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November 2
On this early November day, I joined my first protest. We had driven
into Portland so that Wigs and Ben could take care of some computer
issues. After dropping them off, I first heard the cacophonous chanting
and yelling of the crowd. Rounding the corner, we observed the large
following, snaking their way through the streets. I asked Adam to
pull over down the street a bit and jumped out with the video camera.
I attempted to intersect the crowd a couple of blocks west, following
the low growl of the crowd that slowly intensified as I got closer.
It was an amazingly diverse gathering: all generations, races, and
economic classes walking together to protest the Bush administration
as well as the Portland Police. Black suited men were standing next
to young teenagers adorned with gas masks. Old women hobbled next
to bikers. A younger woman pushed a paralyzed man in a wheelchair
near a thirty something with a baby on his shoulders. There seemed
to be two leaders among them: a dreadlocked, middle-aged, African
American women and a stocky, dirty mouthed, balding, Irishman, both
on different sides of a busy intersection, bellowing at the top
of their lungs at the police that had gathered in the streets.
The protest began creep slowly down the street. I walked and I
listened and I filmed, taking in the novel scene. I have never taken
part in a protest and my only knowledge of them is from the 7 O’clock
News, history books, or movies. I spoke with both middle-aged leaders,
the thirty something father, a mobile DJ who was preaching to the
soulful beat that was projected from his converted bicycle, a veiled
teenager, a few girls who had just gotten out of class, and a young
Latino man who was handcuffed for j-walking. Themes included the
mendacity of our president, the war in general, the brutality of
the Portland police, and most commonly, the belief in the first
amendment, in their right to speak out. And speak out they did:
Some of them would walk up to a cop, place their face inches apart
and scream expletives and other derogatory comments about the police
force. At one point, I rounded the corner to find three cops restraining
a skinny teenager. Four other cops on horseback stood guard. His
long hair covering his face, this young man snarled at the cops,
“You are all fascist fucking brown shirts” and other
derivations of this theme. In the background, his three friends
pleaded, “Don’t tell them anything Johnny. You have
your rights. Don’t tell these pigs nothing.” I couldn't
believe that I was there watching this dramatic scene unfold.
Although the organizers seemed to be middle-aged, it was our generation
that comprised the majority of the crowd. They were fervent and
standing up against the status quo. They weren’t apathetic
(as many have characterized us as), sitting holed up behind their
computers or Xboxes, not a care in the world; they were on the streets
protesting. So far this trip, we have been surprised at the number
of individuals who are passionate about something. We generally
only get to spend a few hours with the people we meet and we don’t
get to see how the act without the camera or voice recorder in their
face. As Ben says we’re not sure whether they are actually
walking the walk. So, it was nice to see our generation standing
up and demonstrating for what they believed in.
The protest eventually circled back to Pioneer Square where everyone
slowly dispersed. It was a surreal event that I will never forget
and one that gave me mixed emotions: The mob mentality and the allusions
to Hitler were frightening, the arrests dramatic, the forthright
passion invigorating. Walking down 6th Avenue in a crowd carrying
signs and posters scribbled with pointed slogans, screaming expletives
directly in the face of the yellow coated police, was not going
to get Bush out of office or breath life into the young man who
was recently shot to death by the cops. But they wanted their voices
heard, an ideal that has always been intrinsically American.
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We left Portland for McMinnville, a small, quaint town southwest
of the city. Our first destination was Noah’s Wine Bar where
we were meeting Roger Heller. Roger was a long time friend and business
partner of Ben’s father and took us in as one of his own.
He was incredibly kind and fun to be around, treating us to wine
and dinner at Kame's. At Noah’s, we met up with Ehren McGhehey,
a local celebrity who was one of the original members of Jackass.
Hilarious, kind, and crazy, Ehren was also a great host, showing
us around the small town that has he has come to love. After several
years working and partying in Los Angeles, Ehren decided that he
really wanted to be back in the intimate community where he grew
up. He has recently opened up a slick looking skate/surf shop in
the center of town fulfilling a lifelong dream. Through the evening,
we all chatted about community, our generation, happiness, and the
legacy of Jackass.
That’s all for today folks. Thanks again to our wonderful
hosts in McMinnville.
October 28
Throughout the trip, we have been astonished at how benevolent
and gracious people have been to us—both those that have blood
ties and others who have only a slight connection. This late October
day proved no different: I will try to explain, but it is difficult
to do so. It was one of those days when every fiber of your being
feels grateful to be alive: One of those days when you have a perpetual
smile on your face, when you have done things right, when you can’t
help but be thankful for everyone and everything you have been blessed
by. Nothing extraordinary happened, but so much happened. It wasn’t
the headlines; it was the details that made this day so great.
This day essentially started the night before at clarklewis, a
world-renowned restaurant owned by Adam’s uncle Michael. Ranked
by the Oregonian as the city’s number one restaurant in it’s
first year of opening, it is one of the hippest spots in Portland
and we were fortunate enough to be having a complimentary meal there
with its effervescent owner. I could write an entire book about
Michael (something that he is actually in the process of publishing),
but I guess I will just give you a short run down of the man.
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Roughly five years ago, Michael and his wife Naomi wanted to enter
the restaurant business so they started inviting friends to dinner.
If these friends wanted to come back, they were required to bring
new friends and these “family suppers” began to gather
quite a following. It was not just the food, but it was the culture,
the ambiance, and the company that so attracted their following.
Michael and Naomi accepted donations in the form of a chair or silverware
or even cash, and they always recorded their visitors’ emails.
From this grassroots following, the entrepreneurial couple began
running a catering business called ripe out of their home. This
grew in popularity, and after several years Michael and Naomi opened
up clarklewis. Currently, they have another popular restaurant,
Gotham Building Tavern, and are about to come out with a gin line.
It is an amazing story in vision and persistence. Michael wanted
to affect culture and he has, more so than anybody could have ever
imagined. This 29-year-old man is on top of the world now and he
deserves everything he has gotten. He has been featured in The New
York Times, W, and Food and Wine. Besides being an admirable entrepreneur,
Michael is one of the sharpest and most influential people I know.
I think that he could convince me to eat a dead rat out of trashcan.
There is just something about him that is so attractive, that makes
you want to be around him. He is endearing and quick witted, two
qualities that have helped him get to where he is.
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So, per this theme of kindness, Michael took Wigs, Adam, and I
out to dinner at clarklewis, where we ate like kings. Michael’s
friend Bryan, who had just opened a taqueria himself, joined us
halfway. We talked about our trip, their businesses, love, entrepreneurship,
life in general, and commonly used dictionaries versus boutique
dictionaries (Michael believes that dictionary.com is crap and that
people should read more nuanced, unique definitions of words. Adam,
on the other hand, believes in the need to reach a universal audience
through customary dictionaries).
We left clarklewis thoroughly stuffed and appreciative of our kind
host. The local generosity was further extended that night when
Adam’s friend Jane took us out with her friends at the University
of Portland. We had a good time and made some friends while trying
to promote our fundraising dinner (which Michael is both promoting
and hosting) next weekend.
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The next morning Adam and I headed up to Cameron Winery, which
according to Michael is one of the best wineries in the country,
with an unconditioned palette and yearning to learn more about fine
wines. Neither of us had ever been to a vineyard, and I couldn’t
tell you the difference between a Pinot Noir and a Zinfandel. I’d
heard of burgundy, but I was pretty sure it was a color. My wine
knowledge didn’t go much past white or red, and my crude request
in restaurants was often something like, “Can I please have
your cheapest white wine?....Ohh, you have options?....Well, whichever
one you recommend.” In this realm of fine wines, on a scale
of one to cultured, I was a 0 and Adam was probably a 3.
We drove up the gentle dirt road bordered on both sides by rows
of grape vines, whose green leaves were now fringed with yellow
and red, and parked Harvey by the indiscrete building that stood
atop the hill. As we were throwing on our boots, a young, burly
individual poked his head into the RV. It was Jimmy, the young wine
connoisseur that we had come to profile.
Jimmy was an anomaly, breaking all stereotypes when it came to
being a wine expert. Replace a well dressed elderly man with a French
accent and a tone of arrogance with a well built, 21-year-old, longhaired,
frat boy looking, dirty mouthed, aspiring rapper. He’ll juxtapose
the history, tone, and acidity of an Oregonian Chardonnay with three
expletives and a huge smile. After two seconds of talking to him,
we could tell he was quite knowledgeable about his trade, but he
was also incredibly humble and hilarious at the same time. According
to Tyson, a fellow winemaker at Cameron, Jimmy is a winemaking prodigy,
well ahead of time and with an acute knowledge of the craft, especially
French Burgundies. Ironically, Jimmy has never been outside the
U.S. and has barely left Oregon for that matter, but he was still
an expert in French wines, having spent almost $2,000 a year on
importing various varietals for academic purposes (a hobby he can
barely afford and works hard to be able to take part in).
I don’t know if I’ve ever met a person more completely
tied to their geography than this kid. It was almost as if his heart
was the vineyard and his blood was the wine. Jimmy was so sure of
himself and of his role in the world: He has never really left his
home in the Dundee Hills and he doesn’t want to. Jimmy is
currently working part time at Cameron and part time at a local
restaurant to pay the bills. In the next year, he is looking to
launch his own wine under the label of his deceased father, who
tragically passed away when he was eight. In many ways, Jimmy is
attempting to carry on his father’s legacy as one of the premier
winemakers in Oregon and hopefully the world.
I was very inspired by this young man’s direction and dedication
to what he wanted and what he believed in. He almost adoringly talked
about working in the fields during harvest, pressing the grapes,
and packaging the wine. Jimmy told us about the countless hours
spent discussing the intricacies of “Pinots” or “Bubblies”
with friends. To many, wines are a romantic hobby, to Jimmy they
are his being.
Jimmy showed Adam and I how to make wine and how to drink it too.
We first got a tour of the facilities and then walked around the
cellar, tasting and discussing the various Cameron wines. I’ll
break it down for you: You could learn the intricacies of a California
white, but if you really want to appear sophisticated, all you need
to do is swirl your glass enough to create a small maelstrom. For
all you ignoramuses, this oxygenates the wine and brings out its
flavor.
We then took a walk through the Vineyard. Adam wanted to revive
a game he played in high school and asked Jimmy, “Ok, so which
varietal would you fuck, which would you marry, and which would
you throw off a cliff?” He grinned ear to ear and let out
the big, burly laugh that was so Jimmy. Turning back to us with
a huge smile, he replied, “I’d fuck Chardonnay, marry
Pinot Noir, and throw Syraz off the cliff.”
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Tyson made us a delicious lunch of pasta and sausage and the four
us sat around the table soaking up the day. We could have stayed
there for hours, but we needed to get back to Portland. We thanked
our new friends profusely and drove back to the city.
A quick run down of the rest of the day: Spent way too long looking
for parking spot; Adam found Wigs and passed out flyers for fundraising
dinner; I walked the city armed with video and still camera interviewing
random people; found a fascinating group of locals; met up with
Rachel** at Weiden Kennedy, got tour of the advertising agency,
talked about our trip, gazed at dark rain clouds roaring past outside
deck; got ride from Rachel to U of P to meet others; hitched another
ride from car full of female athletes; went to five-star dinner
at Michael’s Gotham Building Tavern (he was unfortunately
too sick to attend); walked around Portland; went to Roseland Theater
to watch Caves, a popular Portland band that is playing at fundraising
dinner, met the band afterwards and helped them clean stage; followed
them to Jake’s (lead singer) house for after party; hung out;
ate birthday cake; made friends; looked cool in front of strobe
lights; went to bed happy as can be, thoroughly spoiled and wholly
grateful.
**Michael has an email list of over 20,000 ripe customers that
he has gathered over the years and he sent out a promotion for our
fundraising dinner. The night before Rachel, who has frequented
Michael’s restaurants, had finally opened it and was psyched
about our project, so she emailed us to get together. She works
as a creative assistant at Weiden and Kennedy, which is one of the
premier ad agencies in the world, representing such companies as
Nike and Starbucks. Like everyone else that day, she was way too
nice to us and really fun to hang with too. As we left the agency,
she scribbled on a piece of paper a required reading list that included
The Cheese Monkeys and bird by bird and The Alchemist. When we met
up later that night at Jake’s, she had bought us all the books
and written a card too. We couldn’t believe it. It was fitting
end to this day of kindness.
What connected us to Rachel? A mass email and a belief in our project.
The previous night we didn’t know her, Jimmy, Tyson, Jake,
or the myriad other people that filtered through our lives that
day. Now we were friends, on some level at least. I can’t
help but feel affected by all the people that we have met along
the road. Each and every one of them—from David to Joe to
Vernon to Maria to Sarah to Erica and all the others in between—have
left an indelible impact on my life, on my character. I can’t
help but feel invigorated by the America we have seen, by the America
that takes in a group of strangers they barely know, by the America
that wants to make the world a better place, by the America that
is excepting of differences, by the America that has ambition, love,
fortitude, passion. It is hard to digest all that has happened,
but I know I will never forget any of it.
October 24
The buzz of Adam’s alarm jolted us awake at 7:00am in the
Jackson public parking lot. We had a big day ahead of us and that
meant a big meal, so Adam and I headed over to the local café
and quickly downed some eggs and a cinnamon roll. For the first
time this trip, the air was dry and cold, biting at our cheeks and
cooling our lungs as we headed back to Harvey. We stocked up on
some Clif Bars and water and then headed north to Teton National
Park. Our goal was to climb Middle Teton.
The day before I had been in touch with Merrick Johnston, a fellow
Dartmouth grad and badass climber (she was the youngest female,
age 12, to summit Mount McKinley), about some possible contacts
in the area. I questioned her about some cool ways to enjoy the
wilderness in the area, and she suggested I hike up the Middle Teton,
weather permitting. In retrospect, it is sort of like asking a professional
weight lifter how much I should bench and having him say, “Hey,
why don’t you start out with sets of 350 pounds?” I
originally was going to go with Ben, but his ankle was still bothering
him. Adam was my new partner in crime.
The drive that morning was especially pretty. The frost from the
previous night clung to the grass as the sun slowly crept up over
the hills. Suddenly, after ascending a sharp curve in the road,
the vast valley lay before us. From the East, the sun cast a bright
orange glow across the grasslands, showering light upon the jagged
Teton range, which rose dramatically six thousand feet from the
valley floor. Miles from their summits, Harvey sped through the
valley, racing the sun to the trailhead. I sat in the passenger
seat, brimming with excitement.
We tied up our boots, stretched our hamstrings, and headed down
the trail. Knowing that the hike would be a race against time (I
had a profile later in the afternoon and we told the guys we would
meet them at 3pm), we started out jogging up the trail. Not much
time had passed until we came upon two older guys, who we had seen
at the trailhead. We told them our goal, and they warned us that
it would take about take about 12 hours and that we might encounter
some bad conditions. I laughed and scoffed, thinking “12 hours?
Merrick said we could do it in 6. And do you know that I have been
using our Maxtor forearm strengtheners four times a day**, followed
by calf raises on Harvey’s steps?”
We continued on. The thick forest became more sparse, the air a
bit thinner. Throughout our trek, we caught glimpses of the peaks
through the trees, constantly reminding us what we were working
towards. We traversed across a ridge into Garnett Canyon and then
started heading up towards Middle Teton. After a couple of hours,
we made it to the lower saddle, where the shadows created extreme
temperature differentials.
We analyzed our route ahead and then made our way towards the upper
saddle, where we were planning on ascending up the backside of the
Middle Teton. As I picked my way through the boulders, I recognized
that the altitude was having an effect on my unaccustomed lungs:
The steps were getting harder and the breaks coming more frequently.
In addition, although it looked harmless from below, the route was
actually becoming quite treacherous as patches of snow and ice covered
the inconsistent boulder field.
The rock cairns, which had been our guide through this steep field
of broken rock, led us to an icy gully. There, I followed frozen
steps that had been kicked into the hardened, icy snow, probably
days or maybe even weeks earlier. Halfway across, I realized how
shady it was—a slight slip would have meant a 50’ tumble
into a icy river flowing under a glacier—but I had no ability
to turn around. I advised Adam not to follow me and, instead, go
up and around the enormous boulders to our left. This route proved
equally sketchy, however. At one point, he was attempting to climb
upwards, using a rock for leverage, but his feet slipped and he
was left dangling by his hands.
Eventually, using the enormous cliffs that surrounded us as amplifiers,
we shouted at each other and decided to retreat. For me the move
back involved pushing through three-foot snow drifts in shorts,
traversing a new path across the icy gully with tenuous foot holds
and equally questionable hand holds, and clambering over boulders.
We probably could have made it on to the summit, but it was a smart
move given the circumstances (no crampons, dicey conditions, Adam’s
low top Nike’s).
We went back down to the lower saddle and decided to head up to
the glacier below the summit of Middle Teton. After taking in the
gorgeous view down Garnett Canyon to the valley floor thousands
of feet below, we headed down fast in order to meet the guys. On
the way down, Adam perfected the backscratcher and other sicky freestyle
downhill hiking techniques. All in all, it was a great day: We had
a hell of a workout, an adrenaline filled adventure, and learned
some important life lessons in balancing risk versus reward.
While waiting for the guys to pick us up at the trailhead, I wandered
across the meadow to check out a heard of elk, probably about a
hundred strong, in the distance. They blended well into the background,
but I could see and feel their bright eyes focused directly on me.
When I was about a hundred yards away, they all simultaneously began
to walk away. If I stopped, they stopped. If I moved forward, they
moved forward. Either they liked playing red light, green light,
or they recognized this weird-looking, smelly, camera-wielding mammal
as an enemy.
Soon after this encounter, Griz and Wigs arrived to pick us up.
They had profiled Aimee Hanna, a naturalist for Teton National Park.
Recently graduated from West Virginia, she just married her high-school
sweetheart. This was her last day in the Park for she and her husband
were following the warm weather south to Carlsbad Caverns, New Mexico,
where they were planning on being park rangers for the winter season.
** Maxtor Corportation is one of our sponsors and they were kind
enough to provide us with 26 external storage drives, which we use
to capture our film and back up our pictures. They also gave us
3 million forearm strengtheners/stress reducers to hand out. We
don’t really understand the connection between large forearms
and computer storage, but we appreciate the thought.
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Merrick had suggested that I profile Chris Kitchen, and early
that evening we met up at the Stagecoach Bar and Grill in Wilson,
just below Teton Pass. Chris has three principle passions: the outdoors,
environmentalism, and filmmaking. This past summer he finished producing
his first film Sanctified, which seems to combine all of his interests.
It is a ski film, but it is environmentally focused. According to
the back cover of the DVD, “Santified is an inspirational
film that celebrates the beauty of the mountains and the experience
of skiing in them, while highlighting the environmental issues that
affect the backcountry.”
He was a great guy and was very idealistic. He wants to make a
difference in the world and thinks that everyone should. We drank
some mate (which he imports from South America), hung out, and discussed
our country and our generations.
That night, I drove back to Jackson saturated with the knowledge
that our country was a beautiful one, filled with wonderful places
and people that want to make it better.
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I know this has nothing to do with anything, but that’s
ok because most of you probably aren’t still reading anyway.
So, as I was writing this blog, we stopped at a random gas station
in Oregon and couldn’t help but notice the sex dispenser in
the bathroom. Do women have such a thing in their bathroom? Apparently,
it was a “LOVE KIT” offering a pleasure assortment of
Swedish Massage Oil, Oriental Exciter Rings, Exotic Condoms, and
Male Climax Control Creams. Only 75 cents would elicit one of these
wonderful sexual enhancers. I guess I just don’t understand
why anybody would put their money into them. Besides the fact that
the dispensers are often peeling, missing every fourth word, covered
in dirt or graffiti, and seem to date back to 1979, they are so
inconsistent: You put the quarters in the slot and get one of the
four pleasurable options listed above, but you have no ability to
choose which one. If you were in the mood for an Oriental Exciter
Rings, why would you want the Male Climax Control Creams? And do
they dispense them equally? Is there a chance that I would get 3
Swedish Massage Oils for every one Exotic Condom? Why don’t
they just have separate dispensers? Such questions plagued this
delirious road tripper.
October 20
I’m sorry folks, but nothing out of the ordinary happened
on this fall Montana day. We left Bozeman, after spending the morning
doing some work at an Internet Café. Destination: Missoula.
Route: I90. Travel time: approx. 3 hours.
**Warning** Cheesy writer who sees beauty in a lot of things may
appear repetitive and he apologizes for any inconvenience or boredom
that may occur.
I captained Harvey on this journey across Montana and it was quite
a lovely drive I may add. Early on, I agreed to allow myself only
three stops for pictures. See I have this bad habit—some might
call it obsessive, others an annoying compulsion to stop at anything
I deem picture worthy. If it was the Matt Heineman’s Young
American Project, it would probably take 10 years to travel the
US and by that time we will no longer be the generation emerging
into adulthood. So I implemented a quota of three stops on this
trip to Missoula both to see if I could do it, but also to appease
the other guys and get to our destination at a reasonable hour.
I know it sounds crazy, but three photo stops for this young American
proved to be quite a difficult restraint to live up to. Stop 1:
expansive view of rolling hills leading to snow-capped mountain
range. Stop 2: broken, dark cumulous clouds over a bright yellow
wheat field. Stop 3: sun beaming through dark clouds, illuminating
the top of a forested mountain. I mean come on, how could I not
stop and take these pictures? But only three stops! I was out early,
forty-five minutes into a three-hour drive. Now I had to exhibit
serious self-restraint for the next two hours or so. Some sources
of temptation included jagged rock formations, wispy rain clouds
hovering over mountains, classic-looking American towns with fall
foliage peaking. About an hour later, I began using a new technique
to combat my dilemma: See photo; make sure there is no other car
around Harvey; interrupt Adam’s book and say, “Hey bud,
ya mind holding the steering wheel again?”; lower window;
pull in Harvey’s dumbo ear/mirror, take picture. I was happy,
everybody was happy.
We crossed the continental divide and followed the Western flowing
watershed on to Missoula. Great town if you’ve never been
there. According to locals, if Bozeman is a more Western, cowboy
college-town, then Missoula is its hippy counterpart with half of
the college kids. I would point my two thumbs upwards for both of
these towns.
October 16
In case you’ve never been there,
South Dakota is a big state, almost shaped like a magnified mirror
image of my home state of Connecticut. Upon consulting Rand
McNally, I guestimate you can fit about thirty of those little guys
into its larger western counterpart. Anyway, we had a lot of
ground to cover on this mid-October day and we needed a hearty breakfast
to fuel up. It was just our luck that the local Kennebec Fire
Department was having a breakfast fundraiser and we enjoyed the tasty
pancakes and warm local feel.
Our first destination was the Badlands, so named by both the Lakota
Sioux Indians and the early French trappers that came upon the area. They
were an ever-changing, beautifully patterned land of sand and rock,
of peaks and valleys, of shadow and light. They were eroded
and layered, vivid examples of the unyielding power of geology. At
high noon on this bluebird day, the distinctive formations shone
in various shades and hues of white, gray, and red. It was
not the magnitude of what we saw—for the peaks only rose and
the valleys only dropped maybe two hundred, three hundred feet—but
it was the absolutely rugged and imposing nature of the land that
made it so unique. It was as if we were viewing a fractal of
small mountain range, condensed into a smaller scaled and sandier
space.
 
We wandered up and down and around these visual masterpieces, gazing
into the distance at the almost Martian-looking landscape. Ben
and I lost track of time. We had clambered up to one of the
higher points in sight. Sitting there in silence, gazing
at the panoramic view before us, evoked memories of being out in
the wilderness away from the fast-paced lives that we all lead. It
was wonderful to feel the wind scream through the valley, cooling
our faces as the unimpeded sun shown from above. Our ephemeral
peace ended when we realized we needed to meet up with the other
two guys and head to Mount Rushmore.
But to get to our high vista, we had crossed a knife-edge ridge,
lined on both sides by a small cliff and a steep embankment. (**Hi
parents, I promise we were very, very careful). Like many
past experiences in the wild, we found it was easier to get up then
to get down. We searched for other ways to the bottom, but
they proved equally sketchy, so we were forced to head back down
the skinny ridge, which was only a foot wide at one point. Ben
went first, choosing a sitting method where he slowly hopped forward,
feet dangling over the cliffs on each side. I soon followed. A
fall either way wouldn’t necessarily have resulted in death,
but it probably wouldn’t have looked pretty. For the
first time this trip, my heart was pumping with a little fear, and
it felt good to be shown my mortality again.
 
Ben and I ultimately made it down safely and we all got on the road
to Mount Rushmore. We left the unfamiliar undulations of the
Badlands for the more familiar grasslands, which gradually turned
to hills and pine forests—something we had not seen since the
White Mountains of New Hampshire. We also saw our first remnants
of wild fires, first in the plains and then some in the forested
hills.
It was really fun to visit Mount Rushmore, located in the heart
of the Black Hills. I was not overwhelmed with any deep sense of
patriotism, but rather I was just amazed that I was standing at the
base of this classic American monument, whose picture has graced
the pages of history textbooks, travel brochures, stamp books and
postcards alike, even the side of the Cruise America RV that we are
driving. From all the images that I have seen over the years,
I would have thought that would have seemed a little bigger, but
I guess I didn’t realize that the photographers were normally
zooming in on or cropping out the rest of the sizable mountain, which
stood guard over the sculpted faces. Like most notable works
of art or architecture, the building of the sculpture was only accomplished
as a result of the vision and dedication of its creator Gutzon Borglum,
who overcame enormous hurdles to get it built. Here are some
cool facts that I read about in The Mount Rushmore Visitor’s
Guide
- Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln were chosen to
represent the birth, growth, preservation, and development of
our country
- Ninety percent of the mountain carving was done using dynamite
- Around 400 workers carved the faces
- Built from October 4, 1927 to October 31, 1941, the project cost
nearly a million dollars
- The faces are approximately 60’ high, the eyes 11’ across,
the noses 20’ (Washington’s is 21’)
- Put onto a body, these figures would be approximately 465’ tall
- Lincoln’s sculpted face includes a 16” square rendition
of his mole
At the memorial, Adam and Ben met up with a writer from the Rapid
City Journal who was doing a story on us. They talked about
our trip, our generation, America. Meanwhile, Wigs and I did
an interview of our own with Richard Kennett, whom we had stumbled
upon on the observation deck. An All-American swimmer from
Emory University, Richard wanted to go to medical school after he
graduated in 04’, but it just wasn’t in the cards for
whatever reason. So, now he is taking a road trip across the
country, partly to “find himself” and partly to make
it out to California, where he wants to move to Berkeley and hopefully
do something in the biotech field. He was a great guy and it
was cool to run into a fellow road-tripper.
After taking in the scene for over an hour, we decided to appease
our hunger and headed into town with Richard. The neon lights
of a pizza joint attracted us and we parked Harvey in the nearby
alley. Inside, we found some puzzling signs:
 
Yo! I hope you can appreciate some of the humor in these signs. When
Ben asked our waitress, what they meant by “100% Ingredients” she
responded, “I’m not in the mood, ok.” Apparently,
we caught her on a bad night.
After a enjoyable dinner with our new friend Richard, we said our
goodbyes and then headed up to North Dakota—we had nothing
planned there, but we needed to hit every state or as Ben says, “all
49 states” (he is going to Hawaii to play lacrosse on Halloween
and we don’t think that we are going to make it to Alaska;
hence 49 states). Not long into our drive, we came into a
small town and were stopped by a never-ending train that was crossing
the road at a snail’s pace. On a whim, Wigs pulled Harvey
into the bar next door so we could use the bathroom and check the
baseball score rather than twiddle our thumbs waiting for the train
to pass. It turned out to be a godsend as he and Ben ended
up doing an interesting interview with the local bartender, who had
just graduated from college. A Montana native from a town of
twelve, he had just made a film with his friends and was waiting
to hear whether it was going to be accepted into Sundance. It
just goes to show that everyone has a story—you just have to
find them, or stumble upon them.
The drive through the Dakotas took place on a very rural two-lane
highway. It felt great to be alone on this road, driving through
the night as the moon cast a faint glow on the barren landscape. The
crazy guy that he is, Wigs choose moonlight over car light for almost
a mile and I suggest you try it next time you are in the middle of
nowhere cause it was pretty cool.
See ya in a few.
October 12
The evening past we had consulted Jane and Michael Stern’s Roadfood for
a place to eat breakfast around Ames, IA, where we were residing. Luckily,
we found the Grove Café, a delicious, authentic “pancake
parlor.” They don’t serve apple or blueberry pancakes,
because you have to eat them the way the Grove Café has been
preparing them for the past fifty years: plain and large (although
now you can get your pancakes with homemade syrups that change with
the season).
Thoroughly satisfied with our meal, we were getting ready to leave
when Larry, the owner/chef, came over to chat. He thought he
recognized Ben and Adam as a pair of road-trippers that had passed
through in the previous year and we ended up talking with him for
a while. He echoed some of what we had we had been hearing
for the past several weeks, especially from members of older generations.
In essence, Larry believed that we were Generation Entitlement,
plagued by an inherited belief that were going to live as well or
better then our parents had. He thought we were apathetic and
lazy, not wanting “to work hard for a buck.” Our
generation, he denounced, has had everything given to us and not
much to show as a result. He used some of his younger employees
as examples, saying that they would leave when the hour struck, not
wanting to stay late and work hard to appease their boss as he did
when he was a kid.
He also diverted into a tangent about credit card debt and bankruptcy – about
how many kids our age pay for college with credit cards, amass debt,
then travel or work a little or both, amass more debt, and then eventually
file for bankruptcy. Larry was perturbed that “you and
me” now have to pay for this. I am in no position to
evaluate how prevalent this trend is in our country, but it is something
that many people have touched on so far in our journey.
It is hard though to distill trends from human nature: Was Larry’s
tone just exemplifying an age-old issue of parents thinking that
their children were lazy, or was this an actual development among
people our age? We’ve all heard the stories, the kind
of stories where your father had to use his incredible speed to avoid
gangs in the streets of Chicago’s South Side. Or maybe
how your mother had to hike uphill through ten feet of snow to get
to school. Our parents most likely heard it from their parents,
and they from theirs, and so on and so forth. Some of these
stories may be fantasy, while others may be exact truths. A
great example is the movie Big Fish, Tim Burton’s
masterful exploration of a son attempting to sift through his father’s
myriad life fables. So often we like to exaggerate like the
elderly father, Ed Bloom, in order to imprint our legacy. Like
in the movie, many of these stories are allegories, told to make
the younger generations appreciate everything they are given and
inspire them to work hard and achieve.
And yes, I believe that Larry was right in saying our parents want
us to live better then they did. But isn’t this the
American way? We have been the melting pot of the world, where
you could come and make it, where the young Horatio Alger pauper
can become rich and powerful, where we live in a haven of personal
freedom and unalienable rights. But is there not another major
tenant of our society—the belief that we want our kids to have
it easier than us, to be better educated, to be more successful,
to have more protections? Arthur Miller, arguably one of America’s
best playwrights, captured this idea so well in Death of A Salesmen,
where Willy Loman ultimately commits suicide so that his son may
prosper and start a business.
But I don’t think that this sense of entitlement is the only
source of our so-called apathy, as Larry says. I believe that
rapid information and technological advancements in the past two
decades, the years when we were coming of age, have greatly affected
us. We are in many ways the IT (Information Technology) Generation
with the entire world virtually a click away. The Internet,
email, Xbox, AOL Instant Messenger, and cell phones define us. For
many, there is no reason to leave their computer: they can watch
movies, buy stocks, listen to concerts, read books, and play games
right from their desktop. For the ambitious, there is the possibility
to “make a buck” on Party Poker or Ebay. We are
connected with our friends and the rest of the world like never before.
Half a century ago, if college students were doing their theses
on the beaches of Normandy, they would need days to travel back and
forth to Europe on a ship like the QEII. Today, this student
can fly cheaply across the Atlantic on Delta or if they didn’t
want to leave their dorm room, they could watch a documentary or
a feature film like Saving Private Ryan or search the Internet
for an untold number of websites about the issue.
Older generations, for the most part, don’t understand computers
or the Internet or Palm Pilots or iPods, all innovations that are
almost viscerally part of our lives (it should be noted that our
parents have come to assimilate these changes, but to us, they have
been impressed upon us from our early childhood). To elders,
the hours spent holed up in our rooms must make us seem introverted
or even lazy. If we seem spoiled, it is probably partly due
to Larry’s idea of entitlement. But it is also because
we are so intrinsically tied to these newfound innovations, to the
perpetual need to buy the latest and greatest video game or computer. As
these technologies are getting cheaper, more and more Americans can
afford them. Almost every family has at least one TV and most
have a computer too. President Bush claims that by 2007 we
will all have high-speed Internet. We still played capture
the flag or manhunt or house with Barbie dolls as children, but we
did so along with IT advancements that our parents never had.
Another possible factor is that we are going to live longer than
anybody before us. Maybe that is why we are growing up and getting
married much later than our parents and especially our grandparents. Why
should we not be able to spend more time figuring out what we want
to do or whom we want to spend our lives with rather than being forced
by societal restraints to do so early?
Ultimately, I fall somewhere in the middle: I think that we have
been entitled by our parents, probably more so than any generation
in the past, but we are also largely defined by a rapidly changing
world that is “making life easier,” and bringing the
world together. Our grandparents were part of the Greatest
Generation, characterized by the Depression and WWII; our parents
were children of the 60s of Rock and Roll, sex, drugs, the Vietnam
War, riots, racial tensions, Roe v. Wade. Besides a sense of
entitlement, we have inherited many dire problems that we will have
to figure out. Some notable worldwide issues that will have
to be solved by our generation include the exponentially growing
population, global warming, and the rise of widespread terrorist
groups such as Al Qaeda. Within our nation, we are beleaguered
by an unclear foreign policy, by the Iraq War, by being the source
of much hatred around the world, by latent racism and overt segregation,
by credit card debt, by healthcare costs, by poverty, and by education. How
will we respond? Will we become aloof individuals veiled behind our
computers or will we come together and make a stand?
If only we used this IT to our advantage. We are well connected,
so let’s connect to the issues at hand. The time to act
is here and the methods of dissemination are in place. In the
last three weeks, I have been amazed at what we have found. I’ve
always heard that the Midwest is like a different world, the land
flat, the straight highways leading us into a land of cows and wheat. But
we’ve discovered in the last three weeks is that everyone is
the same—There is so much tying us together, so many things
that unite us rather than separate us. Why must there always
be divisions, between the left and the right, the rich and the poor,
the haves and the haves not? The 60s were supposed to have
eradicated barriers, but the walls are present everywhere. It
is up to our generation to use the technology that we have been bestowed
with to eradicate these divisions and repair these problems.
-----------------------------
I want to send a heartfelt thank you to Wig’s family—Grandma
Tudy, Jen and Steve Economos and their sons Nick and Pete, Tom and
Jill Berg and their daughter Janie and newborn son John Thomas—for
their wonderful Midwestern hospitality. We arrived at Grandma Tudy’s
house, where she pampered us with snacks and showers. After
a couple of hours, we headed over to Steve and Jen’s house
for an incredible feast, complete with steaks (rib-eye and sirloin),
chicken, vegetables, salads, mashed potatoes, etc. We laughed
and chatted into the night and had a great time. Besides the
food and company, some hightlights included a football game between
Ben/Pete (broken arm and all) and Adam/Nick (turned out to be a tie
game), an interview with all of the kids, and an eating contest between
Adam and Nick (a draw). They were such a kind, funny, entertaining
group, and we were all so thankful to have been able to meet them.
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