The Moose Gets Married

I would easily say that my timing in coming out to Portland was perfect, if not for one small detail: I needed to travel back to Cleveland not four weeks after moving out here to attend one of my best friend's weddings. Now, there was no question that I would be heading back. I wouldn't miss this wedding for the world. I was just kicking myself for not waiting to actually make the move a month later than I did, if only to make things a bit simpler. But, it all worked out. I found Kino a kennel in which he was able to run freely on a farm for a few days and half of my flight was generously covered by Scott and his bride-to-be, Cassie, with the only request that I film their wedding for them.

I arrived on a Friday night and was met at the airport by my buddy Garrett, who was generously giving up some space in his apartment that weekend so I could crash while in town. Before my bags even made it to his doorstep, we stopped into Edison's, my personal favorite bar in Cleveland and home of the city's best-tasting pizza. A heavy claim, I know. But just try it if you haven't already. Still don't agree? Fine. I'll fight you on it.

Our stay there lasted well into the wee hours of the morning, unsurprisingly. Edison's always tends to have that effect on us. The crowd is a rare mix between a few elderly ragged locals, Cleveland hipsters, raging hormones and a blue-collar artists that just appreciate a wide selection of bottled beer, so at times, it gets really difficult to leave. Being the social butterflies that we are, Garrett and I always happen to bring a few random patrons into our discussions. This can go on for hours, and usually does.

The next morning, before the wedding, I got myself showered and dressed before meeting my date for the evening's events. Arriving about 30 minutes early, she and I sat up in the balcony where a bird's eye view of the ceremony offered the video's best coverage. The ceremony itself, having taken place in the Old Stone Church, one of the oldest, if not the oldest structure remaining in downtown Cleveland, was beautiful and fairly tame as one would expect. By knowing Scott and Cassie from the moment they got together, it was great to see them finally tie the knot. I will admit to some bittersweetness, however. Scott was instrumental in getting my ex and I together for a courtship that lasted three full years before we split following her move out to California. He and Cassie met during that three year period and the four us spent quite a bit of time together before my better half left. Seeing them finally tie the knot reminded me of some of the things I had planned during that time and where it could've led me. Some day, perhaps.

The outdoor wedding reception was, easily stated, the single best wedding that I've been to in my life. For the first time in years, I was able to cut loose and show a side of me that most of my friends haven't seen in a long, long time. Maybe it was my recent move to Oregon and my overwhelming sense of freedom. It may have simply been due to being in the company of some amazing friends. Or maybe I was just happy. Regardless, after completing my filming duties, I danced, laughed, sang, jumped around like a pure nut-job, waited patiently for my fifth martini in the pouring rain, chased a raccoon (he was friendly, I swear), almost swung the Mother-of-the-Groom into a table, chair-danced in front of the Bride, photo-bombed, wheeled a piano into a hotel lobby at 3am (the staff was NOT happy about that one) and joined the entire wedding party in a badly sung-rendition of "Don't Stop Believin'." Was the hangover worth it? You bet to high hell it was. I'd encourage them to get divorced and remarried, just to do it all over again. ...I'll give it a few years before I formally make that suggestion.

Now, what is the Moose, you ask? Because after all, that is the title of this entry and would only make some sense if I were to take the time to explain the allusion. Or, I could leave you in the dark and guessing, but what fun would that be. No, I would be more than happy to elaborate.

The Moose is, proudly, a Scott Keller original. Made popular by him in his drunken-stupor days of college (let's not kid ourselves, college may be over...the stupor, not so much), the Moose consists of leaning backwards, shoving his thumbs into his armpits (palms out and spread wide) while simultaneously lifting up his shirt to expose his belly and chest while screaming "The Moose!!" Ridiculous? You bet it is. But I love this guy for it. What better is that the Moose comes out in the most inappropriate of instances, including, but not limited to, work functions, high-class lounges, the RTA rail line, St. Patrick's Day and of course, his wedding.

That weekend, I also had breakfast with my ex, lunch with my parents, a few drinks with a few other old friends and a short visit to my old house, but I'll never forget the Moose. Married or not, he will live on forever. Congrats, buddy. Now go and make some babies. Baby mooses. Or moosen. ...whatever you call more than one. We're all rootin' for ya.

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.