A Crash Course on Pioneering the American West: Exploring the Familiar Frontier

Just across from my beloved Portland neighborhood, along the banks of the Ohio River, Lewis and Clark launched their famed expedition into the unknown. It was a strategic spot, nestled just downstream from the Falls of the Ohio—the river’s only natural barrier from its origins in Pittsburgh to its confluence with the Mississippi in Cairo, Illinois.

Years later, William Clark returned to the very spot that once launched him into history, this time—to care for his older brother, George, in a humble, handmade cabin. George Clark, who is celebrated as the founder of Louisville, spent his final years there, overlooking the growing city he helped build. Though George Clark passed away in 1818, the cabin has lived on in various states of preservation ever since.

Oddly enough, a few years back, Katie and I spotted a man walking on the side of the road with a raccoon perched on his shoulder. Anyone walking a raccoon is worth a detour, and I pulled the car over immediately to meet the man, or more importantly, his friend.

We learned he was homeless, and the raccoon was his pet. He pointed into the woods, explaining that he lived there. While his love for woodland creatures made living in the forest less surprising, the direction he indicated was a small, but well-traveled state park. I was puzzled at the choice, given the relatively few places for privacy and even fewer options for shelter.

Had the raccoon been fashioned into a hat, he would have fit right in with the cabin’s surroundings. I didn’t think about the encounter much, but a few months later the cabin was engulfed in flames. The timber burned quickly with only the chimney left standing. The cabin was a protected historic site, and a source of pride for many. It was an enormous loss.

Before long, a wanted image was splashed across several local news outlets—grainy surveillance footage of a suspect. No one knew his identity, and the reports didn’t have a name, but I recognized him instantly. My jaw dropped as I stared at the screen, picturing a raccoon perched on his shoulder.

Remnants of George Rogers Clark Cabin

I was puzzled about what to do with this information, if I even had any. Sharing his last known “address” was useless, and his four legged accomplice seemed irrelevant. I initially believed the fire was an accident, the result of him squatting in the cabin - maybe building a fire for warmth. However, I soon learned four other fires burned nearby that night, and all their origins were determined to be arson.

I didn’t have to wait long to figure out what to do. He was caught in a matter of days.

The park will try to replicate the cabin and preserve the chimney, something they’ve done before in the cabin’s 200 year history. But for now, the only visible remnant of their journey is an unremarkable boat ramp a few miles away. Whether or not it’s the actual spot they launched from is anyone’s guess—some believe it is, but confirming that feels impossible. Still, it stands as one of the last tangible links to their 1804 departure.

You can’t have the last name “Newland” without at least some adoration for the American West, if for only the adventure it promises. Consequently, that site has intrigued me for years, for a visit downstream to retrace a small leg of their journey, at least to the Mississippi River - the gateway to the west.

I figured the only thing standing between me and that adventure was a boat. To my surprise, boats without tags or titles are really cheap. For just $600, my buddy Stephen and I landed a 14-foot fiberglass boat with an old 2-stroke outboard engine. It got even cheaper for me after I traded $100 worth of fireworks for an old vending machine. I ended up selling that vending machine to cover my half of the boat—quite the bargain for a slice of freedom on the final frontier.

Several people I spoke to didn’t realize it was possible to boat to the Mississippi River. It took me calling all seven locks and dams downstream from Louisville to feel confident that the route to the Mississippi was as connected as it looks on a map. The operators seemed a bit baffled. Apparently, leisure travelers don’t often ask for directions to Cairo, but they did ultimately concede that if I showed up, they’d have no choice but to let me through. It was practically an invitation.

The operator briefly alluded to some paperwork (an RSVP perhaps?), but my brain quickly suppressed any mention of it. In all the unknowns I faced, I surely wasn’t going to let some forms stop me. Our boat was just like the pioneers - no insurance, tags or title. Heck, we didn’t even have a name for the log book guest book.

For a course that has no intersections, river maps are a bit much… We launched from the black arrow

On the morning of the launch, we brought along a teenage kid from the neighborhood. Even though he’d lived nearby most of his life, he had never laid eyes on a boat ramp before. As another truck slowly backed toward the water, inching its rear wheels into the river, he erupted in panic. He bolted toward the driver yelling at the top of his lungs, “Stop! There’s a river back there!”

I couldn’t help but relish the fact that I was no longer the least competent skipper. Even so, I gladly deferred to my sidekick, Stephen, as the true captain. He had taken a deeper interest in mastering the boat, especially the motor—an old relic we’d determined to be a 1957 2-stroke Johnson.

We’d never actually started it before, and as the current began pulling us downstream, we gave the engine its first pull. Nothing. Another pull sparked a faint sputter—there was a glimmer of hope. I had already started rowing by hand when, after ten minutes of coaxing, the engine shook to life.

The journey was slow going with our vintage motor. I clocked us at a leisurely ten miles per hour, draining my phone’s battery every so often to convert our speed to knots, just for the fun of it. At that pace, we quickly realized we’d be on the water much longer than expected for the 700 mile round trip, likely cruising well into the night if we wanted to reach the Mississippi. One thing was clear—we wouldn’t have time for the return trip.

We reasoned we could find a nice dock and sell the boat to someone for a few hundred bucks. I could make a joke about the deal being better than the Louisiana Purchase, and we could all feel good about it. Then we would use that money to rent a car and drive back to Louisville before work in five days tops. I’d probably take a loss on some fireworks, but that would be worth the adventure.

As we traveled further west, the landscape around me began to shift dramatically. I watched as the rolling hills on the Indiana side seemed to melt into the river, only to rise again on the Kentucky shore. It was a spectacular way to experience the river.

Around one bend, we found ourselves face-to-face with a massive 200-foot barge—the only other vessel on the water. Had our vintage boat been a bit more robust, we might have collided head-on. Instead, the wake from the slow-moving giant nearly capsized us.

We quickly adopted the watchful eye of an old-fashioned sea captain, scanning every turn for potential hazards. At our starting point, the river had been nearly a mile wide; now, it had narrowed to just a few hundred feet, making the barges seem even more imposing as they rounded the bends.

Despite knowing time was not on our side, we couldn’t help but stop and explore little coves and curiosities along the way. On one occasion, we spotted a huge ballroom hall perched at the top of a cliff – completely abandoned and adorned with broken glass and graffiti. As we climbed to the top, we watched bright blue skies turn grey, and a storm began to set over the river. We took shelter in our newfound lookout, waiting out the storm from a pirated watchtower.

As the river grew choppier, I was promptly relieved of steering duty. The unpredictable water had already slowed us down, but with the sun sinking lower, we knew we had to push forward. Sticking close to the coast, we avoided towering barges and tried to dodge the roughest waters, but that was mostly futile. We had completely underestimated the river.

Suddenly, the boat jolted violently, spinning out of control. The motor screeched, sending us veering toward the riverbank. In an instant, we were dead still. We had run aground.

We tried relentlessly, but the motor appeared hopelessly lost, barely offering a sputter. Our small coast was about thirty feet wide, tucked in-between the water and an inverted embankment too high to see over. It stretched as far as I could see.

Back at the abandoned ballroom, I barely had enough service to check our location. Now, the signal was completely gone. We weren’t shipwrecked, at least by any rational point of view, but I felt a bit of fear start to creep in, and I heard a twinge of angst in Captain Stephen’s voice.

Still, there wasn’t time for panic. We estimated we were about five miles upstream from the nearest town. If we could walk to it, we reasoned there could be a boat ramp, a tackle shop, or maybe a good samaritan to offer a tow. I pushed aside my most intrusive thoughts- the ones that begged me to befriend a volleyball, and I welcomed my level-headed self. The one that doesn’t suppress mentions of paperwork, or river maps, or weather forecasts, or the mechanics of an engine.

We had maybe an hour of daylight left. Behind us was nothing but miles of river; ahead was a hope that something, anything, awaited us if we walked far enough. The decision was unanimous. The sun hovered above the horizon, casting long shadows across the water. We walked closer to it, into the fading light and toward the American West.

Maybe, in that moment, we were more similar to Lewis and Clark than we’d expected. We were moving through the same unfamiliar waters, now guided by our own instincts, no matter how futile.

I could make it through, in part, by embracing that connection. It was a connection I could feel getting stronger. I may have never met Mr. Clark, but I met the man who burned down his cabin—and I hoped that was close enough.

Confluence of the Ohio River and Mississippi in Cairo, Illinois; Paul Schneider

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Locations mentioned:

1. Site of George Rogers Clark Cabin | 38.28697, -85.77611

2. Abandoned Ballroom \ 37.95665, -86.05234

Pogue’s Run

“Pogue’s Run is real,” read an online comment I scrolled across in 2017. “There’s a river that runs under Indianapolis for two-and-a-half miles, and you can walk the stream from one end to the other.”

For someone like me, who is fascinated with the world beneath our feet - particularly when each step is illegal, this was the ultimate revelation.

I initially became curious about urban tunnels after discovering some in the basement of my college dorm. On a small campus I thought I knew so well, I was sleeping steps away from a hidden underworld. I spent most evenings my freshman year searching for more.

I mapped maybe a mile of tunnels criss-crossing my small University in St. Charles, Missouri. I could traverse between several buildings, only to exit out of an obscure maintenance closet or crawl space, becoming the bonafide expert of the rumored underworld.

Some of the most hidden tunnels looked like they hadn’t been touched for decades. Others had been repurposed for maintenance access, and a few seemed to provide no purpose at all.  After prying open a manhole cover near one of the older buildings, my flashlight illuminated a cavernous concrete room 15 feet below. Only seeing a portion of the chamber, I quickly fetched a rope from another tunnel and volunteered to lower myself down.

I knew I was stuck before my feet hit the ground.  The room was a concrete tomb, a vast cage with no way out. If it was meant to hold something, its purpose was a mystery—no pipes, no doors, nothing to explain its existence. When I shut off my flashlight, the darkness was total.

It’s a problem really, to believe every hole in the ground serves as a gateway to a parallel world. Most manholes, grates, and latches are a portal to nowhere. Still I can’t help but navigate every step with an air of skepticism. Years later, I would accidentally get myself stuck inside an art installation. It’s always the same delayed regret because the panic creeps in slow. But for the moment, the feeling was unfamiliar. I felt dwarfed by the concrete room’s size yet almost immediately claustrophobic.

Katie turning back after finding the river. My tunnel search often ends up in a storm drain or sewer.

The rescue was a team effort. The ground crew enlisted other students across campus, recruiting them solely on the basis of “they look like they would be good at tug-of-war.” It worked. They pulled me out to small applause, as members of the wrestling team high-fived each other. I felt like one of the Chilean miners.

Since then, I've taken a more cautious approach toward searching for tunnels, treating them like I treat waterfalls - always curious, never chasing.

And Pogue’s Run doesn't have to be chased. Its massive nature makes it impossible to hide. Just south of where the Kentucky Avenue Bridge crosses the White River, within earshot of I-70, the culvert remains today.

Standing at the west entrance 

All tunnels are mysterious, but Pogue’s Run has an especially curious history. Its tale begins with the city itself, and one of its original occupents.

George Pogue and his family were one of the first new settlers to the recently formed state of Indiana when they built a house along the river. One morning, after some of his horses vanished, Pogue pursued a suspect into the woods. That was the last time he was seen. Just two years after his pioneering settlement, George Pogue became the state of Indiana’s first cold case.

Pogue’s Run in the southeast corner was the sole disruption in Ralaston’s plan

The following year, the General Assembly of Indiana chose a site for the capital of their new state. They hired Alexander Ralston, apprentice of Washington D.C.’s famed planner Pierre L’Enfant, to design the layout for Indianapolis. Ralston’s elegant plan mirrored D.C.’s: a square grid one mile on each side, with a circular plaza at the center and four wide boulevards radiating out toward the square’s corners.

However, in the southeast corner, the grid was disrupted. Ralaston would learn that locals referred to this river as Pogue’s run, which meandered menacingly across his perfectly symmetrical grid.

In the latter half of the 19th century, Indianapolis expanded beyond the original square mile, and Pogue’s Run caused even more trouble. Industrialization led factories to pollute the water. During rainy seasons it would overflow, flooding streets and damaging property. As sewers dumped their contents into the stream, it became unsanitary and a breeding ground for mosquitoes that spread disease.

City planners and railroad companies, eager to elevate their tracks, decided to confine the stream. By 1905, they devised a plan, and by 1916 they trapped it underground.

The work was considered a marvel of engineering, and concluded with one of the most unusual grand openings. In front of the press, the mayor of Indianapolis attempted to cross through the tunnel in his car to display how large and successful the project had been. A few minutes later, he backed out of the tunnel after becoming nauseated by the smell.

Just check out that early 20th century headline...

Like its namesake, the river also disappeared, and after a few decades, few remembered there was ever a river running through downtown. I scoured the internet for stories of the tunnels, expecting fugitives, ghost stories, and urban legends. The only real mention of the tunnel remains on internet forums, which I studied until I could make my own trip.

While it’s less than two hours away, I don’t make a habit of going to Indianapolis. People in Louisville jokingly refer to Indiana, which is officially known as the Crossroads State, as something just to pass through. Like the tunnel’s grand opening, you can cross through if you want, but it might make you nauseous. Even my favorite Indiana city, Gary (which is an urban explorer's dream), is bemoaned by Indiana residents. They really do have it all backwards.

Nevertheless, Katie and I planned the trip alongside our beloved Louisville Cardinals basketball team, who were playing Michigan for a chance to go to the Sweet 16. Standing outside Lucas Oil Stadium, I stepped away for 15 minutes to scalp some tickets. At that moment, Katie ran into Hall of Fame Coach and Louisville legend Denny Crum. I missed the whole thing.

The picture I was handed upon my return...

The game ended in defeat, and we made a quick exit. In 30 minutes, we would be standing underneath the court.

Of course, we had no idea of knowing when we were under the court. Walking into the tunnel is disorienting. At its entrance, you feel small. Three culverts big enough to drive a car through quickly merge to a single stream. Water, which fluctuates between a trickle and a current, flowed gently at our feet that day. Drops echoed when condensation fell off rebar, which hung from the ceiling like stalactites.

Five hundred feet in, and the entrance is a speck; any further and the genesis-type darkness envelops you. I squinted my eyes to adjust, but there was nothing to adjust to. I kept the light off, walking further into the abyss with my hand brushing the tunnel’s side. I was invisible.

When my light turned back on it flashed against graffiti etched on the wall. Some people who graffiti underground say it’s an impulse as old as cave drawings. I looked at the drawing and imagined a buffalo. Then I pictured a hand print. Despite my efforts, I drew no symbolic or religious conclusions from the etching. It was a simple, careless penis.

Of course, not all the graffiti was juvenile. Some of it was beautiful. There’s something admirable about anyone who creates art in a place they know it will never be seen, and Pogue’s run is a miles wide canvas.

Seeing daylight from the east entrance

The tunnel was a century old old when I stepped inside. Potholes had formed in parts of the floor, and side tunnels made of collapsing brick meandered off the main route. It was mostly silent, except when screeches from above crept through an off-shoot and echoed through the tunnel - emulating a cry for help or a car horn, depending on your state of mind.

I lamented not bringing a bike or skateboard, and mentioned how fun it would be to ride an electric scooter from end to end. Then, halfway through, we saw a hand painted sign reading “50 foot drop ahead”. My instincts told me it was a cruel joke, but we switched over to the parallel culvert at the next opportunity just in case - before eventually doubling back.

An opening near one of the entrances connects parallel culverts.  Photo credit: Bookmark Indy

It was hard to comprehend the ground we covered along Pogue’s Run, but that evening I pinpointed our route using archived maps online. This is when it became clear, a walk through Pogue’s Run takes you below some of Indianapolis’s most iconic buildings.

When the city of Indianapolis buried the river, they found themselves with non-purposed land for the first time in 100 years. They made the most of it, undertaking a dozen iconic projects that still stand above the tunnel today.

A walk through Pogue’s run takes you dead center of Lucas Oil Stadium, Union Station, Banker’s Life Fieldhouse (home of the Indiana Pacers), and several historic buildings.

I made note to remember where to stand if the Super Bowl returns to Indianapolis. About .54 miles after entering the tunnels west entrance, we were standing under the 50 yard line. March Madness had continued directly above us. Below the bedrock, everything stood still.

About .54 miles after entering the tunnel, your standing under the 50 yard line of the Indianapolis Colts

Indianapolis isn’t really known as a river town. The nearby White River, which Pogue’s Run eventually flows into, was an afterthought to a city planner focused on symmetry. Still, it’s confounding to me that Pogue’s Run, in its proximity and scale, has not become a piece of history people want to embrace.

We had only hopped one fence and scrambled down a ravine to make our way to the tunnel’s entrance that day. Just minutes from the city center, where 15,000 people were watching the University of Kentucky and Wichita State face off in Mach Madness, we were nearly alone.

Of course, there are others who experience the tunnel every day. We quickly encountered another group, maybe a dozen people, who had made their own makeshift community near the river’s edge. They were unhoused, steps away from the tunnel’s entrance. They spoke for a while about what it was like to live down there. One man named Chuck mentioned he might try to get housing in Louisville one day, and we traded numbers just in case.

The nearby tunnel was not a shelter for Chuck. When weather was bad, the tunnel was ferocious. Pogue’s Run was merely a neighbor to them, another thing forced underground for convenience - another thing hidden in plain sight. To be forced underground is to be rendered invisible, unimportant at best and mistrusted at worst.

Of course, the things below us are not unimportant. Burying rivers for convenience is rarely without consequence, and more often than not, water wins with vengeance. Across the country, dozens of miles of rivers have been buried in urban areas including New York, Detroit, Boston, and St Louis.

In every case mentioned, the endeavor has caused enormous problems for the city, leading to drainage issues, flooding, erosion, and constant headaches for the people who live nearby. Exhuming buried waterways, an enormously difficult and expensive process known as “daylighting”, has gained traction across every town mentioned, but there are no plans to do so in Indianapolis.

If the tunnel’s prominence is subdued, it’s a testament to its success, an anomaly amongst similar undertakings. And as long as that’s the case, Pogue’s Run can continue to exist in relative anonymity, permitting most people to live their scheduled lives undisturbed. A few though, get to experience something far better: the revelation that there’s a world beneath our feet rendered invisible, yet teeming with mystery and primed for exploration.

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Locations mentioned:

1. Pogue Run East Entrance | 39.77121, -86.14037

2. Pogue Run West Entrance | 39.75618, -86.17228

Katie standing near the entrance

Salvation Mountain

I made it to my third motorcycle lesson before my first serious accident. It’s not surprising that I got in a bike accident, I’m prone to those I’ve found. The surprising part was that I wasn’t on a motorcycle. I was commuting to motorcycle class on my bicycle when suddenly I was catapulted over the handlebars and onto the pavement.

I didn’t know that sometimes wheels fall off bicycles. When it happens the front fork digs into the pavement and launches the rider through the air and into a lifetime of distrust for bikes.

After a few months of physical therapy for a torn shoulder ligament, I was back to learning how to ride. It took more motorcycle lessons then I care to admit. Among three friends, I was by far the worst off. We all held my breath when I went in for my skills test. In a room full of 16 year olds getting their driver’s license, I may have been the most nervous. Just getting to the test I had stalled the motorcycle twice and had to call a friend, standing squarely in traffic, so he could remind me how to get back in gear.

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Roy’s Motel, on the tail end of Route 66

The motorcycle I had been practicing on was stolen the week before my test. My neighbor Jared offered to let me use his, which was possible after we both scrambled to get the back taxes paid 12 hours before. We duct taped orange Plexiglas around the front light and prayed it passed inspection.

Needless to say, I wasn’t fooling the driver’s ed instructor when I tripped getting off the bike. My leg got caught swinging over the seat of the 1979 Honda, and I again found myself flat on the asphalt, while a confused man with a clipboard towered over me. He had a puzzled look that I can only describe as a dance instructor realizing one of their students hadn’t met the prerequisite of learning how to walk.

I looked up at him and said, “I’m still practicing that.”

Luckily, there is no official way to penalize someone for not knowing how to get off a motorcycle, and one week later, I was convoying with some of my best friends across the California desert.

As desolate as Route 66 can be, we splintered off the route relentlessly, riding further and further into the most barren corners of the desert. Our final destination would be Slab City, not a municipal town, but a shantytown made of tents, tarps, and desert dwellers.

Slab City was settled in the 1950’s after the abandonment of the Fort Dunlap marine training base. The only things left behind when the base closed were the concrete slabs from the barracks, and an outdoor swimming pool turned skate park.

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Kelso Sand Dunes, in route to Slab City, are 600 feet tall

Part squatter city and part art commune, it's affectionately dubbed “the last free place on Earth”. Residents fall somewhere between rebel anarchist and idealist hippy. The diversity in ideologies doesn’t make life easy, but the residents are living life on their own terms, and for them, that matters most.

People do not just stumble across this place. The Slabs are far from the dense coastal cities of Southern California. The journey stretches across the desert, past ghost towns and long-abandoned gas stations. The only noteworthy landmark emerges about 150 miles east of LA, where the Salton Sea shimmers in the distance, flickering relentless sun-rays across the horizon.

The Salton Sea was a bustling family vacation destination in the 1950s, but as the sea began to shrink and become polluted, the hotels and resorts dried up too. Now, its banks are littered with ghost towns, the largest being Bombay Beach.

Bombay Beach is a haunting collection of over a hundred abandoned houses, buildings, and trailers. It sits more than 200 feet below sea level—one of the lowest elevations in North America. In June, with temperatures soaring to 110 degrees, the sea served as a cruel reverse mirage—a source of water that's 100% real, yet so toxic that almost nothing can survive.

The wasteland of Bombay Beach merely serves as the prelude to the reality of Slab City, a harsh backdrop the community was born from. We still had to venture 20 miles deeper into the desert to reach our final destination. The entire ride, my mind tried to sort out the logistics, but it never made sense. Slab City should not be inhabitable.

Water is scarce here. As one resident put it, “a few times a year, we get six inch rain. That’s when the rain drops fall six inches apart”. Water is at such a premium, when I visited the Slab City coffee shop (which was brewed in an old Gatorade cooler under a collection of tarps and bed sheets), I was instructed to place my empty mug back on the table for the next customer. It was unclear who the next customer might be.

Knowing the rules of the Slabs can vary between more than a dozen ragtag neighborhoods within its unincorporated limits. East Jesus invites people to become immersed in desert art, repurposing abandoned planes and tires into beautiful thought-provoking sculptures.

East Jesus is not to be confused with neighboring West Satan. Only 100 feet away, West Satan advertises “death to unwelcome visitors after dark” on a home-made sign in a sea of baby doll heads.

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Without electricity, navigating the maze of tarps, lean-tos and tents can be unpredictable. Since the only roads are hardened dirt, marked by hand-painted street signs, any deep venture into the Slabs is uncommon for outsiders. Crime can go unchecked, drug use seems rampant, and the 120-degree heat spells in the summer make life miserable at best and deadly at worst.

We heard marshals had recently round up fugitives before our visit, a periodic occurrence evidently. The Slabs have been an “end of the road” destination for decades.

Regardless, thousands of visitors come to this corner of the desert every year. While many do not venture into the Slabs, all stop and wonder at the iconic entrance to the desert community. It was the first thing that greeted us from the distance. In a treeless environment below sea level, it can be seen for miles: the World's Largest John 3:16 monument, famously known as Salvation Mountain.

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The 50-foot-tall, 150-foot-wide mountain is constructed almost entirely from adobe clay. From a distance, it stands as a surreal tapestry of technicolor forms and textures. Close up, it reveals a dazzling display of doves, flowers, and hearts amongst a sea of color. The streams of red, yellow, and blue flow off the mountain and to the feet of onlookers.

While everything near the Slabs looks out of place, Salvation Mountain is in a class of its own. In an environment where survival already feels impossible, building a homemade mountain is not recommended. Still, one stubborn man did just that for 35 years.

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One of several additions on the mountain include “the museum” which is meant to resemble the semi-inflated hot air ballon which crashed in the desert

In 1970, Leonard Knight had recently found God, and he wanted to proclaim a simple message of love across the world. Knight believed the most effective way to communicate this message was a hot-air balloon evangelical world tour. Knight set out to build a homemade hot air balloon proudly adorning the words “God is Love''.

Knight didn’t know much about hot air balloons, and he didn’t have the means to buy one. He wanted to find a spot to learn and build, far from others, and maybe most importantly, free from power lines.

While scouting the country for a spot to launch his balloon, his truck broke down near Slab City (the most extreme version of crashing your bicycle on your way to a motorcycle lesson). Slab City has always attracted visionary outcasts, and they embraced him by donating scrap fabric and sewing equipment to his cause. After a few months, Knight was ready for launch.

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Things went wrong almost immediately. You could call it a perfect storm of events, but between the Frankenstein-esque balloon fabrics and the fact Knight had never actually piloted a balloon before, crashing was probably inevitable.

His evangelical world tour ended in a crash landing only a half mile south from the Slab City launch pad. Still, Knight was determined. Rather than traveling the country to proclaim his message, it would be people from across the world who would come to him. In the very spot his balloon landed, Salvation Mountain was born.

Knight would live on his homemade mountain for the next 35 years. With no running water, electricity, phone, or air conditioning, his only amenity was the nearby hot springs where he bathed at night when the desert temperature dropped. Knight mixed the sulfur water with mud and straw to add to his mountain daily. The result would become the entrance point for anyone coming into Slab City – and the only reason the Slabs survived.

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Leonard Knight’s home for 35 years

In the early 2000’s, California tried to reclaim the old Fort Dunlap land and sell it. Rather than being pushed out, the band of desert dwellers organized a defense around their belief that the Slabs were religious grounds, particularly Salvation Mountain. In response, the state attempted to dismantle the monument, claiming the paint was toxic to the environment. State officials collected soil samples that they purported to have increased amounts of lead.

Believing the tests were rigged, the community crowd-funded their own environmental scientists who concluded the paint was non-toxic. Supporters from across the country came to defense of the mountain, sparking a debate that reached as far as congress when US Senator Barbara Boxer referred to the mountain as “a profoundly strange sculpture wrought from the desert”, and a “national treasure for the ages”.

The grass-root pressure campaign won over the public, and the state backed off from their plans. If it wasn’t for Leonard Knight, the last free place on earth would have been sold.

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Screenshot from “Into the Wild”. Knight was briefly featured playing himself.

Slab City has its problems, and they merely begin with the logistical nightmare of sustaining an off-the-grid community in such harsh conditions. Stories online are plentiful of drugs and violence, and a tradition of arson for excommunicating unwanted residents.

Despite these challenges, the Slabs offer a last refuge for an entire community of people. People who, whether chosen or unchosen, are misfits and outcasts to the rest of the world. At the Slabs, being a misfit is encouraged. Freedom is encouraged, so long as it only impacts yourself, and In a world of lean-tos and tarps, your “self” is on full display. There's something wonderful about that.

Perfect occasion for my John 3:16 socks

Slab City allowed Leonard Knight to be his true self, perhaps even his best self. His homemade mountain, built from half a million gallons of donated paint, was beloved by the same group of misfits. Few would describe Slab City as a utopia, but anywhere that a hippy, fugitive, anarchist, and West Satan (satanist?) can each pick up the same brush and leave their mark, is something special.

Leonard Knight passed away in 2014. Shortly before his death, he made one final request, that the mountain would belong to the people who call Slab City home - the eclectic group of desert dwellers who visited him for years. The outcasts who embraced him, and turned an odd obsession into a masterpiece.

The revolving-door of desert dwellers has certainly changed. That has always been the nature of Slab City. Between those transitions, the mountain has remained the one constant, and most days there is someone with a brush carrying on the message. A message that still proclaims “God is love” on a stubborn, homemade mountain in the most godforsaken corner of the desert.

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Locations mentioned:

1. Bombay Beach | 33.35156, -115.72711

2. Salvation Mountain | 33.25419, -115.47264

3. Slab City | 33.25797, -115.46233

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Me, Stephen, and Ryan

The Cincinnati Ghost Ship

The best exploring I've ever encountered is woven inseparably with hidden and surprising history. Few urban explorers are drawn to a place merely because it's vacant; abandonment has the greatest allure. Abandonment means life was happening. Then, over a period of years, or sometimes days, it was mysteriously interrupted.

When places become abandoned there are questions unanswered and things left unfinished. The excitement for me lies in uncovering the history, imagining the people who once bustled around, and picturing the last person to turn off the lights.

In an abandoned high school, I discovered a basement that had remained mostly untouched for decades. I learned it had once served as a Cold War fallout shelter, complete with medical equiptment and storm radios. While most of the supplies had been picked through by squatters, one collection of items had gone completely untouched - bottles and bottles of laxatives.

In Detroit, I wandered through the dark hallways of a beautiful, iconic library that had briefly served as storage for the Rosa and Raymond Parks Institute for Self Development. In the damp and rotting halls, I discovered mail written to Rosa and Raymond Parks. The discovery left me perplexed—to take something not meant for me or to leave it, almost certainly to rot.

When the library and all its contents were demoed, I was sad. I wish I had scoured the floor and chronicled every letter I could find.

Every urban explorer who decides to wander into a space where life used to happen has to contemplate what to do with the pieces left behind.

One of the most notable examples in my home state of Kentucky is a shipwreck. To history buffs, it's known as the USS Sachem. To locals, it's the Cincinnati Ghost Ship. Those with a casual curiosity might call it “the Thomas Edison boat" or "that Madonna boat."

While each name offers a piece of its storied past, few know the full account. Those who do often agree: The Sachem may be one of the most noteworthy boats forgotten to history.

I’ve made the 90-minute drive to Petersburg, KY three times to visit The Sachem, which now faintly bears the name “Circle Line V” on the side of the ship.

Parking on the road requires a short walk through the woods across private property. To avoid this, visitors can kayak down the Ohio River west and turn south onto Taylor Creek. The boat rests five hundred feet south of the tributary, offering an even more captivating reveal when approached by water.

The 186 foot yacht is almost completely covered by the tree canopy until you're standing directly in front of it. The boat dwarfs the small creek it came to rest in, making it hard to imagine how such a massive ship could find itself in such a small tributary.

Since the boat is listing heavily away from shore, the only way to climb aboard is by swimming across. Rope ladders have hung down from the side previously, but when I visited in 2017, I had to balance across a fallen tree after hoisting myself out of the water.

When I stepped on board, I was met with another world. The rusted exterior was hiding a sea of vegetation piercing through the brown and rusted floor. Weeds were growing across the ship in every direction, hiding the imperfections on the metal.

On my first visit, I knew very little about the boat, but each trip only intensified my curiosity. I would soon learn that I was one of over 3 million people who had climbed aboard the ship. Standing on the rusted hull, I felt as if I was witnessing the final chapter of a vessel with more than 120 years of extraordinary history.

Standing aboard the Cincinnati Ghost Ship

The 186 foot vessel took its first voyage in 1902 as a luxury yacht under the name The Celt. It was the type of boat only the wealthiest men in the world could own, and the first ship's owner was just that. John Rogers Maxell Sr., one of the early railroad moguls, also owned one of the largest cement companies in the world. At the time of purchase, Maxwell’s Portland Atlas Cement company had just earned the lucrative contract as cement supplier for the Panama Canal. Decades later, he supplied the concrete for the Empire State Building.

The Celt, early 20th century

The luxury boat, which was primarily used as a racing yacht, was complete with nine “furnished and accessorized staterooms with carved mahogany.” The interior included modern plumbing and electric power throughout. The ship's designer was keen to note the boat featured nine “iceboxes” - one for each room.

In 1917, on the heels of WW1, the US government began to commission boats small and agile enough to maneuver around the newest submarine, the German U-boat. The former yacht racer was made a prominent piece in their tactical fleet - renaming the boat the USS Sachem.

The boat's sides were reinforced with steel armor and machine guns were mounted on deck. The ship was charged with patrolling the east coast, Florida Keys, and Caribbean.

During this period, the US began to invest in research that could counter or evade German submarines. To do so, they turned to Thomas Edison, who in August of 1917, boarded the USS Sachem and integrated himself into the crew.

The ship was his mobile laboratory, testing nearly 50 inventions for the Navy. Eventually, the boat was outfitted for Edison for the sole purpose of scientific research, and he moved onboard for months at a time. Some of the first iterations of radio detection were deployed by Edison aboard the USS Sachem, which would aid advancements in radar technology years later.

Edison (first row, center) with crew

A list of 48 projects and inventions from the Edison laboratory aboard the USS Sachem. Inventions were meant to help the US avoid the German u-boat. Number 39 is my clear favorite.

After WWI, the boat took on a new owner and a new life. After aiding the US government for years, the boat used its superior speed against them as a “Rum Runner” during prohibition.

As the 1920’s roared to a halt by the Great Depression, The Sachem traded hands many times, often used as a tour or fishing boat in the New York Harbor. Several archived advertisements from the New York Daily News promote fishing or leisure trips for $2.00/person. Even in the Great Depression, where some fished out of necessity, the boat’s luxurious finishes fascinated guests, and became a staple in the New York Harbor.

New York Daily Post advertisement for fishing tours, circa 1932

In 1941, the bombing of Pearl Harbor forced the boat back into government service. The ship was again outfitted with an armor exterior, machine guns, anti-aerial equipment, and the most state of the art technology available. Edison’s former laboratory was transformed into a training ground, where it trained dozens of pioneers in the new world of radar technology. The ship was re-named the USS Phenakite (after a rare gem) and helped escort commercial ships across the Atlantic.

After the war, the USS Phenakite would go through one of its final evolutions after being purchased by the Circle Line Sightseeing Cruises of New York. The boat was turned into the company’s flagship cruiser where it was renamed the Sightseer.

The vessel was clearly a favorite of the New York shoreline. It appeared in dozens of advertisements and post cards from New York tourists sailing around the harbor, dawning inscriptions such as “America’s favorite boat ride”.

The ship’s final name, Circle Line V, can still be seen on its hull today.

The Sightseer, which was eventually rebranded as the Circle Line V, served guests in the New York Harbor for 31 years. 2.9 million guests are estimated to have boarded the Circle Line V before the ships retirement in 1977. After its final commercial trip, the boat was stripped of most of its components, including its second deck and abandoned at a New Jersey pier.

It was in 1984 that the ships final owner, Butch Miller, took on the boat. Miller had been pursuing an original steam yacht for almost a decade when he stumbled across it. Miller wasn’t as wealthy as the ships owners before him. He spent weekends commuting between his home in Northern Kentucky and the New York Harbor for years to make the necessary repairs.

Miller would hop weekly between piers, trying to evade dock fees which he couldn't afford. He took on the reputation as a dock pirate eluding harbor patrols as if they were German u-boats.

It was during this period while Miller was working on the boat that a limousine pulled up and asked if it could be used in a music video. Miller didn’t know it at the time, but the location scout he spoke to worked for Madonna. The boat was briefly featured in the music Video “Papa Don’t Preach”. In the summer of 1986, the song would reach number one on the Billboard Top 100.

Screenshot from “Papa Don’t Preach”, Madonna on right.

Weeks later, Miller would attempt a feat he had spent a decade planning: to take the boat on a 2,600 mile trip home to Northern Kentucky via the “Great Loop”. The Great Loop is a pilgrimage akin to the Appalachian Trail for boaters, but for Miller, it was probably the only way home.

Miller chose to go on one last trip before leaving. The ship had traveled across the New York Harbor thousands of times, but this trip was just for leisure, a mission the boat hadn't embarked on since the time of its original owner eight decades prior. It was July 3, 1986, and Ronald Reagan was set to re-dedicate the Statue of Liberty by re-lighting the torch. The Circle Line V was one of dozens of boats watching from the water.

Rededication ceremony July 3, 1986

Next, the boat traveled north up the Hudson River, into Lake Ontario, and through the Erie Canal. The boat hopped across the great lakes and was briefly detained when it accidentally traveled into Canada. Then, it traversed south the length of Lake Michigan and into Chicago where it met the Illinois River.

The Circle Line V followed the Illinois River southwest until it met the Mississippi and then turned east up the Ohio River. It traveled 300 miles until Captain Miller reached his final turn, a small tributary called Taylor Creek. Having traveled more than 2,500 miles, this was the final step, and the final waters the ship would ever cross. The Circle Line V ran aground.

The ship has rested there, in Petersburg Kentucky, with relative obscurity since 1987. Having become stuck on private property, the ship has avoided attention from the public in a way other shipwrecks have not, remaining absent on the AWOIS system, which has cataloged all shipwrecks since 1981.

This began to change in 2016 after the death of Captain Miller and news of the shipwreck began to circulate online. Visitors from the midwest, which isn’t known for shipwrecks, made the pilgrimage to the Circle Line V on a different kind of tour - ones that were occasionally met with threatening neighbors and shotgun warning shots.

Traveling east up the Ohio River, the final leg of Butch Miller’s journey home

While the boat is no longer seaworthy, it's not in terrible shape either. As I swam around, I found myself inspecting it like I was buying a used car, even muttering, "not bad for a shipwreck" a few times. It has certainly benefitted from being relatively hidden, but its unique history as a warship also afforded it a few upgrades not available to most 122 year old boats.

Despite this, its recent prominence online has brought with it a host of new problems. What the elements haven’t taken, scrappers have begun to pick apart.

Thus, some sources online will implore you not to visit the boat, something of a bit of an unfair request - especially when traveling by water. Even the dock pirate had to bend the rules occasionally just to keep the ship’s legacy alive.

Over several years, a few dedicated history buffs have launched coordinated efforts to restore the USS Sachem, their preferred name for the ship. While it appears none have been successful, the Sachem Project has been massively important in recording the history of the ship. The’ve ensured the boat will not be forgotten to history after all, chronicling the boat beyond any other abandoned place I’ve ever visited.

If the boat rusts to pieces i’ll be sad, but the ship is not like others. It’s work wasn’t interrupted. Its story has been told, and its legacy is felt through innovations still in use today. Its final state, tucked away in a hidden Kentucky creek, has been far more captivating than its original carved mahogany and nine iceboxes. I can’t imagine a better way to experience the ship in all of its glory.

If you get to visit the ship, do your part to be respectful. Relish in the fact that your fingerprints have become intertwined with the remarkable history before you. After all, only when the final passenger steps off for good, can the boat truly embrace its seventh and final name: The Cincinnati Ghost Ship.

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Locations mentioned:

1. Cincinnati Ghost Ship | 39.08109, -84.84865

Sign Post Forest

I remember reading about an old Ripley’s Believe It or Not competition when I was younger. The challenge? Find the most bizarre item you can send through the mail without any packaging or labels. The address had to be written directly on the object.

If someone could persuade the mail clerk at their local post office to accept their item, they had just entered the competition.  The only strategy was picking the perfect item. Anything too large, annoying, or fragile could be rejected at any point along the way—and many were. Still, dozens of weird and wonderful items defied the odds and made it to Ripley's headquarters in Orlando, Florida. Among the quirky treasures were a bowling ball, a traffic cone, a tree branch, a prosthetic arm, and more.

I thought of this competition constantly walking through the trees of northern Canada in The Yukon Territory’s infamous Sign Post Forest.

I was standing in one of the most anticipated roadside attractions on the vast Alaskan Highway. In the forest, signs from around the world are hung by visitors, showcasing their hometowns from every corner of the globe. Entries range from genuine street signs, to license plates, to hand-made flags fashioned from tent canopies. Messages in every language represent the most unusual melting pot in one of the most unexpected places.

As implausible as the location for such an attraction, its existence in Watson Lake, Yukon has served as a respite for tired and homesick adventurers for decades. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the construction of the Alaska Highway, or Alcan, hastily became one of the most ambitions engineering projects in history. The US was alarmed by the threat of Japanese expansion and the potential for invasion of Alaska, deploying thousands of soldiers to work improbably harsh conditions.

Yukon Archives, W. Al Turner

One of these soldiers was Private Carl K. Lindley, who in 1942, was asked to repaint a damaged signpost indicating distances to nearby camps. Wanting to give the repair a personal touch, the homesick Lindley added a sign pointing towards his hometown, “Danville Illinois - 2,835 miles”

This gesture sparked a chain reaction, with dozens of homesick soldiers adding their own hometowns to the post. Decades later, the forest has amassed more than 85,000 signs.

As impressive as the collection itself is, I couldn’t help but marvel at the untold stories behind some of the individual signs as I wandered through the woods. While Watson Lake is more accessible than other parts of The Yukon Territory (like its neighbor the Arctic Ocean), it is still far from convenient. Adventurers from around the globe have braved the same isolated roads, converging at the same unique spot. The sheer scope of the collection is astounding, but pondering how an 8-foot highway sign from the Autobahn made its pilgrimage from Germany is truly remarkable.

While anyone can contribute to the collection, participants must take on the role of postal worker themselves. While there is still strategy in picking the perfect sign, the sheer magnitude of the journey makes every choice large, fragile, and annoying at once. Undoubtedly, some passengers had to duck for thousands of miles as the sign bounced against their headrests. I imagine some highway signs were cut down and reassembled in the woods like jigsaw pieces.

Of course, that is probably the most alluring aspect of the forest. Any trip to northern Canada is as much an adventure of logistics as it is one of distance. For those who brave the journey, rarely seen gems abound.

Each photo taken from the side of the highway...

I hadn’t done myself any favors on our pilgrimage north. We opted to drive a Toyota Camry to Alaska, stopping at the many roadside attractions along the way.

In Alberta, we stopped at the World’s Largest Beaver, which to honor Canada’s beloved pop star, is affectionately named Justin Beaver. The monument is an ode to the genuinely impressive beaver prevalence in the area, where further north, the World’s Largest Beaver Dam rests in a category of its own. The dam, built entirely by beavers, has a perimeter two kilometers long.

We visited The World’s Largest Lumber Jack in British Columbia and stopped at four establishments claiming “World’s Best Cinnamon Bun” (Tetsa River Services in BC is the winner - hands down). At a certain point, the attractions begin to fall under a similar category, “World’s Most Northern Falafel”, and “World’s Most Northern Blockbuster” (and certainly the most resilient).

Before we left on our trip, we ignored so many warnings about spare tires, snow tires, tire plugs, and tire chains that we hardly noticed when people warned us about windshields. In the early Spring, temperatures were still frigid at night and loose rock along the highway was a quick recipe for trouble. The Alcan cracked our windshield while we were still on our first tank of gas.

We camped the first night only to realize we were sorely outmatched by the cold. As spring crept closer, we crept further north, negating any warm weather gained behind us.

The Worlds Largest Lumberjack (25’) was destroyed by fire in 2019

Eventually, we abandoned camping all together and opted to sleep in the car. We would blast the heat for a few minutes, and then slip under a mound of blankets before shutting off the car, often awaking in the middle of the night to start the process over.

On our first night in the cramped Camry it dawned on us that we were approaching the land of midnight sun. The tent had served an important purpose, it blocked out the sunlight. The next night, I took a heap of tarps, rain covers, and tent poles and built the tent around the car. My razor sharp survival skills kicked in just before bed, and I carefully crafted an opening for the tailpipe.

Our windshield continued to be the biggest problem. Every night, Katie would forget about our precarious sleeping situation, and she would stretch her legs out from the front seat, only to push against the windshield. I would awake to the sound of splintering glass, roll over, and fall asleep again.

The next night, she would zip the sleeping bag all the way up like a mummy, only to break free in a frantic fit. One night, we theorized, she put on hiking boots in her sleep just to kick the windshield harder.

It was a week on the highway before we made it to Watson Lake. There are no signs along the Alcan that say “Welcome to Yukon”. As a matter of fact, there are few signs within miles. I knew we were getting close when I saw “Welcome to Central Park” peak out from behind the trees. Or the classic “Hell Is Real” re-homed from an Iowa cornfield. It’s possible that half of all stolen street signs in the world have ended up in one forest.

Our visit in Watson Lake was as remarkable as we had anticipated - made possible by the ingenious creativity before us. I remarked at Route 66 signs and elevation markers that formerly adorned the tops of mountain summits. I applauded the many travelers who fashioned creations from floor mats and hubcaps.

Dozens of wooden posts, which were erected to protect people from placing signs directly on the trees, were filled from top to bottom with license plates. Many are old, antique plates representative of every location imaginable. Still, many are not. A closer inspection found a handful that appeared brand new, with tags intact.

I’d like to imagine the decision visitors made when they became aware they had brought no sign, they had no supplies to craft one, but they couldn't help leave their mark. I pictured concerned family and friends pleading with them as they boldly unscrewed the plate on their vehicle, and I imagine they felt know regrets as they affixed it proudly amongst the trees.

Katie and I found ourselves in this very position. We had anticipated the stop before we had even left home. Yet, we brought nothing. We thought it would be fun to find a sign along the way. Not a road sign per se, but a street pole one. We pondered many options on our trip - an old campaign sign, a lost dog, more than one yard sale. We always assumed there would be a better one. Then the signs stopped completely, probably because they had been adopted by other procrastinating travelers.

I briefly considered unscrewing our own license plate, but knew it would be pushing our luck. Our windshield was barely functional, and Katie seemed hellbent on finishing the job. With a windshield that was probably illegal, and a Camry that had already been the subject of one police search, I played it safe.

There was no denying that we were as ill-equipped for the sign as we were for the cold. After scouring the car, we settled on a photo—a picture of us from our first wedding anniversary. We found an empty spot, not in prime real estate, but low to the ground. These spots were plagued by snow drifts that buried the bottom signs every winter, and carried them away every thaw. We knew our contribution wouldn’t last, but few things last long in northern Canada. Our offering was a fitting symbol of our entire pilgrimage—unprepared and wholly outmatched. On the Alcan, the elements always win.

Most people who leave the forest return to the very location they paid homage to. For Private Lindley, it wasn’t until the end WW2 that he got to come home to Danville. Ironically, his first civilian job was at a sign-printing shop, where he worked for 30 years until retirement. After his passing, the city built a replica Sign Post Forest in downtown Danville. The first sign, a gift from the Canadian Government, reads "Watson Lake, Yukon - 2,835 miles."

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Katie hanging our “sign” in Sign Post Forest

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Locations mentioned:

1. Sign Post Forest | 60.06335, -128.71407

2. Worlds Largest Beaver | 55.20407, -119.42315

3. World’s Largest Beaver Dam | 58.27224, -112.2521

4. World’s Largest Lumberjack (burned down in 2019)

5. World’s Most Northern Blockbuster (closed down in 2018)

6. World’s Best Cinnamon Bun (Tetsa River Lodge) | 58.65252, -124.23578

7. Danville, Illinois Sign Post Forest Tribute | 40.12813, -87.62978

How to Get Flipped off in Iceland

As much as I relish finding the adventure in my own backyard, every once in a while I find a cheap flight that only requires a minute of thought. I found myself in this situation in November of 2016 with a last-minute fare to Reykdavik. Iceland in November is still Iceland after all.

At $200 round-trip, Katie and I still barely had the money. We had been married for about a year. We were going to classes during the day and working third shift to pay for college. We’ve always had a gift for budget travel, but this one would require little room for error.

I had never heard of WOW Airlines, and I was surprised to see powder pink aircrafts on the runway. We walked to the furthest corner of Boston’s sprawling airport, and then straight to the ramp. There was no need for one of those extending hallways that brought you right into the airplane. There were no frills here. I was surprised to see the pilot was about my age, but then again, I wasn’t surprised at all.

I knew very little about Iceland. Budget travel from the U.S. seemed to be just ramping up. I had never met anyone who had been there, and travel blogs online mostly catered to the area directly surrounding Reykjavik - had I even bothered to read them.

I found a new company online who was renting out vans with a twin bed for $30/day. We decided lodging and transportation in one would be our key to stick to the budget.

$200 RT tickets almost always mean the red eye, and when we landed in Reykjavik it was only 3AM. There was no Lyft and no Uber. The taxis ran on business hours. We had to sleep in the airport.

In the morning, I gave our driver the address: Stapabraut 21, 260 Reykjanesbær.

He informed me he had never heard of the establishment nor had he ever heard of the road I requested. I sat back in amazement as the driver took us through winding roads carved into the volcanic landscape, each offshoot narrowing further. In the early morning fog, the roads blended perfectly with the black rock surrounding them. The only distinguishing factor between the road and the jagged volcanic rock were the meticulously placed yellow posts that kept driver’s oriented.

We arrived early, but opted to wait in the parking lot opposed to running up the meter in the taxi. It was only then that I realized just how harsh and freezing November in Iceland was. It was a cold that hurt within seconds.

The rental agent introduced himself as Thorseteinn Sverrisson, but asked me to call him Thor. He was a large, bearded man who looked more like a viking than a rental agent. We filled out the necessary paperwork at the desk, and we were informed that, due to increased tourism over the summer, the Icelandic government had recently passed an ordinance stating that vans were not permitted to park overnight on the side of the road.

“Just pull in behind a tree or hill and you will be fine”.

I remembered the landscape I just witnessed on the drive in and questioned where I would find a tree or a hill.

“Don’t worry! You are in the happiest place on Earth. There will be grace for tourists!”

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Most of Western Iceland is surrounded in volcanic rock

We threw our bags in the back of the van with excitement. Something was different though. As I started the car I heard an unfamiliar THUNK. I tried again as the van jolted forward, THUNK. After this happened a few more times, I called my Father-in-law.

My father-in-law wasn’t a stern man, but a lifetime working in probation and parole left him with a pretty black and white outlook on the world. He was motivated by reason and laws. That made us a bit of an odd pairing at times. He was trying to bring order to the world, and I was often embracing the chaos. He was meticulous for car maintenance though, and I figured he would know the problem.

“Tommy, I’m in Iceland,” I said

“Is it nice?”.

“It’s November,” I replied. “I’m having some car trouble.”

“Well, what's wrong with the car?”

I looked down and hesitated, “It has three pedals…”

The silence on the other end of the phone said it all.

Tommy did his best to talk me through driving a stick shift, but his coaching was futile. He asked why my father never taught me how to drive a manual transmission, and I asked him why he never taught his daughter to drive one. We were going in circles and the van hadn’t moved an inch. I ran back to Thor.

I explained the problem with the van, how it had three pedals, and the horrible thunk sound it made. Thor adamantly defended the van. He conceded the fact that there was a clear failure, but it was not the extra pedal. I pleaded that I was a feeble American driver and requested an automatic van instead. I was quickly condemned for implying such a thing existed across Iceland’s harsh landscape. I admitted defeat and begged for my money back.

“The paperwork we just reviewed explained that there are no refunds,” Thor declared. “The van is paid in full for ten days.”

“What about grace? You said this is the happiest place on Earth!”

“I am sorry. We made your booking several weeks ago. A refund isn’t possible”

“You don’t understand,” I responded. “It's not just my transportation, it's our lodging!”

“No refunds. There is nothing I can do.”

Helpless, I nearly dropped my head in defeat. “Then you have to teach me how to drive it.”

I saw the hesitation on his face, but he looked at me with compassion. “With no experience, it will be very difficult to navigate Icelandic roads during winter. Even with experience, many tourists find it difficult.”

I saw Thor reach for the keys on the table, and I beat him to it. “No refunds!” I blurted out.

“We don’t have money for another rental, or lodging, or even a taxi to take us to another rental or lodging,” I pleaded. “You can teach me to drive or we can sleep in your parking lot for the next ten days. Thor, please, teach me to drive.”

I melted that viking’s cold heart.

For the next hour, Thor reluctantly explained to me the necessary skills to survive ten days on Iceland’s winter roads. There is something about being a grown man and re-learning how to drive from the manliest man in the arctic, a man whose actual name is Thor, that will humble you. I used the little pride I had left to throw out terms my father-in law had just taught me over the phone.

“Don’t pop the clutch,” I causally dropped from the passenger seat while he was winding through lava fields.

“Don’t ride the clutch.”

“Don’t clutch the clutch.”

He shot me a look.

After my turn in the driver’s seat, it was painstakingly clear that although I could start the car, it would be essential that I avoided all stop signs, lights, and traffic. Thor pulled out a map to help guide me onto the highway by only passing through roundabouts.

“Are you better at German or French?” he asked me.

How many times would I have this man overestimate me in one day. “German,” I guessed. He passed me the map but paused momentarily before handing me the keys. He knew full well he may be kissing his van goodbye, and he made one final request.

“Sir, please consider the extended insurance,” he begged.

I reached for the keys without hesitation. “We’re on a budget.”

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As we traveled across the island, my confidence began to build. I drove alongside glaciers and volcanoes. Waterfalls would appear out of nowhere, dropping off the high plateau and free falling into grassland. Many were unmarked, just hidden amongst the farmland where they framed sheep grazing without fences. We seemed to be the only one’s to notice. There’s a site like this around every bend. Iceland can make your head spin.

Every bridge along Iceland’s infamous Ring Road is one-lane wide. Both directions of traffic quickly merge while you and the oncoming traffic have to instantaneously decide who will yield to the other. There was no decision for me to make when these came up, because I knew something the car opposite me didn’t. The only way this van stops is when the engine does it for me. I held my breath each time, but I won every game of chicken.

Dozens of unmarked waterfalls like this seem to be taken for granted.

I watched the volcanic plains turn into rolling hills and then spotted mountains in the distance. Just as I was beginning to feel like I had the hang of it, we traversed up the steepest terrain yet. I began to feel the van shake and sputter. Our van thumped along for another 100 feet until it halted, rather dramatically, in the middle of the highway. We were halfway up the mountainside.

This was the first true mountain we had encountered, and the steep, narrow road could only accommodate one lane in each direction. Within minutes we were beginning to jam up the only path that leads to the other side of the mountain.

I tried starting it back up, but it was different this time. The car began to roll back each attempt, and I wasn’t quick enough to get it moving. Each time the engine rolled over, I rolled backwards further down the mountain. Car’s began to whizz around with no trouble at all. Some passed with a honk, others passed with a middle finger. I was only a few hours in the happiest place on Earth and I had already severely offended at least a dozen Icelandic natives.

I decided my best shot was to put the car in neutral and roll the rest of the way down the mountain backwards. I was rather proud of this idea actually. Back at the base, I could get the car going on flat ground and start fresh.

I circled back a half mile and turned around to face my obstacle. I beelined for the mountaintop, shifting to the highest gear, and feeling confident I could outrun any gravity trying to pull me back. 70 kilometers per hour. 80. 90.

Rumble. Sputter. Back to zero. The engine failed me even sooner than it did the last time.

I repeated the steps again: neutral, backwards down the mountain, start fresh.

I hit top gear as quickly as I could and gunned it to 110 kilometers per hour.

Back to zero. Nothing worked.

Cars continued to zoom past me: honking, cursing, and flipping me off. Happiest place my ass. I was defeated again. Katie and I stepped out of the car with our thumbs up. It was clear the only way we would ever get past this mountain was in another car.

It didn’t take long for a kind German couple to pick us up. I was relieved they spoke perfect english. So far, I had picked up very little German from my map.

After quick introductions, we hopped in the back and were off. I watched meticulously as the driver started the car on the hillside, directly next to where I had failed. I took a mental note that he used the handbrake to get speed before lifting off the clutch. That must be the secret to starting on a hill, but I still had no idea how his car could drive up inclines and mine couldn’t.

They offered to drive us to the nearby town to pick up some gas. I told them it wasn’t that kind of car trouble that we were having.

“Instead, can we join you for the afternoon?”

Some of Iceland’s most iconic stops along the southern coast we viewed in the company of our German saviors. We saw the sea arches, pillars and Vic’s black sand beach together.

As we drove around, I carefully observed the driver’s buttery smooth transitions between gears. His start and stop were like being rocked to sleep in a cradle. We were really hitting it off, and I suppose a part of me was hoping we would forget about the van for good. Maybe they would barely notice our presence, and we could circle the island together. Thor doesn’t expect to see that van again anyways.

Alas, the couple insisted on vacationing alone. They returned us to our van in the evening which was still perched on the side of the mountain. It was a noisy night. In the morning, I called Tommy.

“Tommy, I’m stuck again. You gave me some good tips on driving a stick, but this car doesn’t drive up inclines! We’ve been stuck on this mountain since yesterday!”

“Well, where did you sleep last night?”

“On the side of the road,” I responded.

“Well, what have you been doing?”

“We hitchhiked around”.

“So, you brought my daughter to Iceland even though it's November and you can’t drive?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you slept on the side of the road? You hitchhiked?”

“It’s true,” I admitted.

And you don’t know you have to shift down when you’re going up a hill?”

“Wait, what was that last part?”

“Did you at least put diesel fuel in it?”

“We’re on a budget.”

We continued counter-clockwise around Ring Road over the next nine days. We cooked ramen and ate ham sandwiches next to roaring rivers. An unexpected gust of wind left us soaked from a waterfall, and we shivered in the van for hours.

After putting on wet suits to swim between the European and North American tectonic plates, Katie passed out from the cold. It was ten days of madness. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

We explored arctic plane wreckage and stood next to glaciers a half-mile thick. We watched sea lions swim amongst floating ice patches and wild horses run beside the ocean. On our final night, I watched the northern lights dance through my rear window while I fell asleep. It is one of the most treasured memories I have.

When I came around the bend to the rental agency, Thor was already in the parking lot to greet me. He ran toward me through the lava field like the prodigal son had just returned. I thought he was happy to see his van, but he was trying to tell me to park with the other returns. I tried shifting gears too abruptly and stalled before he could reach me. I opened the door and tossed him the keys.

---

Last year, I told this story at my Father-in-law’s funeral. To this day, I am grateful for the times he answered the call. His unwavering help bailed me out more than once. It's people like him who keep the world turning – so the rest of us can act like knuckleheads. You are missed Tommy!

Locations mentioned:

1. Vic’s Black Sand Beach | 63.41269, -19.01794

2. Convergence of continental plates | 64.25349, -21.11734

3. Arctic plane wreckage | 63.4591, -19.36478

Breaking Away

1930’s New York was the decade the skyline evolved from towering buildings to true behemoth skyscrapers. While the iconic image of nearly a dozen iron workers eating lunch on a steel beam in Rockefeller Center might be what’s etched in our psyche, there was another engineering development that was taking shape far from New York - one that would adorn nearly every one of these new skyscrapers.

A thousand miles away, in Bloomington Indiana, the limestone industry was literally exploding. And in 1931, over 200,000 cubic feet of it was used in the construction of the most notorious building in Manhattan, the Empire State Building.

Located minutes away from downtown Bloomington, rests a rectangular hole in the earth where that very limestone was mined out of. The crater from the Empire State Building is one of the largest of all the nearby quarries, but it has long been abandoned. The Empire Quarry’s sheer rock walls have now filled with a collection of ground and rain water giving it an alluring hue.

Today, the land is on private property and off limits to the public. Signs around the quarry warn against trespassers. Another warned against explosives in the area. Katie and I found a nearby road we could park on, and after a quick jaunt in the woods, we were standing above the rim.

Sneaking onto the rim above Empire Quarry

To stand at the base of the Empire State Building is staggering, but I would argue that to stand at the top of the quarry looking into the hole which the 102-story monolith was pulled from is even more mind-boggling. When doing so, your mind wanders about the invisible structure pulled from the crater and the untold depths of the pool of water that remains.

Quarries in this area have a long history of trespassing with the locals. Many can recount sneaking into quarries after dark, running from the police, or even the sound of a shotgun as a group of teenagers scrambled off private property. The practice exploded after the plight of the industry was fictionalized in the 1979 Dennis Quaid film, Breaking Away.

As popularity for the film grew, the crowds gathered. Many were trying to imitate the film’s iconic jump off Chimney Rock, a reenactment that would lead to many injuries and a few deaths. The water shimmers a tantalizing aquamarine hue. The overgrowth around the rim is framed in the mirrored reflection of the pool of water. I imagine to swim at the base of the vertical cliffs is as incredible as perching atop the Empire State Building and looking down.

Scene from Breaking Away, Chimney Rock

To jump off the rim though, which can be as high as 80 feet, is to gamble on what’s flooded below. When the hole was abandoned, drilling equipment, industrials bits, and always- shifting rock remained. Still, countless locals are eager to dazzle you with tails of when they made the jump.

Today, the area is filled with much more abandoned mines than active ones. Above-ground and pit-mines remain hidden behind overgrowth just off the highway. If you’re lucky enough to stumble across one of these, the site is enchanting. When Katie and I spotted a gaping hole in the side of a cliff from our car, we immediately pulled over. When we parked and walked closer, the site was even more captivating.

The entrance to the mine we discovered was massive, but hidden almost completely by trees and brush. Looking down the side of the cliff face, we could see the entrance point was one of dozens, each with a pile of rocks 3-4 stories to deter explorers.

As we scrambled over the rocks and into the mine we were transported into another world. The mine, which was once bustling with activity, held an unsettling silence. Rusty machinery and remnants of the former operation dotted the mine floor. A trail of carved rock wound deep into the mine in dozens of directions, each leading to darkness. The steep walls were etched with jagged edges, serving as a reminder of the demolition used to extract the rock. The once industrial space must have deserted seemingly overnight.

The spot was a favorite for Katie and I to wander in for years. Endless alcoves and smaller offshoots within the quarry made getting turned around almost evident. We brought several friends here to get lost in the maze together. One particular friend, Sam, was especially captivated. The labyrinth of twisting mazes intrigued Sam in a way it hadn’t others.

Sam was an artist, an incredible one, who entered street art competitions, painted amazing murals, and hosted his own exhibits. I had gone and seen him at a sidewalk contest once, where he was working on a portrait of his two daughters, and I was in disbelief that the entire portrait was made from sidewalk chalk.

Sam probably would be uncomfortable with being recognized as a gifted artist, and he certainly wouldn’t mention it himself. He’s humble, but sometimes hard to read. One time I filled the back of his pickup truck with over a hundred pounds of carrots in the middle of the night. Apparently, he hated it, but I never learned this until years later.

Sam was struck by the mine’s mystery of trails that crisscrossed each other seemingly at random. As we got lost together, he had an idea to make a mural on one of the massive columns in the mine that would greet only the most disoriented of visitors. A secret and beautiful discovery that one would be lucky to find once, and maybe never find it again.

Sam’s sidewalk chalk portrait

It was evident that a handful of artists had been in the mine before, but they all stuck near the entrance where their art would be seen. Sam wanted his to be hidden. One rarely discovered by the most daring of adventurers who would be rewarded for their travels.

There were several obstacles to our quest. The mural would have to be big. The rock columns resemble sequoia trees at their base. Anything painted on the walls are dwarfed by their size. Without power, we would also have to pack in battery-powered equipment and spotlights. The batteries would require limited time, which meant either scaling down our mural or including more artists. Sam had the idea to make it a community mural - sending an open invitation to anyone who wanted to leave their mark.

His idea was sort of a paint-by number project where he would roughly outline the portrait and we would fill in the lines. This was another thing I liked about Sam. If Sam wanted a perfect final product, most of us would not have been invited - especially people who had filled his truck with carrots.

We discussed how many people we would need to fill the columns width given the limited battery power. Sam still hadn’t decided on what to paint, but when we landed on about a dozen people needed for the mural he stopped.

“How about The Last Supper? We each get a disciple!”

So, one saturday afternoon, we caravanned out to the mine with an eclectic mix of friends. We packed a duffel bag full of paint cans and brushes. We carried backpacks with spare batteries and tripods with spot lights. After marching deep enough into the cave where any sign of light had disappeared, we set up our full production pointed at a single column. The rocky canvas, one of thousands, was ready to be transformed.

Sam and I bookended the spectrum of abilities with me being hopeless and Sam taking the role of da Vinci. Sam began by outlining the disciples sitting around the table. We each picked a color and followed behind Sam, indiscriminately painting inside the lines without regard to what each other’s color palate was. With so many people working simultaneously, the portrait was designed to be a geometric, “pick a spot and start spraying” type experiment. It was a holy mess, but a beautiful one.

Early on we realized the most important equipment we left behind was a ladder. I recalled stumbling across one years before in a hidden corner of the mine. The spot stood out to me because it was in one of the furthest sections. It was stacked on top of an odd ledge and then pierced upwards higher than the rest of the ceiling. It was one of the only locations where water was persistent, spraying down from the ceiling over the ladder, and gathering in a pool underneath. It was as if the miners had been trying to dig out a skylight and then quickly abandoned their project when they struck water.

Seeing as I was the least equipped to paint, I set out deeper into the mine in search of the ladder. As the spotlights faded, I pondered if I had volunteered to find the ladder, or if the task had been carefully orchestrated. My unsteady hand was comically pushing the limits of our carefree approach.

Soon, the sound of my friends faded completely. This was the deepest I had ever been into the mine by myself, and I quickly realized I was outmatched for the ladder task as well. At some point, I got turned around while walking down a particularly narrow offshoot of the main trail. The walls narrowed more and more like an ancient medina full of alleyways.

It was nearly an hour of wrong turns and dead ends before I began to panic. The ladder mission had been abandoned quickly, as my mission simply became finding my friends again. I was in a part of the mine I had rarely ventured, and there was almost nothing out of the ordinary amongst the sea of rock. Shortly after my careful walk turned into an anxious jog, I spotted a piece of graffiti I recognized. I was able to get back to one of the main arteries and follow it to an entrance.

Multiple splits make it easy to get lost away from the entrance

At first sign of light I saw the silhouette of a man and woman walking in the distance. I knew they weren’t with my group, and they were alarmed when they saw they weren’t alone. I tried to break the ice by running right up to them.

“What day is it?!” I said frantically. The man looked stunned as my panicked face broke into a smile and we shared a collective laugh.

I smelled the mural before I found it again. The 40 foot ceilings in the mine were no match for a dozen artists working 90 minutes on the rock. We had brought two gas masks, which were an afterthought for the most part - and the ones we brought weren’t being used. The air was thick with fumes, but I was the only one who seemed to notice. “Do y’all feel okay?” I asked.

“We feel great! Where’s the ladder? We still haven’t done the ceiling.”

I had hardly told them the disappointing news when my eyes caught the mural. I stood in amazement. It was a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors.

While I was taking it in, I saw the plan taking shape for how to begin painting the ceiling. A group of friends began moving loose rock as if to make a step ladder out of boulders. The small step ladder we did have was being balanced on top of this. I moved in to steady the person climbing the rocks like a human pyramid.

The pyramid’s point, our friend Hunter, was clinging onto a rock ledge above us. She reached even further to hoist herself up when suddenly the rock shifted, and in a snap, it broke away. At that moment, the pyramid collapsed upon itself, bringing down the group on top of each other.

As we gathered ourselves, I looked up to see Hunter clutching her face and dripping blood. A piece of limestone big enough to cause some blunt force trauma had grazed her on the way down, leaving a deep gash just an inch away from her eye.

In one swift motion, Katie ripped off her shirt like an episode of Baywatch and applied pressure to Hunter’s eye. The hospital was evident, but getting her there would be tricky. A few of the muralists who knew their way out guided them while Katie walked alongside soaking up the blood. They were climbing up the three story pile of boulders at the entrance as I came running after. It was my turn to rip off my own shirt and hand it to Katie. I suggested she might want one for the hospital.

And in a few moments notice, the bustling worksite had evaporated into solitude. It was as if the mine had become re-abandoned. The worksite of 12 had dwindled to three, one of them shirtless – the other two mostly impaired from paint fumes. We stared at the mural with a range of emotions. It was unfinished chaos born of mistakes, missing rock, a few drops of blood, and above all, a gaping space where the ceiling lay blank. Nevertheless, we were proud.

It took me two years to venture back to the site of the mine. The overgrowth of the vegetation had dwarfed the massive entrances even more. With only a flash light in hand, I again traversed the maze of rock with hope evaporating each attempt to locate the column. I imagined the droplets of water collecting on the ceiling and running down the rock, reclaiming the space from human hands, just as it had done before. I convinced myself the mural was no more just as my flashlight landed on a column.

All at once I saw it. It was just as Sam had intended. I had wandered into a discovery - one I couldn’t repeat if I tried.

The painting wasn’t flawless. I am certain it was the most indiscriminate Sam had ever painted, and the most haphazard work he had ever supervised. My main job, ladder duty, had even been a resounding failure. Still, the final result mesmerized me.

It wasn't just the painting itself, but what the subjects represented—the camaraderie of twelve friends gathered around a table. It was the act of communing together. It was the same depiction on a steal beam in Rockefeller Plaza. It was the same community we constructed when we left our imperfect mark on the rock.

I recalled the friendships who brought it to life in a chaotic afternoon. I have come to appreciate the act of communing with friends and loved ones as one of the most important things in my life. To insert ourselves into each others lives is a holy mess. Rarely is the act so well documented. Every crooked line, the gaping hole, the splintered cracks, showcased an array of abilities - it was perfect.

I learned shortly after our day making the mural that Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper has its own gaping hole, not on the ceiling but at the feet. The painting, which has been restored and almost entirely recreated, has been painted directly on the wall of the Santa Maria delle Grazie since 1494. It was less than 100 years old when it was considered beyond repair. Shortly after its creation, the painting began to peel and flake. One by one, chips of paint would break away from the wall all-together. It was so disregarded, a doorway was cut directly into the masterpiece, right at the feet of Jesus - where broken pieces of paint collected into a flawless heap.

---

Locations mentioned:

1. Empire State Building Quarry | 39.07091, -86.52823

2. Aboveground Limestone Mine | Milltown, Indiana

Martians Among Us

In 1980, a man named Dennis Hope walked into the local US property registrar in San Francisco, and made the largest property claim in the history of the US Government. Hope claimed to be the rightful owner of the entire surface of the moon, mars, and every celestial body in our solar system.

After pleading his case with three supervisors for over five hours, Dennis Hope's outlandish claim was approved. His rationale? A clever exploitation of a loophole within the 1967 Outer Space Treaty, which stated that "no nation can assert sovereignty over the moon." While this international agreement aimed to thwart any celestial land grab during the space race, Hope cunningly pointed out its oversight: while the treaty barred nations from staking claims on the moon, it failed to extend the same prohibition to private citizens.

With his approval in hand, Hope promptly submitted a bold declaration to the United Nations, asserting his ownership over nearly every planet and moon in our solar system. Astonishingly, his claim remained unchallenged for a whole year. Neither the US government, Russian government, or the United Nations wasted their time with an objection. In the absence of any challenge, his claim was deemed uncontested.

This lack of opposition enabled Mr. Hope to progress to the next stage, where he registered his work with the US Copyright Office. Armed with his claim and copyright registration certificate from the US Government, Hope received another pivotal win in 2004.  He formed his own democratic galactic government for the protection of extraterrestrial landowners - ones he had sold millions of acres to. It was ratified and approved by the US Government and signed by Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. In that, Mr. Hope claims he became the most extensive landowner on the planet.

Over the ensuing years, Hope has somehow amassed a considerable fortune by subdividing his land and selling plots on the moon and various other celestial entities, tallying an estimated $12 million to date. A standard acre on the moon or Mars starts at about $34.99 - or more for a coveted acre with a view.  Currently a plot near the Apollo 11 landing site runs for several hundred dollars.  Pluto, in its entirety, can be purchased for $250,000.

Screenshot from Lunar Embassy (linked)

I learned about this exciting investment opportunity back in 2018, and I wasted little time purchasing an acre overlooking a crater field (location is everything).  My deed arrived in the mail, signed by Dennis Hope, with the lunar coordinates of my plot.  Accompanying the deed included the lunar codes, covenants, restrictions, and mineral rights.

I recalled my purchase to Katie a few weeks later, during a discussion about finances.  It was apparently the wrong time to share this.

I reasoned with her that it is the cheapest we will ever buy a piece of property.  She responded that it’s the costliest we’ll ever pay for a piece of paper.  She supports me a lot. She’s adamantly never supported me in this.

Later that year, when doing our taxes, I was prompted to report property investments.  I rifled through my tax and financial documents in my “important pieces of paper” box without any luck locating the deed, so I asked Katie for help.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to write, ‘please audit me’?” she responded.

I never found the deed again.

I’ve found that most roadside attraction enthusiasts love space.  It makes sense really.  Once you’ve been mesmerized by the World’s Largest Frying Pan on Earth, you can’t help but imagine what else is out there - and how big their frying pans are.   

Countless roadside attractions are about space.  From the various mystery holes, to UFO jerky, to Roswell museums, space-themed attractions are everywhere.

We consume space attractions, and secretly fantasize about what a road trip through space would look like - and how to advertise “World’s largest black hole” without getting too close. Or, “Abraham Lincoln-shaped astroid ahead.” Recently, NASA even adopted similar branding for their “Expedition 66” - which re-branded the infamous Route 66 highway sign for their 66th trip to the International Space Station.

Few space-themed roadside attractions beg to be taken seriously, but one lesser-known site in Southern Utah has slowly crossed that divide, inching closer to reality. This, of course, is the Mars Desert Research Station (MDRS).

I finally got the opportunity to visit the MDRS during a road trip across Utah in 2021. Nestled halfway between Canyonlands National Park and Capitol Reef National Park lies the unassuming town of Hanksville. In Utah's otherworldly landscape, where bizarre natural formations abound from salt flats to crater hot springs, standing out is no easy feat. Yet, this small, relatively obscure town of 200 residents manages to do just that. While the natural wonders surrounding it are plentiful, Hanksville punches above its weight when it comes to roadside attractions.

Carl’s critter Garden is one of the first things you pass right off the road.  On a roadtrip void of habitation for miles, an eclectic, Buddhist-inspired and dinosaur-themed art installation (with a mix of space for good measure) is hard to miss.  The peace-themed, metalworking yard art wears many hats, but above all it shares a simple message: “spread a love for dinosaurs, not war”.

Just half a mile down the road, sits Hollow Mountain—a convenience store and gas station quite literally carved into a colossal rock formation. Visitors are forced to walk inside the rock itself, a feat that required 2.5 tons of dynamite to carve out back in 1984. As the years passed, the store's popularity grew, prompting its owners to expand further—not by adding onto the structure, but by carving out more rock to meet demand.

Swingarm City, located just a few miles West of town, is considered one of the most prominent natural motorbike playgrounds in the world. Rocks towering hundreds of feet in the air are shaped almost identical to halfpipes. Ridges climbing hundreds of feet in elevation zig zag through the desert. I traversed some of the lower ridges on foot, and couldn't imagine balancing a bike. It is truly for the best riders in the world.

Yet, it's the unassuming turnoff on Highway 100, labeled Cow Dung Road, that truly steals the show. The term "road" takes on a progressively abstract meaning with each mile covered, transitioning swiftly from asphalt to gravel, and then to dirt. Five miles into the journey, the path dwindles to little more than ATV tracks on red, barren rock. Just when it seems like civilization has been left behind, a striking sight emerges in the distance: a white, two-story cylindrical dome, with a sign proudly proclaiming "Welcome to Mars."

Amelia already has her “space helmet” on

Since 2001, the Mars Desert Research Station has been nestled in this remote setting off Cow Dung Road, serving a singular purpose: to explore the most effective strategies for the eventual colonization of Mars. The site is managed by The Mars Society, and its mission is clear—to advance the cause of what they perceive is the inevitable colonization of the Red Planet.

This forgotten region of Utah serves as a Mars simulation site for one of two analog research stations operated by The Mars Society.  While the satellite campus in the arctic simulates the extreme conditions, this one simulates controlled ones - allowing year-round geographical and social research. It’s one of only a few research sites worldwide where researchers conduct equipment testing, astronaut training, and seek insights to advance the quest for extraterrestrial life.

Their founder, Dr. Robert Zubrin, is sincere in his pursuit.  In a recent interview I stumbled across, Dr. Zubrin described the movie “The Martian” as the most realistic science fiction movie ever made - with two exceptions. 1) The sandstorm featured in the movie was far too powerful and 2) Matt Damon’s character “would have been way more excited to be on Mars.”

The cylindrical dome that greeted us is one of six buildings making up the campus. At any given moment, seven scientists and astronauts live in this observatory, studying what it would take to colonize the red planet, and simulating the venture as if they were already there .  Their simulations are serious.  Crews live in complete isolation, growing food in artificial light, passing through air pressurization chambers, and driving solar powered ATVs for field research.  Outside, they collect soil samples, launch weather balloons, measure radiation, and more - all while wearing space suits.    

Photo credit, Mars Desert Research Station (linked)

Tunnels from the habitat connect to two robotic telescope observatories and a “greenhab”, which features aquaponic growing systems, and various crops that can survive with limited light.  An additional geodesic dome houses a control system that monitors the campuses entire solar grid, which can be access via above ground tunnels for researchers to easily traverse using “depressurized chambers” without their space suits.

The immediate vicinity of the campus is desolate.  Scientists aren’t just expected to pretend like they are on Mars - they are to believe they are on Mars. The relative isolation makes them completely reliant on their built environment.  A practice, that in the “entrepreneurial space race”, will make them even more self-reliant.

The Mars Society claims that in a harsh climate like Mars, where light is half as bright as earth, colonizer’s top export will be invention, rather than natural resources. Life at the MDRS is as much a logistic experiment as it is an engineering one.  In a world where having the proper wrench could be the difference between life or death, the MDRS believes lessons learned here will pay dividends in the future.

While the MDRS is on private property,  the surrounding area is vast and primed for exploration. We wasted little time picking our own landing spot, and in a matter of minutes, we had launched our own simulation.  My daughter’s stroller was a space pod, crash landing in a field of red, bubbly mounds.  We ran up and down the landscape as blood-thirsty martians.

The scenery was captivating, with mushroom-shaped rocks scattered across the landscape. Smooth, symmetrical domes protruded from the earth, adorned with rings of varying colors, reminiscent of Easter eggs dipped in multiple layers of dye. The ground had a hardened crust, that when stepped on, left a perfect shoe print, like the footsteps would be preserved for eternity.

View from Google earth

When the research center opened up twenty-three years ago, it was representative of a dream. With frustrating timelines, that still don’t have people on Mars for at least another decade from now, the 2001 habitat served as beacon of hope for visionaries.  Now, there’s no shortage of people trying to get on board.

The astronauts that make up the MDRS are highly coveted and representative of dozens of countries across the world.  With only room to accommodate about 15 crews annually, hundreds of scientists, students, and hopeful astronauts are turned away.

I imagined the lunar plot I bought years earlier, wishing I had splurged for the Mars acre while jumping from one martian mound to the next - and scheming my way to join the crew inside.

As luck would have it, I was able to find the application online, and it was accepting scientists at the time.  I decided to take a different approach toward my application, knowing it would take an outside chance for even a second look.

I argued that any true colonization of the red planet, especially under cataclysmic circumstances, would require inclusion of any “average Joe” who ends up in their pod.

The addition of an unprepared, and certainly unqualified, crew member - to step in for the role of biologist, crew chief, or commander, would provide some of the greatest data collection imaginable regarding group social dynamics in a confined setting.  Anyone can simulate the colonization of Mars in a controlled environment, but no true experiment would be complete without an unknown factor.

Armed with a plethora of knowledge related to roadside attractions, I explained any colonization of Mars would feature far more novelty architecture if I was present.  I shared my experience visiting the site from afar, and how I was almost too distracted by Carl’s Critter Garden to make it there.  When prompted to provide my credentials, I touted my CPR certification.  When asked about my experience working in analog research stations in extreme conditions, I recounted my experience working in a toxic office environment.

In short, I was myself.  I emphasized my knack for being a quick learner while downplaying the relevance of aviation, radio, chemistry, biology, physics, horticulture, geology, geophysics, biology, and meteorology (all actual questions on the application).

A week after submitting my application, I pondered if it was my “anyone can simulate the colonization of Mars” comment or somethign else I said when I learned something fascinating - almost all new crew members are women.

In a world where it will cost more than $300 in fuel alone to send an apple to space, smaller people breathing less air, eating less food, and taking up less space are the most coveted astronauts around.

And while men will almost certainly join some missions, it does bring a heart -wrenching twist of reality to one of the cruelest schoolyard phrases I ever heard growing up, “girls go to Mars, to get more candy bars.  Boys go to Jupiter to get…”, you get it.

While I still await my response, more crews continue their simulation every day. As humanity prepares for more frequent space travel, the rules that govern it are increasingly becoming a focal point of interest.  From mining endeavors to scientific exploration, a diverse array of purposes drive this renewed public and private fascination with our celestial neighbors. However, as these endeavors unfold, the discussions surrounding space ownership are poised to evolve into increasingly intricate and contentious debates.

Even if you don't believe Dennis Hope is the true owner of our solar system - and you wouldn’t be alone, his mere success in asserting so sheds gaping holes on how well existing treaties can keep things in check.  Property claims will only intensify, and it’s all possible to divulge into a land grab reminiscent of the wild west.  Where any average Joe could walk into a galactic government office and assert themselves ruler of the universe - or at least Jupiter.

And if their claim is ever successful, there will be one man who has something to say about it.

Pushing my daughter’s space capsule on Mars

---

Locations mentioned:

1. Mars Desert Research Center | 38.4064, -110.79151

2. Swingarm City | 38.36535, -110.9148

3. Carl’s Critter Garden | 38.37447, -110.71131

4. Hollow Mountain | 38.37351, -110.70504

The Atlanta Prison Farm

Ten miles south of the airport, nestled alongside the South Fork River, lies the largest undeveloped section of Atlanta.

Spanning 1,200 acres of mostly untouched wilderness, the Weelaunee Forest is one of the largest urban forests in the country. And peppered amongst the lakes and vast tree canopy, one real development stands out. The notable disruption within this woods is a group of concrete, cinder block, and iron doors, marking the remnants of the Atlanta Prison Farm.

In 2015, Katie and I visited this hidden realm, believing to be one of only a few to stumble across its presence. The online information was scarce, fueling our belief that we had uncovered a well-kept secret. As we ventured further though, the truth emerged – we weren't the only ones drawn to the concrete forrest; the traces of previous adventurers were everywhere.

The prison had transformed into an astonishing gallery of art, showcasing the boundless creativity through some of the best graffiti we had ever seen. Yet, amidst the artistic brilliance, the landscape accompanied local negligence with refrigerators and mattresses serving as a makeshift dump. One weed, taller than me, grew up inside the ring of a discarded tire, highlighting the many contrasting worlds the abandoned prison grounds represent.

In a past life, the Atlanta Prison Farm was touted as being a pioneer for rehabilitation. When the prison opened more than a hundred years ago, it was a self-described “honor prison” for low-level offenders. Tucked away from the city, there was plenty of space to farm crops and raise livestock to support the campus of 150 low-level offending inmates. Most of the foreman who worked at the original prison were agricultural experts rather than prison guards. The prison’s first warden, whose actual name was Pet Fry, stated that the only locks were to keep cattle in. Early records show the majority of prisoners were moonshiners, and most of their sentences were only a few months.

As we approached the hidden entrance just south of Key Road, it was hard to fathom that the "honor farm" could be much different than my view of a typical prison. The initial sight that greeted us was a set of rusty prison bars separating the front office. Despite the blazing Atlanta sun, darkness enveloped us with every step we took deeper into the building. The lack of windows amongst cinderblock intensified the eerie feeling as we navigated in near darkness, until we unexpectedly stumbled upon a series of vast, open rooms.

Each room was adorned with dozens of bunk beds. Their neat rows strewn about in a hapless manner. The few mattresses that remained had disintegrated to a heap of fluff, leaving mostly springs exposed. Some beds showed signs of squatters who had broken in to find shelter for the night, prompting me to ponder if the irony of breaking into a prison struck them as profoundly as it did us.

Further exploration revealed a series of buildings attached by long halls. Some had been burned down, others, made of cinder blocks, showed clear fire damage. A few smaller buildings led outside where a series of sheds were nearly consumed by kudzu, as if the smothering plant was trying to pull them back into the earth.

In one wing, the remains of industrial laundry machines lined the wall, their massive, steal bodies were bolted to the floor. Their missing doors were large enough to fit Katie and I both inside. If a prison wasn’t eerier enough, a prison that included its own slaughterhouse certainly took the adventure to another level.

The further we ventured into the decaying buildings, the more challenging it became to picture the archival descriptions of the honor farm I read online. The mostly windowless, fire-damaged corridors undoubtedly contributed to an eerie feeling, but that was only the beginning. The prison was filled with iron doors and cells. As we proceeded down a particularly unsettling hallway, we came across meal slots positioned just a few feet above the ground. Peering through these slots, we were met with vivid depictions of prisoners painted on the walls, magnifying the cramped confines of the small 8'x8' concrete cells.

These doors were the only ones I found that remained unquestionably locked and impenetrable. Peering through a small 6”x6” window on the door, I could see the confines held a poignant, untouched beauty. The subjects depicted in the murals donned orange jumpsuits, sitting on their steel beds, their gaze fixated on the ground. It created an eerie yet captivating record that can’t be disturbed. It was as if the artist, upon completing their work, had sealed the door behind them, intentionally freezing that moment, and preserving a record that couldn’t be distorted by the passage of time.

The act of locking away these visual stories would juxtapose any depiction of life on the farm. If there had ever been a time when this place existed without the weight of locks and the watchful eyes of guards, it seemed like a distant, almost mythical tail from my current vantage point.

Looking down a hallway of cells

I would come to learn that the grounds of the Atlanta Prison Farm, and surrounding forest had many controversial lives, and most as murky as the prison where I stood. The earliest glimpses into the land's history emerged from the deeds of a slave-owner in the early 1800s, who claimed to possess the "finest plantation in the country."

During the Civil War, this very site became a pivotal stage, bearing witness to a historic moment—the Battle of Atlanta. On July 21, 1864, Confederate General Hardee led thousands of soldiers on a grueling 16-mile march, a daring move aimed at securing a critical railroad access. This ambitious endeavor, remembered as Hardee's March, guided them through the cover of night, concealing themselves in the very woods I stood in.

The troops emerged from the woods as dawn broke joining troops in East Atlanta in an event known as the Battle of Atlanta. The stage was set for one of the most significant battles of the Civil War - one that left more than nine thousand casualties in its wake. The Union's triumph on this battlefield helped secure Atlanta and set in motion General Sherman's notorious March to the Sea, a campaign that would be a catalyst to the end of the Civil War itself.

After selling the property to the city of Atlanta in 1918, it was briefly planned to be a confederate cemetery before eventually designating the land to the Bureau of Prisons. Early accounts of the farm radiated with praise, but comprehensive records and prisoner testimonies are frustratingly scarce. While the honor farm seemingly represented a pioneering model in the early 20th century, a notable void exists in its records, particularly after the mid-1960s.

For nearly three decades, the prison operated in relative obscurity evading public scrutiny. Among the few available reports though, one disturbing trend stood out: the population appeared to balloon, far exceeding its 150- person limit. At the same time, the prisoners began producing food and goods for outside the prison. Rather than sustaining a model of self-sufficiency inside the prison walls, officials were capitalizing on their free labor.

Furthermore, a pivotal moment unfolded in the 1960s when prisoners collectively boycotted labor, protesting against unfair conditions and several deaths inside the prison. During this era, one of the lone documented incidents was a 1980s lawsuit filed by the ACLU, shedding light on some of the prevailing conditions within the prison.

Among one grievance was the inclusion that prisoners were forced to take on seemingly cruel and punishing labor. In the 1950’s, when Coca the elephant, which was formally owned by the Coca-Cola family, passed away, it was buried in an 18-foot hole - hand dug by the prisoners.

Coca the elephant is unloaded using a tow truck into a grave dug by the prisoners, picture taken March 1950 (Photo by Marion Johnson/Kenan Research Center at the Atlanta History Center)

The eccentric heir to the soda fortune had several elephant siblings including Cola, Refreshing, and Delicious that were donated to the Atlanta Zoo. Records from the lawsuit speculate at least one other elephant to be buried nearby, a few hundred feet away from the entrance.

The graves of a giraffe, gorilla, and rhinoceros from the Atlanta Zoo are also reported to be buried on the property. Though the headstones for these animals vanished decades ago, makeshift remnants of their graves have stood at various points, including one sign along key road that read, "Zoo animals down yonder”.

Some-time later, the grounds began to be used as a city dump for building and demolition projects. Most notably, the city disposed of the original marble façade that had adorned the entrance to Atlanta’s Carnegie Library. The architectural masterpiece from 1902 sat exposed in the fields for years before being salvaged by the Olympic Committee. The marble was pulled from the grounds of the prison farm and repurposed into the Carnegie Educational Pavilion, which greeted spectators for the 1996 Olympic games.

Courtesy of Atlanta Journal Constitution

Up until 18 months ago, the abandoned Atlanta Prison Farm remained largely hidden from public awareness. After finally closing in the 90’s, the grounds sat abandoned, slowly being reclaimed by the forrest. However, everything changed dramatically when news of its upcoming transformation ignited intense debates, sparking both local activism and drawing significant national attention.

In the past year, the City of Atlanta made a pivotal decision, green-lighting the sale of the property to the Atlanta Police Foundation, with a significant investment of $30 million in public funds. The land would be used for one of the largest police and firefighter training facilities in the country. Its plans include classrooms, a driving course, a shooting range, and most notoriously, a mock city - fixed with fake apartments, gas stations, and night clubs to simulate real-world scenarios.

Critics of the project have dubbed the development as "Cop City." These opponents argue that local, low-income residents, who have been historically overlooked in discussions about the property's plans, are further marginalized due to a geographic peculiarity: the property is owned by the city of Atlanta but is situated in a neighboring county. This disconnect prevents these residents from expressing their concerns at the ballot box. Furthermore, residents question the sudden shift in development plans. Earlier proposals had aimed to secure further protections as a green space, but this approach was abruptly abandoned.

The plans have gained national attention leading to protestor standoffs, encampments, and activists, who call themselves “forest defenders” - living in the canopy in makeshift treehouses. Tension mounted for months between forest defenders and law enforcement, coming to a dramatic climax last January when one police officer was wounded and a protestor was killed.

Despite the opposition, the project came to a vote in June where the local council approved the funding. In an odd twist to an increasingly strange series of events, the city of Atlanta also sold a portion of the land to a production studio, who is quickly building the nation’s largest soundstage and film set in the country. The nine production buildings also include a three-acre outdoor blue screen lot to film car chases. The sets have already been used in several films including Jumanji: The Next Level, Jungle Cruise, and Godzilla: King of Monsters.

A few years after our visit to the farm, the future training ground for firefighters got their first simulation when one of the mountains of discarded tires erupted in flames like a hibachi onion volcano. First responders elected to let the fire burn itself out. The expansive damage was the worst yet on the grounds of the prison farm, further decaying the already dwindling sight.

Like much of the past lives of the Weelaunee Forest, its future is still somewhat uncertain. One last ditch effort emerged for opponents of the development recently which may allow further development to be postponed. Time will tell how successful the measure will be, but for now it appears developers seem confident they will be moving forward with the project.

As someone whose only experience in the forest included tress-passing onto the old prison farm, its hard to pick a side here. While the muddied and disturbing past aren’t necessarily foreshadowing, I can’t help but feel skeptical that any development will truly benefit the public. In a world with two pretend car chase courses, mock cities, and green screens, I worry the development will resemble anything but reality.

Still, I’m simply an explorer, whose short adventure in the woods couldn’t make out the forrest through the trees. Whatever is built, I hope it brings more life than destruction. And if one day the crumbling walls are again claimed by the forrest, I’ll find myself returning to the woods, flashlight in hand.

In the meantime, the Atlanta Police Department has already abandoned their old training grounds in anticipation of the move, so I might just start there.

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All photos taken on an iPhone 6 :)

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100 Portland Portraits

“I’ve been shot nine times. The first time I was only 15.” I stood in amazement while a man disappeared below the rim of a dumpster, throwing cans over his shoulder and onto the pavement. “My last close call was in January,” he spoke nonchalantly as he climbed out of the dumpster to stand next to me. “Long story short, a few minutes after my girlfriend left for the night, two men came in and robbed me. They hit me with metal baseball bats, dragged me out into the snow, and slit my throat ear to ear.” The man smiled as he lifted his crooked chin to show me the scar.

“Thank God my girlfriend left he purse in the house because she came back a few minutes later and saw me bleeding out. If there hadn’t been snow on the ground, I would have been dead. It numbed me up and slowed the bleeding long enough for them to get me to a hospital. They took a bone out of my leg and fixed my jaw too,” the man stepped forward and pointed to the crooked jaw.

As he finally stepped into the light I saw my chance to snap a photo before the sun set further. Deep wrinkles were etched into his face, and a faded tear-drop tattoo rested below his right eye. Scars adorned the man’s body as souvenirs of the life he lived, fights he won, and many he didn’t. I show the man the photo. He stares at the camera and admires himself, “Those doctors did a good job, didn’t they?”

James Prather

“I’m proud that I’m different than I used to be. I’m a changed man.”

I had only asked one question to unleash a flurry of stories that day and many days before: “What are you proud of?”

I had asked the same question to dozens of passersby walking the streets, alleys, and even train tracks one hot Louisville summer. I’ve always had an adoration for photography, but I had only bought my first camera days ago. Talking to strangers came natural. The camera side of things needed some work. After dozens of other conversations on the street, my photography was starting to show improvement. My quest for the summer was as much about capturing the faces of my beloved Louisville neighborhood as it was encapsulating the hopes and dreams of the people in it. Despite having no portfolio as a photographer, a local restaurant in my neighborhood of Portland, The Table Café, had agreed to display “100 Portland Portraits”.

The Table isn’t like other restaurants. It’s a “pay what you can” restaurant – one of only a few in the country and a staple in the neighborhood filled with people from all walks of life. The restaurant is not a soup kitchen. It’s a full-service bona fide sit-down restaurant complete with menus and servers, and run by some of the best people i’ve ever met. In an area of Louisville bigger than most Kentucky towns, it’s the only sit- down restaurant around.

On any given day, you can find a businessman or elected official rubbing shoulders with some of the unhoused neighbors who live under the viaduct down the street. And the same unhoused person gets the equal opportunity to sit down at a table, receive a menu, and dine. Walking through the doors every day is a heavenly snapshot of genuine community most people never get to experience.

Within the first few days of moving to Louisville, I was told to avoid Portland. Situated in Louisville’s West End, it has a bad reputation. A historically red-lined and disinvested neighborhood, the people here come from generations of resourcefulness. Not all can get by here, but those who make it their home are part of an unbreakable kinship. It’s a place where i’ve been robbed by my neighbor, but the same neighbor chased someone down the street when an outsider tried to do the same.

I can’t help but see the allure in the hundreds of dilapidated and abandoned shotgun houses that dot the neighborhood. Each house telling a story of dreams that once flourished, and maybe would dream again. There’s a captivating beauty in the raw roughness I witness when I walk the streets of Portland, and a community that refuses to be defined by those challenges.

Those who have been here long enough love to share the stories of a time when Portland flourished, stories passed on to them by their elders, and stories that seem a little less believable each time they are told to the next generation. Yet, a hope persists that the key to the once flourishing community rests in the people that define it.

Few would argue that it’s the people that make this neighborhood special, and it was those very people I wanted to adorn on the walls of the restaurant. In a neighborhood where the people who call it home seem to be constantly changing, chronicling 100 Portland Portraits was to serve as a metaphorical time capsule, capturing the unique people who make it remarkable. What initially appeared as an overwhelming task unfolded with effortless grace. The power of a simple question—"What makes you proud?"—worked like magic.

Like the man who told me he was proud he had worked at more than twenty different Waffle Houses. The woman who told me she was most proud of the time she found a heads-up penny on the ground – more than 365 days in a row. The protestor who walked off the job at the ice cream store to march in the King assignation riots – still dressed as an Icee cup. Someone told me they had never lost a dance contest. One homeless man admitted that he slept under someone’s house, unbeknownst to the family, for an entire winter.

Will Clark

“I’m proud they gave me the title of ‘Super Master Grill Operator’. Nobody else holds that’s title. It means I can run the whole grill by myself, no matter how busy. Only a few grill operators got that award in the whole company, and I am the only one left.”

The vulnerability of people eager to lay raw the trials and triumphs of their life was inspiring. It was as if a dam had burst unleashing a torrent of stories that held within them the essence of resilience. Survivors of cancer shared their harrowing battles, revealing their scars both visible and invisible. Addicts, on their nonlinear path to recovery, spoke of their demons with a palpable mix of shame and hope. The man who survived being shot in the head, and had me feel the bullet still lodged in his skull, left an imprint on me that I also can’t remove.

I talked with former street gang members and current outlaw motorcycle riders. I met people on their tenth year of sobriety and others on their first day of relapse. Each of them held a story of what made them who they were, often riddled with resilience, hopes, and dreams. I watched them laugh at the nostalgia of their childhood, cry over regrets from their past, and smile as they finally admitted they’d do it all over again.

I wasn’t fact checking my conversations. My new friendships were primary sources in a story where they were the main character. What they said, I wrote down, and what they were proud of, went in big bold letters under their photo. One man made the claim that he was the person responsible for stealing Cassius Clay's bike, the event that sparked Muhammad Ali’s journey to become the greatest boxer in history. Or the Grim Reaper, who almost certainly doesn’t own a motorcycle. Multiple people told me they would have been pro basketball players if it wasn’t for an injury, their grades, or Vietnam. I found myself wholeheartedly embracing their narratives as if they were the very embodiment of truth.

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Beyond some of the most dazzling tales though was a love for family. After snapping a photo of a grandma with her child and granddaughter, I continued down the street when the grandmother came running after me. “When can I get a copy of that?” I stood there puzzled. “That’s the first time my daughter has visited me since she left the house. We haven’t talked in years.” I dropped off a framed copy of the photo the next day. She told me it was the only family picture she had.

On one particularly hot day, I was walking back to my house when I saw a young woman draping several grocery bags filled with clothes over her arms. Hoping to walk past and continue my trek back to air conditioning, I simply mentioned to her that it was a hot day to be packing so much luggage. She hadn’t looked up yet, but as I said this I realized she was crying. I set my camera down and offered a hand, but she was almost to the bus stop. “My ex-boyfriend threw away half of everything I own. He put his hands on me last night.”

I was startled by the immediate trust she had with me. “I took a bus up from Little Rock. I thought we could work it out. He slapped me. I’m leaving.” She was crying, afraid, and deserted in an unknown town. As the bus pulled up, the stranger collected herself, wiped her eyes, and swallowed a lump in her throat.

“Are you ready to take my picture?” she asked.

“No, thats okay. Take care of yourself and good luck,” I said while turning away - trying to be sensitive to the moment.

I was several steps away when I heard her yell over the sound of the bus, “Hey mister!”

I turned around.

“I want people to know I’m a strong woman.”

I paused a moment and snapped a photo. “I’ll tell everyone I know.”

A strong woman

As often is the case, so many people I encountered on the sidewalk I only met briefly enough to take a photo, and then off they walked out of my life forever. Some of the conversations I had were less than a minute, some were more than an hour. Regardless, those people left an imprint on me in my own journey. Portland is a place many people don’t stay long. Those who do, proudly live there for generations. Others come for a new start, a half-way house, cheap rent, a minimum-wage job. Portland is a place that intersects so many people’s lives at a pivotal moment. Most of the friends I met that summer, I knew I would never see again.

Other times though, my sidewalk friends would reoccur in my life – often when I least expected it. Six months after my project, I was standing in line at the convenience store to grab a quick drink on my way to the park. I was paying in all quarters, which meant Katie’s dad had gifted us some of his poker winnings.

While standing in line, a man walked right up to the cashier demanding money out of the register. I began to walk to the exit, with a stream of others before locking eyes with the robber. It was one of my Portland portraits. I nervously smiled and asked him how he was doing.

“Oh good good staying busy you know how it is.”

I glanced quickly over at the cashier and gave her an apologetic look as if this was somehow my responsibility now.

“This is my people right here,” he announced to the frantic store while gesturing toward me. I laughed nervously as my brain processed that I now appeared to be an accomplice in the crime.

In my panic, I dropped my change and it rolled under the end-cap on one of the displays. The man again demanded money out of the register, but he was now doing it while helping me pull change out from under the display shelf.

“This is my people” he again announced as he handed me a stack of quarters. The commotion had allowed the cashier to begin recording the robbery on her phone demanding the man to leave the store. I shot her another look that was meant to say “We’re not that close,” as I backpedaled out the entrance. As I walked toward the door, he followed not far behind, leaving without even a dropped quarter to pocket.

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It’s been five years since I took the photos that summer. Walking into the cafe today, and taking in the collage of beautiful faces is like a kaleidoscope of emotions unfolding before my eyes. Several of the friends I met the summer are no longer around. Several I know have passed away, others I assume the same. Still more I hope moved on to experience the dreams they shared, stopping in my life momentarily just as Portland did to theirs.

Many did come in to the restaurant and relish at their photo hanging on the wall. In the middle of the four walls of photos sits a sprawling dinner table, big enough for the last supper. Every meal shared at that table is spent with the best of Portland – the community. Those who volunteered at the restaurant shared a special place there, and if they left this world too early, staff from the restaurant would crawl under the big table and write their name underneath. Whenever someone shares a laugh in that room, or gathers around for a big community meal, they are honored.

Over the years, the photos on the cafe wall have slowly disappeared. Some were taken by visitors, while others simply asked to keep them. Despite printing two copies, I never replaced any. As the collection dwindles, the project naturally comes to a close, and the second set remains locked away - buried in boxes in my closet.

Recently, my twelve-year-old laptop died, taking all its contents, including the original photos, with it. Two data recovery specialists confirmed the worst to me, nothing can be salvaged. Losing these photos was one of the hardest part of the loss. The only digital copies left are the few screenshots I took from past print orders, which I included here.

The loss of the photo files has left me asking myself what to do with the prints. Losing them would close a significant chapter, yet keeping them felt wrong. They were never meant to be mine.

A few months back, I decided to purchase a time capsule. In my quest to chronicle the neighborhood, I suppose this project is merely an extension of the other. I picked Leap Day as the time to bury it.

As February 29 neared, it became clear that the photos shouldn't stay with me any longer. Their collection is the most complete way I have ever been able to capture my love for the neighborhood. Each portrait feels like a stanza in a poem and each memory a verse, building a beautiful narrative about what makes my neighborhood special. It may be the only way I can encapsulate my affection for Portland.

So, yesterday, I uncovered 100 photos buried in my closet and placed them in a 100-year capsule. I sealed the lid, and lowered them underground, ensuring this chapter in my life closes for good, but believing they will begin a new chapter in someone else’s life.

Surrounded by photos were beautiful mementos from many of my Portland neighbors. A knife passed down from a father, bottle caps from the brewery, a beloved Pokemon card, a book that never sold, and many private letters. Individually, they tell the story of dreams, friendships, and hopes. Most importantly though, they represent what makes us most proud, they tell the story of beloved community.

The photos will resurface one day, hopefully bringing someone else the same unanticipated joy they brought me. To whoever breaks the seal, I consider you one of the luckies people in the world. I hope the capsule crafts an unparalleled image of what makes Portland remarkable, the people who called it home.

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A Love Letter to the St. Louis City Museum

Rarely will you find a quirky roadside adventure that duels itself as a genuine, well-accepted destination amongst families and vacationers. I can think of no example that has bridged this divide more than the famed St. Louis City Museum. I experienced the joy of the museum later than most. In the fall of 2013 the museum had already gained notoriety, but it was my first year living in St. Louis and friends had recommended the museum to me more than any other spot.

I saved the occasion for something truly special, my first date with Katie. She had never been to Missouri, and I had only been there a few months. Neither of us had given much thought to the actual contents of the museum. For the uninitiated, the word museum is enough to distract from the contents, no matter the mentions of slides and tunnels I overheard. I had spent more time thinking about our date, what to say, where to eat, than give the museum much thought before we walked in, and honestly that’s the perfect way to experience it.

Walking into the lobby was like being transported into the whimsical world of Wonka. Human hamster tubes lined the lobby, leading to a labyrinth of mazes, mirrors, and larger-than life sculptures. A once-abandoned warehouse, now transformed into a ten-story wonderland, revealed secret slides and hidden human skate parks on every floor. The pinnacle of the museum rested on the roof where daring sculptures seemed to defy gravity itself. A school bus teetered over the edge, a praying mantis loomed over another corner, and metal spires pierced 100 feet into the sky, daring us to climb them. Over the edge, a decommissioned plane balanced on cables connected by exposed tunnels.

As we ventured forth, the initial awkwardness of our first date dissolved into pure excitement and spontaneous delight. Unscripted, we laughed naturally, free from any pretense or small talk. Without a moment's hesitation, I hurled myself down a half-pipe like a playful sea lion, and to my astonishment, Katie channeled Miley Cyrus, fearlessly reenacting her infamous wrecking dance from dangling ropes. As we wandered the halls, every corner beckoned a new thrill. I meandered into a life-sized whales mouth, only to be met with a full-fledged aquarium. We were forced to squeeze through its blowhole in an intimate embrace.

We climbed through the tunnels to the suspended airplane’s cockpit. We opened the window shades and stared at the people walking the sidewalk below. We wouldn’t have traded lives with any of them. It was as though we had stepped into a dreamland where the world around us finally seemed to bend to our most joyous instincts. For Katie and me, it was effortless.

I was ashamed at my thoughts as I wandered the rusty palace. The building defied everything I thought I knew about building codes. It was an odd feeling to be thinking about permits and liability insurance while trying to experience the joy in front of me, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know there was room for something like this in our sterile world. I had been at the museum for less than an hour, and I was already worried someone would take it away.

I’m certain I wasn’t alone in this. As a child, the museum would have fit right in with my worldview. Somewhere along the way, it’s as if our world robs our sense of wonder. We accept things we used to find extraordinary as boring. My first time on an airplane was earth-shattering, but somewhere along the way it became ritualistic at best. From my current vantage point, in a decommissioned plane dangling from cables, I felt like a kid again.

Decades before the building’s unlikely transformation, it was one of the largest shoe factories in the country. The International Show Company operated there much of the nineteenth century sending shoes down the Mississippi and out across the world. Long after its doors closed, the decrepit warehouse was saved from demolition in 1992 by the visionary sculptor and St. Louis native Bob Cassily. In the early days of his project, him and his wife Gail would spend date nights wondering the dark halls of the building on roller-skates. It was a poetic upgrade from the heaps of tired shoes that had gone out of fashion. The building’s makeover would be far more exciting.

From what I have read about Bob Cassily, and from speaking to the many St. Louis natives who claim to have met him (a litmus tests that gives you final bragging rights), Bob channeled that energy better than anyone. He embraced the carefree attitude while balancing the dedication to see his innovative projects through. Bob had a gift for taking every beautiful aspect I see and love in an abandoned building and giving it order and life, magnifying the beauty ten-fold but preserving the risk that allures it.

He quickly ran into the same red tape that had dominated my own thoughts. Countless zoning and permit disputes threatened to throw the project off-track. The museum world wasn’t built for someone like Bob, but luckily Bob wasn’t prone to bend to the bureaucracy of all of it. When he was told he had to put a fence around the museum, he scoffed at the idea of a chain-link eye-sore. Instead, he sculpted a slithering beast wrapping around the perimeter with spikes protruding from its back. Bob refused to sterilize his vision. He wanted to sculpt art that had to be touched and experienced.

Bob’s medium of choice sometimes contrasted greatly with those before him. In a world that attracted dust and bemoaned flash photography, Bob could appreciate the works of the greats while wishing to breathe new life into his own sculptures.

In 1971, a young Bob and Gail Cassily decided to spend their honeymoon visiting Vatican City to see old art relics. Atop the list was Michelangelo’s Pieta, a marble masterpiece depicting Mary holding the body of Jesus. This renowned work had been an illuminating subject in Bob's college art history studies, an enduring symbol of 15th-century marble mastery.

As Bob and Gail viewed the priceless sculpture, a delusional man wielding a hammer climbed atop and proclaimed to be Christ reincarnated. He began to strike the masterpiece more than a dozen times with a hammer, severing the statue’s arm completely and sending dust and rock falling to the floor. As he began to strike Mary’s face, a bystander pulled him off and tackled him to the ground. The vigilante was Bob Cassily. As one tribute to Bob put it, “he saved one masterpiece and created another”.

Purists will tell you the City Museum isn’t what it used to be. I’ve lent a skeptical ear to stories of exhibits in the past that pushed the limits even by Cassily’s standards. One involved a latex room, where each step left a rubbery depression and visitors would sink further into the rubber until they were nearly consumed. If there is any truth to the story, I am certain a few visitors with latex allergies paid the ultimate price. Another told me the human-sized hamster tunnels used to lead to giant hamster wheel. Passersby would need to run on it to move to the next room, in turn powering the electricity in the lobby. According to them, pesky child labor laws ruined the exhibit.

As countless Midwestern families began to make the pilgrimage over a weekend, more curmudgeons complained the museum had become too mainstream. Some locals couldn’t resist the undeniable urge to keep something so beautiful a secret, mourning news articles and “top ten summer lists” the museum began to appear in. I can hardly blame people for feeling this way. Keeping the museum alive was my fear from the first time I stepped in it, but to hide it from the world was just as unsettling. If the nearby St. Louis Arch had earned itself the designation of being the only entirely manmade National Park in the United States, then the City Museum deserved to be the 8th wonder of the world. Let the people come far and wide.

As Katie and I crawled through the halls of the basement, we both felt an optimism of the future. Not just with each other, but with a liberating sense that the world was a bit more magnificent than it was before.

In those basement halls, I discovered the crotch in my pants had ripped somewhere along the way, and my underwear was completely exposed. Katie, whose head was only a few feet away from my rear as we crawled through the tunnels took pity on me, lending me her sweatshirt to wrap around my waist. The upgrade helped me go down the ten-story slide twice as fast. It was an effortless and beautiful way to begin our lives together.

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It was an effortless and beautiful way to begin our lives together.

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Some people watch life unfold in front of them, afraid to take risks. Others tackle a hammer- wielding protestor defiling a masterpiece. When it comes to the most priceless things in life, you can’t afford to stand by, and Katie and I would be married a short time later. A love kindled in those tunnels, and partly in a whale’s blowhole, has been a roadmap guiding us toward a more exciting life brimming with adventure. And on occasion, we’ve been inspired to transform our own tedius world, striving to find the beauty in every-day life.

More frequently though, I’ve been tempted to slip back into the mundane rhythms the world appears to foster. I’ve found myself on a flight tempted to peek through the window shade only to worry someone would think it was childish. In those moments, it’s been Katie to remind me to never lose my sense of wonder. It takes practice to foster creativity, and I am lucky to have someone who finds beauty in life every day right next to me. At times, she has replaced my tired shoes with roller skates for me, and lifted up the shade on my window seat to dazzle at the clouds. More often than not, she is the catalyst for unlocking life’s most precious gifts.

In a heart-wrenching twist of fate, the brilliant artist and visionary, Bob Cassily, met an untimely end at the age of 61. Tragically, he was on the construction grounds of his most ambitious creation to date, Cementland, when he passed away. Locals mourned not only the loss of a creative genius, but that his latest transformation would go unrealized. His passing left a void that seemed impossible to fill. For ten years, others tried to take on the project, only for it to be abandoned again. Earlier this year, the land occupying Cementland was finally sold, diminishing any last chance for transformation and further proving the echoes of many: there’s only one City Museum. Even more, there was only one Bob Cassily.

We’ve never found another City Museum, but we’ve certainly built its essence into the rhythms of our every-day life, embarking on countless adventures together. The City Museum is special to countless people for different reasons, but for Katie and me, it’s inseparably a love story. It left an impression on us at such an important time, just as our lives were beginning to intertwine. It's a reminder to live with open hearts and eyes, finding joy in the smallest of details and appreciating the grandeur in simplicity. The museum provides a snapshot of what the world could be if we were all more willing to see the magic in front of us. We were one of hundreds who left the museum that day forced to admit that life was a bit more glorious than we thought. For the lucky ones, this impact is an enduring one. As if the impression had been carved in marble itself.

To Katie, on her 30th birthday

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Our first photo together was taken on the roof of the City Museum. I wrapped a jacket around my waist to cover my split pants.

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There’s No Phalanges on the Plane

I’m not afraid to run through the airport.  I feel like the protagonist in a rom-com, sprinting to confess my love to someone just before the gate closes, to the applaud of strangers and ticket agents.

Running down a terminal, luggage in tow, is part of the human experience.   It’s like running after the bus or being chased by a stray dog. When you’re in the middle of it, you can’t help but think “Wow, i’m alive. I’ve never been more human than this!”

On the other hand, running through the airport seems to be the only action of the above tasks that evokes almost no pity from bystanders.  As much as I tell myself the world is rooting for me in the moment, that can’t be further from the truth.  Sure, some root for the underdog, giving a thumb of approval or clearing the way on the moving sidewalk, most shake their head begrudgingly.  These people hope you learn a hard lesson that day and pledge, as they did, to only arrive at the airport before sunrise.

I can think of three times I ran through the airport. 

The first was in 2017 in Vietnam.  After making it to the airport with plenty of time to spare, Katie and I awaited a flight to Tokyo, overjoyed to have discovered a Popeye’s in the Ho Chi Minh airport.  While enjoying a delicious helping of chicken far from our gate, we heard something that vaguely resembled my wife’s name come over the airport speaker.

“Did that sound like Mary Newland”, she asked.  I dismissed it. Neither of us are accustomed to hearing my wife’s first name, as she has gone by Katie her whole life. I’m grateful for this as its helped us avoid the “Mary and Joseph” label most of the time. We paused briefly, only to continue eating again.  Moments later we heard the same announcement, pausing for longer but dismissing the broken English.

Finally, a third time: “Mary Newland come to security”.  We looked at each other.  This wasn’t the speaker at the gate, or even our terminal, this was an announcement made to the entire airport.

We were escorted past the main security line and into the back where a group of agents were standing around a bag on a table – our bag, with clothes and contents being examined closely.  Without a translator, the agents attempted to question us about the luggage.  By pointing and miming, we signaled the suitcase was in fact ours after clearly miss-stepping by gesturing we had split the bag (the splitting knife gesture was an obvious mistake). 

In that moment, an agent pulled an item out from our suitcase - a long, red cylinder he was carefully gripping from the edges with protective gloves. 

It’s remarkable how much a confetti cannon resembles a stick of dynamite once you’re standing in the airport of a foreign country.  There is no way to gesture the action of firing a confetti cannon to help your case either.  We quickly realized miming a pop, explosion, and “rain falling down” gesture – complete with sound effects was another mistake. 

Eventually we settled on agreeing to disagree that the item was a firework, which they would seize of course, but allow us to continue on our flight.  This delay required a steady jog to make it back to the gate in time.  In the end, it only came at the price of losing a confetti cannon and fresh Popeye’s – which isn’t nothing.

The second time was a family affair.  My infant daughter was screaming for a bottle and couldn’t be consoled. We were far too late to stop and feed her, but keenly aware that running through an airport with a screaming child vaguely resembles an abduction.

Making our way through the Miami airport, we managed to feed her a bottle while she laid in a stroller. If running though an airport brings out the hostile looks from bystanders, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them wanted to call CPS.

It’s certainly a two-person job that worked best with me pushing the stroller at a steady jog and Katie running adjacent to the stroller, stride for stride, while holding the bottle. Our sprint suddenly felt like a marathon, but the cheering crowd had handed us a bottle of milk rather than a cup of water. We made it to our finish line with minutes to spare.

And finally, I experienced the most lucrative airport sprint to date just recently on a trip to Puerto Rico.  The Atlanta Airport, the words busiest airport, is a place to be respected.  After an impromptu exploration of a hotel roof, that involved climbing through an unlocked window, we realized we were late for the airport before we even left the hotel.

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After sneaking onto the roof, we were late for our flight before we even left the hotel

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Furthermore, we had to pick up a suitcase from Goodwill since we had traveled to Atlanta without one. We dashed to the airport while shoving our loose clothes into our new suitcase - dropping our bag off exactly one hour before our flight. 

Feeling good about beating the first hurdle, we settled into the airport security line confident.  We recognized a minor celebrity that we were standing next to in line, and after he spurred our advances, we decided to take a selfie with the back of his head.  While admiring the picture, I glanced at the time on my phone, at my boarding pass, and back to Katie: “We aren’t going to make it”.

We snaked through the line by the grace of strangers to arrive at the front of security with only five minutes until the gate closed. I was first in line waiting to walk through the metal detector when I saw our bag get pulled by security.  This is the last thing we had time for.  I turned back to Katie, “If you stay with the bags, I’ll hold the plane”.  

I’m not entirely sure what I had in mind when I offered to hold the plane, but flashbacks of Phoebe Buffay screaming “there’s no left phalange” probably bolstered my confidence.

I watched my shoes, phone, and bags go through the tunnel as I walked through the metal detector, and in one stride, I broke into a sprint.

I flew down the escalator and onto the train in less than a minute, just as the train doors were closing.  Suddenly my sprint came to a stand-still as the train powered ahead.  Suddenly I was fully aware that I was shoeless, and judging by the reactions of apprehensive passengers, I wasn’t the only one. I tried not to make eye contact when I asked them the time every 30 seconds, and they tried to make sure my stop wasn’t the same as theirs.

If there was anything romantic about running through an airport, as depicted on countless rom-coms, it doesn’t apply when your bag-less, phone-less, and barefoot.  The light jog with a bag in-tow evokes pity.  A full sprint, without shoes, screams security threat. I figured I had 2-3 minutes tops before my gate closed, and as the train doors opened, I was the first off - 100 feet in front of anyone behind me.

An occasional worried face caught my eye as a passenger scanned behind me to see if I was being chased, even considering tackling me themself.   This wasn’t the light jog I’ve seen countless times in the airport, I was an NFL running back.  But my gate was five football fields away and the band was on the field.

Zigging and zagging through countless people and worried faces, I realized I didn’t have a boarding pass.  That was back with Katie who was probably having her hands full explaining why her husband some guy she was standing next to, sprinted through security leaving his bags behind. 

I did my best to remember the gate, and I arrived at D2 amazed to see people there.  In one breath I pleaded with the agent, “I have no shoes. Did I make it?”

“Your flight has been delayed,” she responded. 

I nearly collapsed with relief, catching my breath against the kiosk while surveying my surroundings.  I noticed travelers nearby looking at me suspiciously, but this time I began to meet their eye with a mutual skepticism. Not only did none of the passengers look Puerto Rican, some of them had winter coats draped across their arms. My heart sunk as I found the monitor above the gate and read “St. Paul, MN”. 

I looked across the aisle to see my actual gate - door shut. 

I slumped to the floor and looked at my bare feet. There were no phalanges on the plane.

Despite plenty of seats in my empty terminal, I opted to remain on the floor. I sulked for ten minutes before my wife came running up to the gate. My daughter, finally old enough to run through the airport on her own, was right behind her.

I’m not sure if it was my prone, face-down posture or the concerned ticket agent, but Katie knew immediately that I had not “held the plane” as promised. She handed me my shoes and few words were spoken as we retraced our steps back to security.

“Try again tomorrow?” I asked, unsure of the right answer.

“Yeah, let’s try again tomorrow.”

 “Where’s our suitcase?” Katie asked reluctantly.

“Purto Rico”.

“Back to Goodwill?” Katie replied.

“Back to Goodwill.”

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[Left] Someone didn’t check their luggage before they donated to Goodwill

[Right] Katie cheered me up by wearing this through security on our second attempt to San Juan

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Writing, on the Wall

There’s a small Venn diagram where the words urban exploring and respected profession overlap.  I’ll use the term respected profession in air quotes here.  The small intersection squeezed between two circles was my first job out of college.  The job was technically called “Homeless Youth Coordinator”, but it’s real role was more similar to a census tracker for unhoused youth. 

At the time, Louisville was relatively new at tracking younger people who were homeless, who didn’t engage services the same way adults would. There were lots of ways to estimate adult homeless populations – housing referrals, emergency shelters, camps, day-shelters, soup kitchens, etc.  But most of the time, someone 18-24, or even younger, wouldn’t register in one of these systems; The longer someone stayed in the streets as a young adult, the more likely they were to experience chronic homelessness later in life. The job of Homeless Youth Coordinator was basically to try to locate these kids, help build a database, and try to convince anyone who would listen to access supportive resources. 

Every day was different because every camp, viaduct, overpass, and of course - abandoned building were different.  Sometimes, the referral I was looking for would shelter in one of these dilapidated houses, factories, train stations - you name it.  But more often than not it was just myself walking through damp stairwells and dark basements.  This wasn’t directly in the job description, but these liberties had paid off more than once, allowing me to connect people to resources that would have otherwise been overlooked. 

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It was still technically trespassing, but most of the time it was as simple as moving a board or peeling back a cut in the fence. Other times it required some acrobatics: belly crawls, squeezing through windows, and shuffling up rickety ladders. Really, it wasn’t in the job description, but let’s face it – that made it even better.

My favorite abandoned spots were the factories.  These sprawling structures of crumbling concrete and rusty metal were eerie to walk through. There was no way to ever know for sure if I was alone in a 10-story, 100,000 square foot expanse. On more than one occasion, the sound of a shaking can followed by its predicable hiss would pierce through the creaking floors and dripping pipes to signal for me it was time to go. 

The inside of these buildings were beaming with color. After a while, I began to study a few of the reoccurring signatures.  To most, I think graffiti seems like an uncomplicated nuisance. To others, it may signal decay or blight undeserving of a second glimpse. If you take the time to sort through the cursive hieroglyphics, however, they can tell a story. It takes patience to piece it together, observing reoccurring themes, a writer’s favorite spots and colors. You can see the evolution of an artist studying their craft, bringing their unsteady hand into a controlled abstract message.

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For most artists, I think the message is straightforward. Graffiti is a sort of art therapy, painting the city with their name in a world where they feel invisible. And reading these names wouldn’t be possible anywhere else. To see tags on TV, in movies, or even on social media likely meant the piece was already gone – scrubbed away forever. But in a decaying building, apathy far exceeded its graffiti-laced walls. Thousands of painted initials would remind me that these buildings weren’t forgotten or rejected at all. Countless claimed ownership of it, and these territory wars were invisible to all of us.

The most prominent artist I remember had a tag that draped a slanted, grumpy face with a top-hat.  It was accompanied by the letters “BRRR”.  I remember admiring the daring ledges and rickety ladders in proximity to each painting. I wouldn’t be surprised if the artist’s day job involved a trapeze.   Even more than the daring ledges, the identity of BRRR was just as interesting to me. I wasn’t the only one who noticed the image. In a span of just a few years, the tag was everywhere, and forums and articles online speculated at the identity of the artist. As I would make my rounds through each floor of a decaying building somewhere in a forgotten corner of Louisville, the rounded face, apathetic eyes, and smug grin was often the only face I would see. 

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Unlike other tags who would embolden themselves on interstate overpasses, street signs, or prominent billboards, BRRR preferred the damp, dark stairwell.  Big real estate investors would probably recognize the acronym standing for “Buy, Rehab, Rent, Refinance” – a strategy for snatching property in forgotten neighborhoods. If this was the artist’s message, they had a sense of humor. I can’t imagine the face of a big-shot investor being escorted through the halls of one of these buildings only to realize their playbook was labeled on the roof. In the world of graffiti, location is even more important than real estate, and “BRRR” was erecting a “not for sale” sign only an investor could recognize.

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An appreciation for graffiti persisted years later when I came across a dumpster at a flea market in a small town outside Louisville.  Leaned up against the dumpster was a 5’x6’ fence panel graced with an artist’s name I had never heard of before. The panel read “Denz” in bright, choppy script.  Below it, a lime green background behind an apathetic Boondocks Saints Character doing the finger guns. A rejected piece not even bothered to be hoisted into the trash can but laid beside it was reminiscent of my favorite type of art, the rarely seen ones. 

More than that though, some friends of mine were moving into a new house later that day.  Of course, an insanely large and heavy piece of art, specifically meant for the outdoors, was the housewarming present they were after.  Since I didn’t have any straps, the piece had to squeeze into the Rav4.  It was so tight I had to slouch while I drove almost an hour home while the portrait and my daughter exchanged glances. If I could have seen past my headrest, i’d like to think she was doing finger guns right back at him all the way back to Louisville.

The housewarming gift was left anonymously, but it didn’t take long for them to peg me as the suspect. The image remained in their front yard for almost two years before they grew tired of fielding questions from visitors, the mail man, and occasional passers by. 

Coming home from work one day, I stopped dead in my tracks as I looked up to see my neighbors showcasing it in their own yard.  Evidently, they had seen a “free” sign affixed to it a few streets over.  Most of my sneaky pranks on my friends end up coming back around to haunt me, but this one was particularly obvious. My friends had inadvertently played the long game, and chance would have it they got me back. The image wouldn’t remain there long though. 

After only a few days, my neighbor Alicia came knocking on my door.  She told me some “art collectors” were in her yard, and they were interested in the piece. I am assuming they used the term “art collectors” in the same way I used the word “respected” to describe my first job out of college. These art collectors didn’t look much older than me and wore ripped jeans and bandanas. Regardless, they recognized the artist, Denz. Apparently, he was active in Chicago mainly, but he had pieces in New York and Miami. He even had a deal with Converse who printed one of his Chicago tributes on their high tops.

They educated us on dozens of artists all with different mediums and styles draping train cars, overpasses, and anything you could think of.  With them they carried a small black book filled with pages of tags.  Each one displaying an artist’s autograph in bright bold letters.  “Tdup”, “Exer”, “2Buck”. 

I asked them if they had any BRRR tags, and sure enough they showed me the page. They offered my neighbors $150, and they took it on the spot.  While they settled up though, I noticed something in the pages.  One of the autographs in the black book was addressed “To BRRR”.

I stood there confused for a few seconds trying to process what I was seeing. Without interrupting their negotiation, I discretely tapped the main collector on the shoulder and pointed. 

He responded with a wink.

Before they hauled the painting away, I ran and grabbed something from my living room.  It was old wallpaper from one of the abandoned factories I frequented.  At the time, I had grabbed it to save it. The building was being plagued with arson, and I had managed to preserve just a few feet of the vintage 1950’s roll.  The framed wallpaper had been hanging in my living room untouched for six years.

I passed it to him, and with a single fluid gesture, a familiar face emerged - three lopsided circles, a smug grin, and a top hat.

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Alecia and I took one last photo with the canvas

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No Strings Attached

My last semester in college, I got a second job delivering pizzas downtown.  I knew the job would be short-lived because the goal was always to travel to Alaska after graduation.  My wife and I found a family-owned reindeer farm in Fairbanks.  They offered room and board if we worked on the farm over the summer, we just had to get there. Driving to Alaska, while stopping at National Parks and roadside attractions along the way, would only take a few weeks.  We would devour packs of ramen over a camping stove and sleep in the car at truck stops when free camping wasn’t available.  The gas alone for a road trip like this was enormous, so the second job would go directly to the 10,000-mile road trip.

I tried all kinds of tricks to get the biggest tip when delivering pizzas.  For a brief time, I offered fortune cookies along with the pizzas, which seemed to confuse my customers more than delight them.  I would always bring the pizza to the hotel room rather than make the customer meet me in the lobby.  I even used a pizza shaped pen for signature. Using all my tricks, each pizza run would bring in about $3-$5 per delivery – one gallon of gas closer to Alaska.  Each tip went into a zip lock bag in the middle console of my Camry. After a few months, I had completed the 400+ deliveries needed for my trip, and my zip lock bag was threatening to burst at the seams with thousands of dollars made up of ones and fives.

The morning of the trip was filled with anticipation. The first day’s route would be a 12-hour drive peppered with three stops along the way. The first stop would be St. Louis with a visit to their legendary City Museum.  Katie and I had our first date here years before, and we still loved getting lost in the maze of slides, caves, and human skate parks.  Next, we popped into some hidden tunnels near St. Louis I had stumbled across while exploring in college. And 7 hours west of there, in Cawker City Kansas, rested the quintessential American roadside attraction – the World’s Largest Ball of Twine. 

Few would argue that the World’s Largest Ball of Twine belongs on the Mount Rushmore of Roadside Attractions.  The quirky, fascinating, and uniquely American phenomena captures everything there is to love about roadside absurdities.  Truth be told, the ball of twine could hold its own category on Mount Rushmore though - bearing four different, yet hotly contested twine balls, each claiming the title.     

The World’s Largest Ball of Twine can be measured by circumference, weight, or amount of twine used, and their Midwestern origins trace their lineage to four different states: Minnesota, Kansas, Wisconsin, and Texas. And while each claim a piece of the title, they each come with some fine print.

The Wisconsin ball claims to be the heaviest, but doesn’t use traditional sisal twine. Some even refer to their art medium as string- which is serious trash-talk for twine enthusiasts.  

The most controversial ball, created in just four years in Texas, used machines and farm equipment for assistance.  When it was finished in 1993 it was the largest by circumference, but its use of nylon twine also made it the lightest.  The creator used twine from a variety of sources leading to an array of colors resembling a ball of chewed gum.  Opposing factions often refer to it as a cash grab because it was sold to Ripley’s shortly after its creation where its currently on display in Branson, Missouri. 

The Darwin Minnesota ball, the largest made by one person, is the most symmetrical.  It is often upheld as the standard of twine balls and even archived in Weird Al’s Yankovic’s song, “The Largest Ball of Twine in Minnesota”. It also holds the distinction of being the oldest ball of twine, with its core dating back to 1950, and its use of traditional sisal twine is considered a recipe for roadside perfection.  But unlike Weird Al’s road trip, you can’t walk right up to the ball. It can be publicly viewed, but not touched, in a gazebo lined with Plexiglas.  And while the community of Darwin proudly refused an offer from Ripley’s, their ball remains trapped in a museum of its own where it hasn’t grown or moved since 1991.

I believe twine is for touchin’, and that’s why I’ve always favored the current Guinness World Record holder in Kansas, whose weight and size surpass all three other balls of twine.  It lives under an ever-shrinking gazebo as it continues to grow in the town square of Cawker City.

Making it all the way to Cawker City on day one of our road trip was setting the bar pretty high for the rest of the summer, and we were just 5 miles away when I saw blue lights behind me.  63mph in a 55 hardly felt like speeding through flat Kansas, but I pulled over and waited for the officer to approach the car.  We explained we were on our way to Alaska, but we were taking a short detour to see the world’s largest ball of twine with our own eyes, which seemed more difficult for him to understand than we anticipated.

He asked why we were going to Alaska, and we kindly explained we would be working and living on a Reindeer Farm.  “Wouldn’t it be called a reindeer ranch?” he replied.

 They don’t eat the Reindeer, they’re vegans.  They grow other things on the farm, and the reindeer prance around to help the vegetables grow.

He gave me his best “We’re not in Kansas anymore” expression and asked for my registration.  Not a problem, officer.  I popped open the middle console in my Camry where I always stored it and stopped in my tracks. 

Taking up almost the entire space in the console was a one-gallon zip-lock bag containing thousands of dollars in cash. I swallowed reluctantly, removed the bag, and plopped it on my lap while I kept digging for my registration.  After what felt like eternity, I showed the officer my registration.  “Not a problem, sir.” 

“Oh, I think we do have a problem,” he responded. 

The officer called for backup and the next hour involved us explaining to even more officers our plan, which everyone seemed to have a hard time understanding.  Yes, we are planning on driving across the border in a vehicle full of cash, luggage, and a shameful amount of ramen.  We fully anticipate that a Camry will get us through the Canadian Rockies and as a matter of fact we had not even second-guessed that belief until this moment.  Yes, we are going to work on a reindeer farm and no they don’t eat the reindeer.  The reindeer help the plants grow and we aren’t sure exactly how that works but it’s a beautiful symbiotic mystery. 

I watched the sun set as two officers meticulously searched our car.  It wasn’t the Kansas sunset I had imagined, but after carefully examining the car bumper to bumper, we were free to go. 

Before driving off, the officer poked his head through my window one last time.  “Just so you know, I’ve responded to more than one public urination call at the ball of twine.  Some people like to pee on it - enjoy”. 

I briefly wondered if this is why the Darwin, Minnesota ball could only be viewed behind glass. I smiled as he handed me my bag of cash through the window and drove away in the dark. 

We decided to view the ball the next morning at sunrise.  Watching the sun peek out from behind the behemoth was reminiscent of a solar eclipse.  The creation measured nearly 12ft tall and 9 feet in diameter.  Its circumference was 42 feet and weighed over 20,000 lbs.  That’s an estimate of course as it is well beyond the size of being picked up and weighed.  When it reached its final resting place, the gazebo had to be built around it, and then rebuilt, and then rebuilt.  As one of only two actively growing twine balls in the country, its width is still inching closer to the edges. 

I suppose this is one of the most endearing elements of the ball.  Besides the occasional urinist, the community of Cawker City continues to embrace the ball with annual twine-a-thons.  The summer event brings out dozens of volunteers dawning shirts like “I’ve got twine on my mind”.  The ball has a caretaker, a sweet old woman named Lottie Herod, who stores spools of twine in her business across the street to ensure others can contribute. The communal effort is a point of contention amongst the other balls, but each of them have their own asterisk, - and only one other ball is currently growing.  

While the Wisconsin ball is growing daily, it’s rarely seen. It rests on cinder blocks on private property where nobody ever gets to watch a sunrise peek over its lopsided edges. It’s eccentric owner, who goes by JFK, claims to have received a message from God himself to stop drinking and start rolling twine. While not the largest, his “ball” is supposedly the heaviest since it also neglects to use traditional sisal twine and incorporates a strange knitting aspect where the twine is tucked and tied.  

And while the Cawker City ball may not be an independent feat, that wasn’t always the plan.  The original roller, Frank Stoeber, surpassed the Darwin ball early on.  It was only after he died that the he left it to the city to continue his work, and they haven’t disappointed.

In a city too small to have its own court house, the ball of twine lies at the center of the town square.  It is the only ball that you can walk right up to - no admission and no private property.  You can knock on Lottie’s door and join thousands of others who have made the record possible. You can hug the scratchy beast and smell the urine.  No strings attached.