Until Next Time...

So it's the end....for now.

As my plane bumped and dipped eastward over the Rocky Mountains, I looked down through the clouds at the dirt roads and faint trails. I wanted to ride them. There I was, almost home, but not quite, and I was dreaming of the next one. Nepal, Laos, Cambodia, China, Turkey, Costa Rica, Peru, Argentina, and Chile, just for a start. Those places make the hairs on my neck stand on end. The future is big and bright with new adventures. I rode three thousand miles, walked over two hundred, climbed seven mountains, wandered twenty-eight beaches, and ate at least sixty scoops of ice cream. That's not big enough. How can I fold my arms, sit back, and say "well, that's that" now that I've tasted the sweet nectar of sunrise over an open road? It's just the beginning.

People can have their Marts, McDonald's, humongous vehicles, suburbs, wonder phones, electric ab-shockers, and battery powered mops. I'll take the road, the birds, the wind, and the trees as my version of freedom. They can have their greed, spite, malice, and prejudices. They can even sling them at me if they want. The more distance I go, the more places I see, the more people I meet, and the bigger my perspective gets, the more I realize the pointlessness and insignificance of such things.

On the gigantiod plane that took me east across the Pacific, I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Benjamin is watching a sunrise and says; "You can be mad as a mad dog at the way things went; you can swear and curse the fates - but when it comes to the end, you have to let go."

So go watch the sunrise over the ocean. Go sit on a mountain top and listen to a glacier pop in a distant valley. Go walk into a paddock and roll down a grassy hill. Go find some sand dunes and jump from their tops. Go to a wild, rugged beach and watch the big waves kick up gold mist. Go to where there is dense green and life all around. Sit and listen. Let go.



Somewhere approaching the edge of the desert, the road was long




In Lightning Ridge someone abandoned their Opal potch sifter

In the heart of Australia, I rested for a night near some wheat.

Bright orange moss grows on the rocks of Tasmania.

Ancient uplifted stones protrude from the hilltops of central Tasmania

Some of those stones have been pushed high above peat and buttongrass.

At the top, one can see in every direction.

The wind and the rain bleach dead wood preserved by the cold.

Colored beetles are going places on tiny round feet.

Roots are exposed where thousands of people have walked the Tasmanian forest.

At the tallest mountain, a cold lake rests in the cushion plants.

In a valley below, the harsh sun has found a red leaf.

Near the Tasman Sea, a plant twists to strengthen against the constant wind.

At the foot of the Western Arthurs, grand views are beheld.

Sun warms the cold land in southwest Tasmania.

Tiny droplets condense on miniature plant tongues.

Rocks crackle under foot as a ridge is crested toward Mt. Anne.

A pandani plant collects the calm rain before a snow storm.

The Tasman Sea reclaims what is left behind.

Tiny seed pods open with fire and leave rows of frozen lips.

The gloss black paint on a lighthouse door shines like chrome.

Expensive beach boxes line the sand in Melbourne.

A second visit to the Black Spur was a walk through the calm wood towers.

At the foot of Mt. Ruapehu, I was sweating in the cool air.

At the foot of the desolate cinder cone, an Eden exists.

In New Zealand, the sand is endlessly carved by the tides.

Where it is dry, it is pushed by the wind.

If it were windy on the moon, it may look like this.

Dr. Seuss may have been inspired by pancake rocks.

Ferns with the width of a man's arms grab the rare sunlight on New Zealand's west coast.

One might expect to see a triceratops just beyond the trees.

A dragonfly takes a breather, then heads off on a mission somewhere.

A droplet comes to rest before continuing its watery business.

Boards creek under foot and dark reflective water laps at the shore.

Rocks once carried by glaciers glow orange and wet with brine.

Someday, another glacier will come and sweep away the paddocks.

For now, New Zealand's sheep munch away in the glow of warm days.

On the Cascade Saddle Route, the kea birds squeak, and legs burn.

Bangkok's smog seems not to have left a smudge on the Buddhist temples.

Walk through the legs of a steel monster when you fly from Thailand.