Seattle

About six weeks before I was to leave for Portland, I received the news that one of my close friends from high school had passed away. These are the phone calls that you never want to receive. These are the messages that you never want to hear, yet there it was. Another life, one of many from my earlier days, gone, never to return, save for the memories that I'm able to hold on to as long as my mind will let me. Glen El-hayek was 33 years old, and his passing was, is and forever will be, an incalculable loss.

Four days before my road trip west, I drove down to Youngstown, Ohio to attend Glen's funeral. There, I had met friends of his from all walks of Glen's life and if maybe for just that weekend alone, we became immediate friends, bonding over the one constant that we all held among us; Glen. His memory and influence among all of us was infectious, something we drew upon the entire time we spent with one another.

A week after I had moved to Portland, a memorial was held for Glen in Seattle. Many of his friends that were in Youngstown for the funeral were there, and his close friend Chuck had even offered up his place for both Kino and I to crash. After picking up a high school acquaintance and his girlfriend, both of whom also wanted to attend the memorial dinner in support of Glen's younger brother Kevin, who I am also extremely close with, the three of us and Kino made the nearly three hour drive from Portland to Seattle, finally resting at Glen's friend Rebecca's house in Capital Hill. There, we had a lovely dinner with Kevin, his parents, Rebecca, Glen's friend Matt (who just flew in from Denver), and a few other of Glen's friends and family in Seattle. Afterwards, I dropped my stuff off at Chuck's and met the rest of the crew at a dive bar in Ballard, where many toasts were made to Glen's memory.

The next day was made up of a few lengthy hikes around Seattle and Fremont in particular before all meeting downtown at Glen's favorite restaurant for his memorial. Similar to what we did in Youngstown, each of us, including a wide select of people that worked with Glen at Microsoft, stood up and spoke of a few select memories on his behalf. The night was again, emotional. However, in the spirit of Glen's larger-than-life personality, we refused to allow anything bring down our chance to celebrate his time with us. The most important aspect that I was able to take away from the entirety of that evening, and every one with this motley crew that had followed beforehand, was that as much as each of us will miss him desperately, he will never be forgotten, and will always be a part of our lives. We laughed that night. A lot. That in itself will stand the test of time.

Grateful of Chuck's hosting services, I woke up the next morning and decided to cook both him, his girlfriend Janet and our friend Sarah a huge breakfast as my way of thanking them for their hospitality. Full with multi-grain pancakes and about a dozen eggs between us, we leashed up the dogs and hiked north through Chuck's neighborhood to an overlook that offered vista views of Queen Anne, the northern reaches of the Sound and the distant peaks of the northern cascades. These moments together, somber and relaxed, were almost the perfect form of farewell to what we had all experienced that weekend. In a strange way, it offered some closure to what we had all been through. As I packed up my car, I felt a large weight leave my shoulders. I wasn't finished saying good-bye, but the initial phases of shock and mourning had begun to lift.

Before heading back to Portland, everyone who had met in Seattle that weekend got together for a late brunch at Del Rey downtown. Most of it required the ingestion of a large amount of protein fluids and electrolytes to counteract the effects of the underlying hangovers at the table, but between mouthfuls and short, spontaneous moments of quiet reflection, we laughingly recounted the previous nights events, putting together the pieces for the few that couldn't quite remember it all themselves. After we all finished and stepped outside to offer each other our final farewells, I turned to my left and silently watched Kevin turn and walk alone down 1st Avenue, away from friends, away from family...just, alone. That simple action said so much, and I completely understood it. It was a moment that hit me harder than most did that weekend, and I'll never forget it.

Glen was a vivid light in a dark world. There's really not much more to say about it than that. Rest in peace, buddy. We'll all look for you on the Flip Side.

The Return to Goonie Country

Upon arriving in Portland, one of my first goals was to take a day trip out to the coast, specifically Cannon Beach and Ecola State Park. This is a destination where, not only do I have extremely fond memories of from a previous visit to the Northwest almost three years prior, but also resides a few familiar landmarks from the cult-classic "Goonies" film, notably everything leading up to the scene at the restaurant. Remnants of the set structure can barely be seen on the north end of Ecola State Park, a small patch of scenic coastal land that climbs the bluffs south of the Clatsop Trails and Tillamook Lighthouse. Being that a close proximity to the Pacific was one of my main reasons for moving to Oregon, I couldn't wait to go. By mid-morning on Sunday, May 15, I was loaded into the car and driving farther west along SR 26, Kino once again finding his familiar spot by my side.

It was a fairly short trip, but extremely satisfying. After an hour's drive through a series of old-growth forests and patches of logging country, I reached Hwy 101, the west coast's famous coastal road that, if followed, would take me all the way down to San Diego and beyond. Only two miles later, however, I took the exit towards Cannon Beach and into Ecola State Park, where I wound along a 2-mile long road that twists and turns through the ancient sea-side forest. On one of the turns over looking Cannon Beach and the picturesque Haystack Rock, came the all-familiar turn where Mikey, Mouth, Chunk and Data stop on their bikes and line up the rocks in the doubloon for the first time.

Just a few hundred yards later, I approached the first parking lot for the park. Here, from pretty much exactly where the old Fratelli restaurant-hideout once stood, a fairly narrow hiking trail wound its way north through the forests and across the bluffs to Indian Beach, which unfortunately, as Kino and I discovered, was muddy beyond comprehension. Knowing that it would take a considerable amount of time out of our day to navigate through the slop, I let Kino run for a few minutes around the grassy areas adjacent to the parking lot before loading him back into the car and driving the extra two miles north through the park and into Indian Beach.

Nothing with Kino has been more emotionally satisfying (save for the moment along Lake Erie when I first realized he could run again safely following a near-crippling leg injury) then when I unhooked his leash and, after a quick moment's hesitation (as if..."could this be real?"), he burst into a all-out sprint towards the rolling ocean waves. Not breaking stride, he turned his gait parellel to the surf and ran the full length of the beach, a good 800 yards from wall to wall. I watched on as I leisurely followed his paw prints in the sand, admiring not only his tastes of freedom and first experience with the Pacific Ocean, but the serenity of the scene as well. A low fog hovered above the coast, cloaking everything in a fine, erie mist. My dog's silent Sunday run perfectly added to the ambiance of the moment.

Here we stayed for a good two hours, exploring the sandy coastline and the small tide pools that bordered the southern edge of the beach. Starfish and mussels populated the large rocks, conveniently exposed by the low tide. Kino, never having experienced wildlife such as this, sniffed the area meticulously, fascinated with each new smell and hints of any marine life he could possibly find. Following a few more runs along the shore, I noticed Kino's endurance begin to wane, as he spent more time laying on the beach and absorbing the air than jogging after me towards the car. Forcing him to rinse off in the small outlet stream that flowed in from between the bluffs, we headed back to the car and left the park, driving south again towards the town of Cannon Beach.

A quaint little coastal town, Cannon Beach is the home of the iconic Oregonian coastal landmark, Haystack Rock; an ominous monolith that provides a home for thousands of puffin birds and a large amount of marine biology at its base. Keeping Kino on the leash (the shallow tidepools surrounding the rock is a protected area, fragile to the interference of humans and dogs alike) we casually strolled up and down the beach, letting the shallow edges of the surf wash across our toes before flowing back again into the mouths of the incoming tide. Haystack Rock loomed over us, casting its long afternoon shadow for as far as we could see. It was peaceful, serene, and I know Kino felt it too. I could see it in the way he walked, with more youth in his stride than he's shown off in years.

Another hour's drive east and we were back at the apartment, just as the sun began to set behind the north west hills overshadowing my apartment. As we relaxed in my yet-to-be-furnished apartment, the salty marine air still crystallized in our minds, it struck me for the first time that this was no longer a vacation spot. The coast was within my reach whenever I wanted it to be. Most likely not within my reach would be century-old treasure maps and hidden caverns leading to pirate booty. ...But I'm not ruling anything out.

From Cleveland to Portland: Highlight Reel

Following my departure from Chicago, I decided to begin taking about 15-20 second segments of video that would capture my surroundings every couple of hours or so. Here is the result, my four day trip condensed into a highlight reel of six full minutes, showcasing everything between Chicago, IL and Portland, OR.

Set appropriately to Led Zeppelin's "That's the Way," this mini-film only hints at a fraction of the landscapes that our country has to offer. There is, and always will be, so much more to see.

Editor's Note: Apparently, YouTube and Led Zeppelin do not get along...so feel free to watch this video in complete silence. Enjoy.

From Cleveland to Portland: Day 4

States Visited: Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon

Distance Traveled: 812 miles

Time: 15 hours, including a 2 hour rest in Missoula, MT

"White knuckle driving through Bozeman Pass just north of Yellowstone. Rain, sleet, snow and steep curving roads...what a way to wake up"

-kinook_creative on Twitter | May 8, 2011 at 7:42am

Fifteen hours shy of my arrival in Portland, I was leaving Big Timber, MT and driving north west through the isolated town of Bozeman and into the Beartooth Mountain Range. I had encountered a bit of weather the day before, but that was in the valleys. There, the road was fairly straight and on level ground. Not here. Not even close. Here, I was winding around hairpin turns, ascending and descending the mountain range in the midst of a complete white-out. It was white-knuckle driving at its finest and had me completely re-thinking my day's agenda.

The first thing I did when I woke up in the morning was to check the weather. My plan was to actually arrive into Portland on either May 9 or 10th. Before then, I looked towards verging south from Big Timber towards Yellowstone National Park and staying there for the night, possibly camping out in the National Forests that surrounded it. From there I could travel through western Yellowstone and into the small, isolated town of Kelly, WY, the setting of a book I had read years before called Merle's Door. Written by Ted Kerasote, the pages documented the twelve year relationship between himself and an orphaned retriever-mix he came across in the river canyons of southern Utah. This book had an tremendous effect on my relationship with Kino and only strengthened the bond that was already there. Montana's morning weather, however, put an abrupt halt to those plans. Because of a freak snowstorm, closed roads and blinding whiteouts, I would be unable to go anywhere remotely near Yellowstone or Kelly, WY. They would have to wait. Instead, my only real option included a heading over the ranges to my north and pushing my way into Portland.

Once over Bozeman Pass, things cleared up considerably. Behind me, black clouds billowed over the mountains, hiding them behind the violence and ferociousness of the storms they unleashed. Ahead of me, blue skies, blinding sunlight and sporadic, cumulous clouds. In an instant, my surroundings evolved into some of the most scenic of the trip so far. Green lush valleys and rolling foothills, spotted with colorful patches of wildflowers and flowing mountain floral, hugged the edges of the interstate while rugged, white-capped peaks rose into the heavens above me. Each turn of the road offered something new that nearly took my breath away. What ended up being a four hour leg of the drive ended up feeling like mere minutes....just around the time I found myself entering Missoula.

On the advice of a friend, I decided to make a quick stop in Missoula to find a nice, quiet place for lunch and check out the town for an hour or so. What I ended up coming across kept me there for a full two and a half hours, entertained to a degree that I didn't anticipate. Missoula, MT became, sure enough, one of the main highlights of the entire trip.

Everyone's seen a parade, but not many people do parades the way they do it in Missoula. After parking the car and taking Kino for a stroll through the small and quaint downtown area, I had the rare fortune of stumbling into a mass of people, some dressed as tigers, others as elephants and lions, most just enjoying themselves with their families amidst the celebrations. Within about 20 minutes or so of discovered this motley crowd, the majority of them lined up in the street and began what seemed to be a parade straight out of the Lion King. Small bands played on bicycle-drawn carriages, children danced in the street to the beats of bongo drums and moroccas and each participant bathed in the pure joy of contributing to the day's events. They looked happy, ...serene, really. I hadn't seen a mass amount of people this content, probably ever. It was eye-opening.

Following a leisurely walk, lunch and a pint outside at a small pub called Sean Kelly's, I hesitantly got back in my car and headed back onto the road, Missoula disappearing between the hills behind me. Soon I found myself climbing into the mountains again, this time through the Northern reaches of Lolo National Forest and into the panhandle of Idaho. As I passed into the potato state via Lookout Pass, once again bearing white knuckles and a fascination of my mist-covered surroundings, I became aware that I had never really considered Idaho as something that would embody serenity and beauty. Yet, here I was was, descending through a region that reminded me of my drive through the Black Forests of Germany and photos I've seen of the misty mountains in Japan. My time in Idaho, although short and eventually relaxing, was immensely appreciated, especially around the area of Coeur D Alene, a serene and quiet little city that rests on the banks of a mountain lake hidden between the peaks of the western passes. The word 'striking' doesn't do it a bit of justice.

Immediately east of the Washington/Idaho border is the city Spokane, Washington. Located in the eastern high deserts of the state, Spokane is the home to a few reputable collages including Gonzaga University, where my little cousin Jon is currently attending school. Hoping to spend some time with him as I passed through, I learned a few weeks before I left Ohio that he would actually be back in Arizona that week with the rest of his family and we would miss one another by a good week and a half. With only six hours between him and my future home in Portland, however, we were certain that we'd be able to arrange a visit soon. And thus I passed through Spokane, the last "city" I would see before arriving in Portland later that evening.

So when I say the eastern deserts of Washington, I mean it. It is absolutely not what you think of when you picture the landscapes of the northwest. Arid and desolate, Washington's high desert region is the product of living in the shadow of the Cascade Mountains, which efficiently blocks the eastern flow of moisture generated by the Pacific Ocean. With no source of water to reach its rolling plains, a desert forms, a complete contradiction to the living conditions of the western, rain-forest like regions of the state.

I wouldn't say that this part of the drive was boring. It was quite fascinating, really. As I broke off of I-90 (for the first time since Cleveland) and traveled south along SR 395 towards Kennewick, WA, it almost felt moorish, like a dry and lifeless cousin of what you'd expect from the English countryside. It paled in comparison to what came next, however, as I found myself dropping into the Columbia River Valleys, and eventually, The Gorge.

Easily the most striking and awe-inspiring landscape of the trip, the Columbia River Gorge can not possibly be justified through the use of photography. Experiencing the Gorge is like nothing you've ever seen and it took every bit of will I owned to keep my eyes on the road.

With grass-covered, lava-formed cliffs on the left and the wide expanse of the Columbia River on the right, I-84 winds it's way along the steep and imposing walls of the gorge while offering the most spectacular views of plummeting waterfalls, cloud-covered mountains and rock formations that pepper the river's banks. Areas such as The Dalles and Hood River are pummeled by such strong trade winds that outdoor extremists flock here to take advantage of its windsurfing and kite boarding opportunities on a regular basis, nearly year-round. As I continued east, into the setting sun and closer to Portland, I passed the picturesque Multnomah Falls and the Vista House, two iconic landmarks of not only the Gorge, but Oregon as well.

And then, before I was really able to take it in, I was there. It only took minutes to pass the airport, cross the I-405 bridge, take the Burnside Road exit and drive the last quarter mile up the street before pulling into the parking lot beside my building. In fact, even as I met my manager at the door, received my keys and unloaded Kino and my bags into the small, 380 sq. foot apartment, I was barely able to comprehend the end of my journey, or maybe understand that this was just the beginning of it. As Kino stretched out on the floor and I opened a celebratory bottle of red wine (drunken out of my limited stockpile of plastic cups...classy, I know), I looked around the bare, characteristic apartment and smiled. This was just the start of a whole new adventure.

"3.5 days, 2,768 miles, 11 states, 4 time zones and roughly 143 gallons of gas. ...After all that, Kino seems to already have made himself at home."

-brian j conti, mobile uploads on facebook | May 9, 2011 at 12:26am

In the days that followed, I would explore my immediate surroundings as thoroughly as one possibly could, walking with Kino to the far reaches of the hills above my neighborhood and through the maze of paths that weave throughout the wonders of Forest Park. Soon, the familiar would become knowledge and I found myself firmly planting the seeds of a long-anticipated change...almost five years in the making. Welcome to Portland.

From Cleveland to Portland: Day 3

States Visited: South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana

Distance Traveled: 699 miles

Time: 14 hours, including a 2 hour stop around Mt. Rushmore National Monument

"And now I'm in Wyoming. In the distance; snow-capped peaks to my left, Devil's Tower to my right. Incredible."

-brian j conti, mobile uploads on facebook | May 7, 2011 at 1:18pm

My third day on the road got an incredibly early start. I had a lot planned between morning and nightfall, and if I was going to make it into Montana, I needed to be on the road by sunrise. With blinding light creeping over the horizon behind me, I crossed the bridge over the Missouri River and entered the great rolling plains of South Dakota. As boring as yesterday's drive became, this new scenery was invigorating, upwelling a feeling that may have been similar to what the participants of the Oregon Trail felt upon emerging into such a landscape.

There's a magic that the film Dances With Wolves embodies. I've considered it, in certain circles, to have climbed the ranks into a genuine American classic, the rolling hills and gentle plains artistically captured as a character of the movie, just as much as Lt. John Dunbar himself. And here, amidst the beauty of western South Dakota, I felt immersed in the film in a way I never could have experienced before, with John Barry's sweeping themes playing over and over in my had as my own personal soundtrack.

Mid-morning, on the advice of my ex-girlfriend's family, I turned south off of I-90 and entered South Dakota's Badlands National Park. It was a short drive, but well-worth the detour. Upon entering the park, these pillow-like plains suddenly morphed into a landscape not unlike the surface of The Moon. It was an effect of erosion, whether it be wind or water, unlike any I had ever seen before. Without the luxury of the roads, I could imagine that it would be nearly impossible to navigate, with outcroppings and crags leading to shear drops and crevices that seemed to disappear into oblivion.

Once on the park floor, however, the two-lane highway curved through the alien-like cliffs and tunnels for a good ten miles before climbing back up onto the rim once again. Here, Kino and I encountered the Yellow Mounds of the Badlands, a geological effect that I had once seen many years ago in my youth, during a family visit to Arizona's Painted Desert. The hues were vivid and striking, its natural beauty being convincing enough for me to pull over and take a few moments to bask in its color. A trail led off the parking area and wound its way down amidst the cliffs, which Kino and I followed for a ways, enjoying the fresh air and moments of solitude outside of the confines of the car. Once in a level, somewhat grassy area, I let Kino off the leash to allow him to open up in a run, which he took advantage of without hesitation. Watching him weave to and fro amidst the fields with the sweeping matte of South Dakota's hills behind him, I knew immediately that this is where he belonged. He looked natural and at ease, as if he had been waiting his entire life for this moment.

Moments later, we were back on I-90 and transitioning into western South Dakota's Black Hills, a rocky, geological anomaly often described as "an island of trees in a sea of grass." Blanketed with forests of Black Hills Spruce and Ponderosa Pine, the Black Hills are the home of one of our nation's most famous National Monuments; Mount Rushmore, not to mention a wide array of controversial history concerning our dealings with the Native American population, most notably the Sioux tribe that dominated the area before the Gold Rush of 1874.

Winding our way up the mountain, I pulled through the entrance gates and into the parking lot, where I was forced to leave Kino waiting in the car as no pets were allowed on the monument's grounds. Following the promenade which was lined with columns displaying each state's dedicated flag and plaque outlining its history, I arrived at the viewing deck, the awe of Mount Rushmore's four presidential likenesses dominating the mountain in front of me. I've heard people say that once you get there, Rushmore is much smaller than you would be led to believe and they're not wrong. But, in setting my expectations a bit low, I arrived there not overwhelmed, but highly impressed. There are paths around and beneath the sculpture that offer multiple perspectives of its engineering, something of which people don't normally mention. It was on this path, as opposed to the direct view of the sculpture, that my impressions grew. To accomplish such a feat (which I learned was never finished, as it was originally designed to fully portray each of the four presidents from the waist-up) in such accurate detail and massive scale is an absolute wonder. It was a worthy pitstop on all accounts.

During our descent out of the Black Hills, Kino and I stopped for a few moments to take in a quick hike down through the forested, granite borders of the monument. About a hundred yards on the trail, I stopped to take in the view which looked out over the southern edges of the range when I suddenly heard a commotion behind me. Before I could even turn around, I was yanked clear off my feet by Kino's leash handle, which was attached around the shoulder strap of my backpack. For a split, stomach-turning second, I thought my loss of balance was going to send me over the cliff upon which I was standing. And it almost did had it not been for deep handholds that peppered the volcanic granite beneath me. Scrambling away from the edge, I looked up to see Kino in a standoff with a bonafide mountain goat, which appeared none too happy to have him in his territory. The goat charged and Kino, who may be in his senior years but still has the reflexes of a gazelle, half leaped/half darted out of the way and dropped deep into a playbow. I couldn't believe it. This thing wanted to kill him, and to Kino it was all a game. Granted, he had never seen a mountain goat before and may have not fully comprehended the threat, but even still...intuition should tell him to avoid death at all costs. During its second charge, which Kino again successfully dodged, the goat momentarily got tangled up in the expandable leash cord that still attached Kino to my shoulder, and stumbled across the rocks. Not waiting for him to recover, I jumped up, grabbed Kino by the harness and sprinted with him up the trail and back to the car. The goat didn't follow.

The rest of the day along I-90 turned out be fairly uneventful, but incredibly scenic. Not for a moment during that drive, from 2:00 in the afternoon until nightfall, was I uninterested in the landscape around me. Dropping out of the Black Hills, I crossed over into Wyoming, which offered the drive's first view of snow-capped mountains along the horizon. For a quick second I was also able to see Devil's Tower in the distance, but decided against another stop, as the day was passing quickly and the window that would allow me to reach central Montana was quickly closing.

Just east of Bighorn National Forest, I-90 jams north towards Montana, merging with SR87, then SR212 once over the Montana border. As I passed into the Big Sky State, it was easy to see how the borders were drawn so many years before, as the natural landscape evolved into sheer majesty before my eyes. My goal was to make it to Bozeman by day's end, but unfortunately, for the first time on my drive, I was hit with the unfortunate obstacle of poor weather. Suddenly pounded by a mixture of rain and snow, I was forced to stop for the night at a glorified truck stop by the name of Big Timber. Whether Big Timber was the name of the county or just the porn store/strip club/trucker store beside the exit, I couldn't tell, nor did I care. Once again, I settled down in a grungy little hotel room just off the interstate and following a long hot shower, eased into a deep sleep with Kino at my side. Once again planning for an early start, I had plans for tomorrow that would take me into Yellowstone National Park. However, things don't always go according to plan.

From Cleveland to Portland: Day 2

States Visited: Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota

Distance Traveled: 706 miles

Time: 13 hours, with breaks

"Heading across IL towards the Mississippi River and into Minnesota. Final destination for today: South Dakota Badlands."

-kinook_creative on Twitter | May 6, 2011 at 7:46am

I remember the moment fairly vividly. It was just as I was glancing in my rearview mirror at the Chicago skyline disappearing behind me when I realized that I was crossing a line into an area of the country I had never driven into before. I've driven the length of I-80, passed through each of the southwestern states on multiple occasions and explored the majority of the Atlantic coast by car, but never had I driven north. This area of America was completely foreign to me. All I hoped was that it would be just as, if not more, exciting of a road trip than the others. It was here that I became nervous, anxious and excited all at once. I honestly felt like I was passing into Oz.

About an hour after passing out of sight of Chicago, I crossed the border into Wisconsin and continued north towards Madison. Another hour and a half north of that, I came to a fork in the road that presented two options before me. The first; continue on I-90 west into the southern edges of Minnesota or two; deviate along northbound I-94 towards Minneapolis and St. Paul, after which I head on into Fargo, ND...a destination that I had kept in mind as an interesting place to check out, not only because of the famous cult film that takes its namesake from there, but also as an excuse to check off North Dakota as a state I've yet to visit.

Sigh...regretfully, in a moment that was influenced by my dad's logic to resist the temptation to drive anything other than a direct route, I continued on along I-90 into Minnesota. Looking back on this, I should have continued north. I've heard amazing things about Minneapolis and spending the night in North Dakota would've been interesting, I think. Sure it would've added an extra day onto my trip, but it was foolish to think that it would actually matter. I mean, who knows when I would be making this trip again. It just looks as if when I drive home to Cleveland one of these years, ND will have to be at the top of my list.

About mid-day I crossed the Mississippi and passed into Minnesota. This was, by far, the most mind-numbingly boring part of the trip that I experienced. For six hours, I drove the southern edge of that state and saw nothing but windmills, flat, expansive plains and and endless count of mile markers. On the recommendation of Brad, however, I did stop off the freeway around a small village called Blue Earth and stood underneath a 65-foot statue of the Jolly Green Giant. After acknowledging the weird factor of what I was doing, I got back in the car and continued west into South Dakota, the hundreds upon hundreds of windmills on the horizon hypnotizing me into a trance-like state along the way.

I hit the banks of the Missouri River just as the sun was beginning to set along the horizon, blanketing the sky in an array of warming colors that are unseen in the eastern mid-west. Deciding that it was a good place to stop for the night, I pulled off the freeway into Chamberlain, a small town whose population mainly consisted of American Indians, most likely that of the Sioux tribe. Exhausted and stiff, I quietly walked Kino up and down the shores of the river before returning to my room at the Best Western and passing out for the night, drifting into a dreamless sleep with Kino faithfully snoring by my side.

From Cleveland to Portland: Day 1

States Visited: Ohio, Indiana, Illinois

Distance Traveled: 340 miles

Time: 6 hours, with breaks

I pulled out of the driveway of my house at 4:30 in the afternoon, headed west towards Chicago, IL. Beyond that, Portland, OR. I knew, based on multiple previous trips that it would take me about six hours to get there, with a break or two for dinner and gas. Kino was eager and restless, perched anxiously on top of the folded passenger seat beside me, eyes intent and forward. He had naturally known that something was up for weeks, and now here we were, piled together in my 2008 Jeep Patriot, bags packed and stacked in the back of the cab and heading away from home. He had gone on road trips with me before, but this was clearly different. It felt permanent. I have to give that dog credit, just by judging from his reaction, he's a lot more intuitive than most people would normally make him out to be.

I eased onto I-480 from the Brooklyn exit and 20 minutes later, onto the Ohio turnpike from there. This is where I-80 and I-90 run together almost until Chicago. There, I-80 splits west towards Denver. I-90, north into Wisconsin. I-90 and I were about to become extremely good friends. I would stay on this road until Spokane, Washington.

I'll be honest, it's a horrendously boring drive. From Cleveland, it's two hours to Toledo. For some reason, I always seem to fool myself into thinking that once I'm past Toledo, I'm at the western edge of the state. But no...it's another 90 minutes at least until Indiana. Yet, 90 minutes into Indiana and you start to wish that you were back in Ohio. It's flat, bland and completely uneventful. At one point you pass Notre Dame's campus, which you can't see from the turnpike. In the blink of an eye, it's gone with nothing but endless fields of corn and wheat in sight.

Then, there's Gary, IN. I hate driving through Gary, Indiana. Especially at night. It reminds me of two things; the first being the opening scene from Blade Runner...black, industrial, and like the inside of a furnace. Flames shoot from an endless expanse of smokestacks. Smoke and a golden haze permeate the air. The second being the wastelands from The Matrix. As fas as the eye can see, industry dominates the landscape. Every ounce of movement is mechanic and unnatural. It's unnerving, and I can't seem to get through it quick enough.

The good thing about passing through Gary, Indiana is that Chicago is only a short few miles away. As the old familiar skyline first presented itself to me on the horizon, I called my buddy Brad to let him know that I was about 30 minutes away. He was at a business dinner with his wife, but promised they would be there to greet me at their door, if not minutes after.

It was a quick stay. Once I got my things settled, I sat down in the living room with Brad and shared a bit of bourbon to toast to my move out west. We chatted for a bit, but unfortunately had to cut the conversation short due to an early wake-up call he needed to be prepared for. We finished our drinks over stories of his own adventures in Oregon about a decade earlier, the majority of which included examples of his pure, unabashed, dumb, stupid luck. As he headed upstairs, I finished setting up camp on his couch, while Kino stretched himself out on the floor beside me. With the real first leg of my journey beginning the following morning, it was almost a full hour before my nerves calmed and I was able to drift off into sleep.

Both Brad and Josie were practically on their way out the door as I came to the next morning. Following a much quicker goodbye in relation to our greetings the night before, both headed to work, leaving Kino and I in the house with their two dogs, Phantom and Tucker.

Knowing I had a full hour or so before I planned on being back on the road, I wasted no time before jumping into the shower, slipping into a comfortable change of clothes and reloading my bike back onto the back of my car. (There was no way I was going to let a vintage 1967 Schiwinn out of my sight...especially one that had as much significant meaning to me as this one.) Kino and I sat in the backyard for a few minutes while I snacked on a bit of fruit and granola from Brad & Josie's kitchen, savoring in a few moments of silence before venturing back onto the road. It was 9am. My destination goal that day was within a close proximity of the Badlands of South Dakota. Taking a deep breath, I proceeded to lock up the house and loaded Kino and I back into the car. Comfortable and relaxed, I started the engine, at which point the true first leg of our journey into the great northwest began.

From Cleveland to Portland

Over the next few days, I'm going to do my best to recount my four-day long, solo excursion to the west coast. This will be documented in four different posts, each detailing a day of the drive, from where I started that morning to where I ended up that evening, and everything in between. Because this is actually a post-event posting on the blog, I'm going to try and go back, recount my twitter posts and image uploads (at least most of them), and try to seamlessly incorporate it all here, as that was my primary use of social media during the drive, as opposed to my usual resourcing of the Jack Traveler blog.

This is of course, all part of an ongoing effort to catch this blog up-to-date with the more recent trips and weekend adventures I've had since my arrival here in Oregon over six months ago. I've experienced plenty, and with a visit with some close friends from Ohio coming just around the corner, I want to make sure to be all caught up to speed by then. In the meantime, enjoy. There'll be plenty to read in the weeks to come.

My Life in Boxes

The month of April 2011 was a self-inflicted 30 days of stress and anxiety. I was finishing up my last two weeks at my job, packing up my house, selling some furniture and moving the rest into storage. Each day seemed to be passing by quicker than the last and before I realized what was happening, I had arrived at the eve of my departure date.

For the past ten days, I had made the worthy attempt to condense my life from a four-bedroom, 1800 sq. foot house to a tiny 380 sq. foot city apartment. My parents were instrumental helping me pack, aiding me in making hard decisions as to what to keep, what to store and what to donate. My living room because an organized mess of box piles and narrow walkways in the attempt to divide what was was coming with me and what was staying behind. A few days before my departure, I rented a U-haul truck and with the help of my my buddy Garrett, loaded it up with my couch, tables, boxes, files and miscellaneous artwork to drop off at the Storage unit that I rented for the things I wouldn't have room for in Portland. The unit loaded up extremely efficiently (it was like playing a life-sized game of Tetris) and before we knew it, the door was secured and locked, my possessions stored away in darkness until I returned to claim it again, whenever that would be.

The night before I was to leave, I took a few silent moments, lit a fire in the chiminea and leaned back in one of my patio chairs, eyes closed and attempting to take in the effects of my last night in Cleveland. I then, with Kino by my side, opened up a bottle of Guinness and poured myself a glass. That bottle, the last to be leftover from a six pack I was given as a housewarming present by my buddy Greg and his wife Katie, was a ritual I was looking forward to for years. The first bottle was opened shortly after I moved in, toasting to the success of finally being a homeowner. I told myself that night that I would save the last bottle for the night before I was leave. Here I was, eight years later, fulfilling that promise to myself and savoring every last drop...even if eight-year old Guinness actually does taste like cat urine.

Kino's last moments at the house were strangely lethargic. I honestly believe that he was fully aware of the fact that he was saying good-bye to pretty much the only reality he's ever known. That last morning, I would find him wandering through the backyard, occasionally laying in the sunlit grass and absorbing each bit of stimuli that the delicate breeze around him brought his way. It was as if he was trying to savor those last few moments, most likely knowing that he'd never graze over that grass again.

Just having turned an active nine years old, Kino was officially in the senior years of his life. The rest of his days would probably be spent in Oregon, a transition that I'm sure he'll be fully content with once we got ourselves settled. This would turn out to be as much as an adventure for him as it would be for me. After all, how many dogs are offered the opportunity to see our country from coast to coast? His farewell to our house would turn out to be as bittersweet as mine.

Just as everything was ready to be loaded into the moving truck, some of my closest friends in Cleveland filtered in and out of the house throughout the day, offering their final farewells and best wishes upon my life in Portland. I could tell that they were all genuinely happy for me and each made a comment about how it would be great to come out and pay me a visit, as most of them had never been to that area of the country. After getting one last photo with the guys, they each, one by one, shook my hand, gave me a brotherly hug and went on their way. In the hours that followed, I would say my farewells to a few other close friends before the movers arrived and started to work on making sure my things all got packed away and off to Portland in one piece.

With nearly everything loaded away into the truck and the majority of the moving papers signed, the last few minutes at the house suddenly became fairly emotional. My car was packed. Kino was waiting patiently on his side of the car, made up of a hefty pile of cushions and blankets that ran the full length of the cabin. The moving truck was getting ready to pull away. And my Dad and I got to the point where we had to say good-bye. I couldn't get the words out. He had this look on his face...it was devastating. He looked as if he were loosing his best friend and was only able to get out a difficult six words;

"I'm going to miss my boy."

I crumbled. I couldn't help it, I just crumbled. My dad is among the best of my friends and the recent years I've spent in Cleveland have only brought us closer. Gone would be the monthly home improvement projects and happy hour beers that we would share with one another. Gone would be the random visits and impromptu dinners, when one of us needed a pick-me-up from the other. Gone would be the moments of reflection and physical pats on the back. I didn't know when I would see him again and the reality of these circumstances had hit me full force. Whatever composure I had held together throughout the day melted off in an instant and I found that saying good-bye to my dad was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life. I was going to miss him like hell.

Moments later, after having forced myself into the car, I would see my dad's reflection in my rearview mirror; silently waving good-bye, tears still running down his face. I will never forget that image as long as I live.

A strange thing happened then, however. I turned the corner. And then I turned another. Then another. My dad was no longer in my rearview, gradually replaced by my neighborhood. Then Cleveland. A few hours later...Ohio. I was on my way west, and my first stop for the evening would be Chicago, where I would stay with my buddy Brad and his wife Josie for the evening before continuing towards the Dakotas the following morning. The date was May 5, 2011 and I was officially on the road to change my life forever.

Preparing for the Future

In late February of 2011, I committed myself to an ideal. In less than four months time, I would living in Portland, OR.

Things were happening in my life that was forcing me to sit back and recognize them as signs...silent and subtle messages that were telling me I was ready to move on. In late November, there were some executive changes made at my office that heavily forced me to sit back and reevaluate my relevance there. Until that point, it had been a fairly symbiotic relationship; I was saving them money by producing everything in-house and they were helping me pay my mortgage. However, for quite some time leading up to this moment, I had wanted more. I was well-aware that it was just a job and not a career path for me. There would be no more upward movement, and with a key advocate for my position's security now let go from the company, a decision for my professional career had to be made.

There were other reasons as well. Near obsessive thoughts about simplifying my life were distracting me from everyday routines. A recent fallout with some close friends had become devastatingly tolling. My home had continued to sit on the market, untouched, after two years. ...I loved my house, but I no longer wanted its burden. There were too many memories there that I had to face each day and the thought of reducing my living space to a small apartment felt like bliss. Following a random conversation during the morning commute to work, I was approached by my buddy Mark about possibly renting it out for he and his family. They had just had their second baby and the apartment they were living in suddenly became too small. Within days we worked out a deal and before I knew it, they agreed to move into my home in May. I had three short months to prepare.

At first, I only told about six people, including my parents. Obviously Mark knew. I filled my work-partner Sarah in on my plans, as my leaving the company would directly impact her everyday routine. And then I told my good friends Dawson and Garrett, who were incredibly supportive and encouraging over my decision to finally pick up and follow my dream. The wheels were in motion. Now I just needed to find a place to live.

I arrived in Portland on April 1st. As my plane landed just after midnight, I had made the decision to actually bunk down in the airport terminal for that first night, as it almost seemed like a waste of time and money to head into Portland at that late of an hour. On the suggestion of a website that listed "the best airports to sleep in" (PDX was ranked in the top 5), I found a quiet little corner in the north end of the terminal and, doing my best to ignore the repetitive safety announcements, fell into a sound sleep.

Still on east coast time, I awoke around 4:30 am and killed the next three hours by reading, preparing a game plan for the day and grabbing a quick breakfast. I then jumped on the MAX train and traveled into the NW quadrant of the city, where I would be staying for the next few nights. I couldn't check in until after 11am, so I took refuge in a quiet little coffee shop on NW21st Ave & Irving and started making calls. Within an hour, I had reserved three afternoon appointments for apartment rentals.

After walking around a bit and familiarizing myself again with the NW23rd area of Portland (also called Nob Hill and The Alphabet District), I made my way over to NW18th and Glisan where I would be staying at the local hostel for the next three nights. The idea to do so came from my buddy Garrett who stayed in hostels all around the country during a road trip he had taken about two years before. It was a huge money saver and as the weekend would prove, a great way to meet new people traveling through town.

Upon checking in, my host led me into a cluster of bunking rooms on the lower floor. My space was not yet ready, but they gave me a locker and a quick tour of the place so I knew where everything was during my stay. This being my first experience with an American hostel, I have to say I was incredibly impressed. I'm thoroughly aware that not every hostel in our country is this well-looked after, but the co-habitative system it relies on felt somewhat...refreshing. Aside from the fact that it was located within the magnificence of a turn-of-the-century Victorian home, there was a full kitchen, with each resident having a dedicated shelf space for food, would they decide to cook in-house. All bathrooms were shared and there were about six different common spaces to read, browse the internet, or just socialize with the other residents. Right from the start, it was a fantastic experience.

Throughout the next four days, I found myself wandering Portland from the moment I woke up until the sun began to set, searching meticulously for where I would end up living when I arrived into town. As most apartments operate on the refusal to "rent sight-unseen" policy, I had a mere three days to nail down a place. The next time i would be back in Portland would be when I was actually moving in, so treating this like a vacation wasn't an option. On top of that, because of my limited timeline, I made an agreement with myself that I couldn't be picky. Whichever place I choose, I would make it work. I always had.

Most of the apartments I looked at in the beginning were large studios. This seemed to be most of what was available where I was searching and I remember there were two in particular that really stood out as apartments that I could see myself living in, regardless of the lack of walls. In between my appointments, I took in as much of the area as I could, slightly reminiscing over the quiet moments I had spent in Portland just three years before. On the suggestion of a late friend, I had arrived in the Northwest with my then-girlfriend to scope out the area as a potential spot to settle down in. Almost as an afterthought, we were advised to visit Portland as opposed to Vancouver (we were mainly staying in Seattle for the duration of the trip) because it seemed to be more my style. He was right. From the moment we arrived, I fell for the city's charm and idealistic lifestyle. Portland has its problems, that's for certain, but everyone here seemed happy and alive. Suddenly, I couldn't see myself anywhere else. The idea of returning hadn't left my mind since.

Saturday night, I took a break from my search to hang out around town with a few guys from the hostel. Money in hand, my temporary roommates Brenden, Ken from Korea and I headed out and explored the bar options, finally settling on a sports bar on the corner of NW21st and Glisan. (I have since walked by this place upmpteen thousand times and I still don't know the name of it). There we ran into Mark from Australia, one of other weekend bunkmates, who was currently in the midst of a conversation with one of the worst girls I had met in my life. The one he was focusing his attention on was nice, but her friend...wow. It got to the point where I could no longer be his wingman, and even as this was a direct violation of the wingman code, he actually gave me credit for sticking around as long as I did. That poor man.

Later that night after we had all returned to the hostel, I decided to read a few chapters out of my book before I went off to bed and proceeded to fall asleep, alone, on the couch in the lower common room. I was awoken about an hour later to find three girls and a guy (all of whom I had never seen before) sitting at the table playing cards. They must've read the apparent confusion on my face and decided to remedy the situation by inviting me to a party. So off we went, piled into their friend's car and off to some apartment in the hills. Although I never saw those girls again, we all ended up having a great time. It was all completely innocent, but just the random jolt that I needed to keep me motivated in my search throughout my last day in town. I got back to the hostel at 4am and fell asleep immediately.

As time was closing in on me and I wasn't yet able to procure an apartment, I began to panic, just slightly. Following a late breakfast with Mark in the attempt to reduce our pounding hangovers, I hit the pavement again with the determination to sign a lease by 4:00pm, no matter what. With blue azure skies above me, nearly the first I had seen since my arrival into town, I took this as a sign of a good omen and once again, started to call all of the numbers on my list. It was Monday morning and most of the rental agencies would be open now, as opposed to their limited hours of operation over the weekend, especially Sunday. Shortly thereafter, on the advice of a random girl on the street, I decided to stop into a rental agency around the corner called Bristol Equities. There, they directed me to an historic and charming building called the Villa Jené, where I would meet Burton, the building manager. As it turns out, they had one unit available and was perfectly within my price range. Unfortunately, because they couldn't get ahold of the tenant, I wasn't allowed into the apartment. Burton however, who was one of the nicest building managers I had met in my search thus far, promised to email me pictures and a floor plan layout of the available unit. It was practically a no-brainer. At 3:30pm, I headed back and handed him a retainer check. The apartment was mine, and I hadn't even seen it yet. My move-in date was set for 5-10-11. I had a little less than a month to prepare.

I spent my last few hours in Portland relaxing and enjoying those stress-free moments by hiking up to the International Rose Garden, grabbing a bite to eat at a local pub and exploring a few hidden corners of the Nob Hill neighborhood that I hadn't seen before. Just after dark, I boarded the train back to the airport, where I would catch the red-eye flight back to Cleveland. While in the air, I crafted my resignation letter that I would deliver to HR upon my return the next morning. Upon touching down in Cleveland at 8am, I jumped on the train into downtown's Tower City Center, walked into my office, changed into my professional attire and made an appointment to meet with Human Resources regarding my resignation. Life was about to start over and a new beginning was about to occur. I was making a drastic life change that some would label as stupid, brave, irrational and courageous. For the first time in nearly three years, I felt alive.