashlight, and the serial killer bounds crashingly through the underbrush. 

I lay there, barely breathing, frozen and alert, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Fiddlehead pipes up: what if there’s someone crazy outside my tent who wants to hurt me?

There isn’t, Maple says firmly. I’m sure it’s just an animal, and I don’t think there are bears around here, so we’re good.

And then a third, unfamiliar voice: If you had let a guy come with you on this trip, he could be handling this right now.

RHNNNNNNNN! 

Ahh fuck.

I get out of my tent, wave my flashlight around, and yell, “I MEAN YOU NO HARM. JUST LET ME SLEEP!' I bend down and grope around until I find a big stick, and then spear it into the muddy ground outside my tent. To use as a weapon, I guess?

RNNNNNNNNN! 

Okay, now this is just getting annoying. “GO AWAY!” I yell, and then under my breath: “God, take a hint!”

Silence. I think we’re okay. I crawl back into my tent, now filled with mosquitoes, and text my dad and a friend. I try to relax, but my brain is caught in a tug-of-war between Sleep and Fear. Every time it looks like Sleep is going to win, Fear jerks the rope, and my eyes pop open.

The next morning, I emerge from my tent smeared with mud, dead mosquitoes, and my own blood, and a text from my dad explaining that, “raccoons make all kinds of noises.”

[1] I normally try not to kill bugs, but these guys had it coming.

[2] In other words, I say “fuck it.”

[3] For those who’ve seen the show, it was “Negro y Azul,” with Danny Trejo and the tortoise.

dam

Signs clung to the chainlink fence like monarch butterflies, bearing words like WARNING and CAUTION and AVISO. There were exclamation marks trapped inside triangles, and a hapless clip-art silhouette thrown back by his nemesis, the lightning bolt. Beyond the fence, the Leesville Dam spanned the slender throat of a manmade lake. It was a somber fortress of tear-streaked concrete with turrets of scaffolding surrounding machinery that looked like an industrial Play Place. It was also, Google Maps insisted, the most direct route to my destination.

If I could cross here, I had 20 miles to go. But if I couldn’t, I’d have to backtrack 11 miles just to get to the next river crossing — not to mention the climb back up the steep, winding hill I had just descended as slowly and cautiously as an octogenarian walking down a flight of stairs.

A light breeze rattled the bare branches of the trees and ruffled the surface of the water, sending up the flat, metallic smell of river. The gate clanked. There was a small white sign to the left, a moth among the monarchs, with a few hopeful words: GATE ACCESS CONTACT NUMBER.

Now, honestly, what’s 11 miles in a 6,000-mile trip? And as for the hill, well, hills are the price you pay to eat pecan pie with whipped cream at 10 a.m. No, the real reason for what transpired was the simple thought: Wouldn’t it be funny if I could convince somebody to open the gate for me?

So I called the number twice; both times it went to this guy Andy’s voicemail. No worries — there was another sign with another phone number, this one for the American Electric Power headquarters. Why not? Like that magical incantation my mama taught me, “Can I speak to your supervisor[1]?”

It took all my schmoozin skills, but not only did I get Andy’s cell phone number, the guy I talked to wished me good luck. Unfortunately, Andy didn’t pick up when I called… nor when I called again. So naturally, I texted him:

hi Andy! my name’s brooke, and I’m biking cross-country. google routed me to your dam… any way you could open the gate so I could bike across?

Then I decided to give it five minutes. In those five minutes, I:

• contemplated the logistics of jumping the fence 

• tried two of my own PINs, as well as 6969, in the keypad

• Googled "Leesville Dam gate code" (to my surprise, there were no results)

The time had come. I called Andy’s office. No answer. I called his cell. It rang once, twice, three times, four— 

“Hello?” asked a gruff voice.

I couldn’t contain my excitement. "ARE YOU ANDY??"
"Yes," he laughed.
"Andy my man, you are the person I want to talk to. See, I'm trying to bike to Seattle, and Google Maps routed me over your lovely dam, but your lovely gate is blocking my way. Is there any way you'd let me cross? Otherwise, I have to bike 11 extra miles, and I know you don't wanna make me bike 11 whole extra miles. Look Andy, I promise I won't get hurt, and if I do, I double-promise I won't sue, so whaddaya say?"

There was a pause, swollen as a river surging against a set of watertight floodgates.

“Heh-heh, all right, I'll letcha over."

"ANDY YOU ARE A TRUE AMERICAN HERO!!!"

[1] And ohhhh I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to say it nicely. Say it like an entitled bourgeoisie and you are a nightmare. Say it like, “Hey man, I get it, I’m a pain in the ass and this is above your pay grade,” though, and you’re usually golden.

"bridge closed"

“bridge closed,”

warned the orange construction signs a mere two miles from where I was planning to camp. I wasn’t worried; it wasn’t like I was trying to get a whole car over the bridge. Construction signs tend not to apply to bicycles, I thought smugly, and approached the cluster of guys in fluorescent vests.

“Sick vests,” I said. “Any way I can walk my bike across?” 

The construction workers gave each other a look, and then parted to reveal a small chasm were the road should have been.

I smiled through the heartbreak. “I guess not! Where’s the nearest river crossing?” 

“About 10 miles that way,” said the foreman, jutting his chin back where I came from. As he launched into detailed instructions, one of the laborers stepped forward. He nervously avoided eye contact, but he straightened his shoulders and asked softly, “How much does your bike weigh?”

And then before I knew it, he had hoisted Lucky onto his shoulder. He leaned way back as he slipped down the crumbling walls of the pit, gracefully avoiding a face-level pipe at the bottom, climbed one-handed up a ladder, and finally made it to the catwalk on the other side. I scurried behind with a pannier in each hand.

traveling alone

sadly, this is the only surviving picture from my first trip abroad. i believe the phrase on the chalkboard translates to, “i am a rubber panties woman.”

The first time I traveled alone was when I was 20. I had a volunteer gig teaching English in Slovakia and Hungary for three weeks each, and I decided to take a couple weeks before that to bounce around Western Europe. Not only was I completely convinced I was going to be raped and murdered, I also felt like a total loser because I couldn’t afford to go with my friends on an expensive tour package. 

But shortly after I arrived, I discovered the unexpected benefits of solo travel, in the form of 10-cent dinner rolls at a bakery in Berlin.

“10 cents?” I asked incredulously.

“Ja.” 

And that’s how I ate for two days in Berlin on one Euro, with no one around to shame me.

For fun, I walked to all the free attractions listed in the Lonely Planet. At the East Side Gallery, I met a Sudanese refugee named Ouda. We smoked a joint on the banks of the Berlin River, and he told me about fighting in Darfur.

“I saw too many dead bodies,” he said. “Too many arms and legs. It was real bullshit.”

I thanked him for sharing his story with me, and we split a dinner roll. Later that night in the hostel lounge, these two German guys shared their beer with me, and I goaded one of them into writing me a love poem.

For the love that she from me took / Her hair was blond, her name was Brooke…

Traveling alone means there’s no one to protect you from all the most interesting parts of travel.