So Far ...

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Dusk is a sea of neon, fast food chains and gas stations lighting the way. A river of cars zooming past churches and the storage units for the things that don't fit in our homes. A never-ending litany of billboards selling cheap products and easy ideas.

Also, unspoiled beauty. And spoiled beauty. 

I couldn't take a good picture in the Smokies, They're too big, too big, they go on and on and they're perfect. How could a photograph capture that?

Secondary highways dotted by small towns. Gas station coffee in a large thermos. Speed traps and hitchhikers. Cloudless nights in the middle  of nowhere; a million stars.

People. Amazing people. Angry people. Afraid, alive, happy and unhappy. Some lonely people. Prideful. People willing to help.  People wanting to tell their story.

What I'm learning is, you have to seize your happiness where you find it.

"I'd have jumped off a cliff for my boss ..."

I've been calling them Sequestration Campers, and it was the next word in his sentence that really made me pause.

"I'd have jumped off a cliff for my boss ... so I guess it's time to re-evaluate." 

In campgrounds up and down the east coast, there are more Maryland and Virginia license plates than one might expect for this time of year. And as I meet people, I'm realizing a not-insignificant number are people who lost their job in the government's sequester.

In the Outer Banks I met Mike, who told me he'd always expected to work a few years, take some time off to do something fun, and then find a new job.  "People don't have that loyalty to one company anymore, so I figured I'd keep doing new things," he said.

"That was 14 years ago. I never took the break." 

When I met Mike, he was camping out of his car and kite surfing. He'd lost his job and was finally taking some time for himself and job hunting from the road.

And in the Great Smoky Mountain National Forest, I met Dan. He'd also lost his job and was considering a change. He has a security clearance and language skills, but it was that next word that really got me: SO. 

"I'd have jumped off a cliff for my boss," he said. 

If you asked me to re-write the sentence I'd have used "BUT."

" ... so I guess it's time to re-evaluate." One idea follows the other. His loyalty was not returned, and so he needs to rethink things.

Back in D.C. I knew people who had lost or had their jobs downsized. Some took the opportunity to make changes they'd always wanted, but never acted on. 

Losing your job is one of those top-five stressful situations. It's on the list with losing a loved one and divorce. Change is always hard, and unplanned-change thrust upon you is shitshitshit.  I'm not saying the sequester has been good.

But I do see people seizing the moment. They talk about loyalty, and how it's not there anymore. They talk about taking time for themselves, stepping back, embracing the uncertainty. I've had this conversation a lot lately. 

Granted, the people I've met have had the luxury to take some time, look for a job slowly. That's a small subset. But I think it belies an important idea: Maybe we've given away a bit too much. In the search for stability we've given up a little bit of the magic that comes with not knowing. 

"As soon as he dies, I'm leaving."

She seemed awful.

It was Sunday and so that meant football. I'm not a huge fan, but being on the road I've been looking for some structure. And what's better than Sunday football and watching your fantasy team go down in flames?

There was a seat at the bar with space on either side, but when more people came I moved down. And she started talking to me.

She and her husband were from New Jersey, but they retired down to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. “He loves it down here,” she said, with a look that seemed – confusingly – to border on contempt.

“As soon as he dies, I'm leaving.”

The three of us talked for 15 minutes. I said almost nothing after our introduction. Her husband said even less. But this woman cursed everything and everybody. Kids. The police. City services. Local politics. Kids, again.

“If I had a dick, I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire,” she said of someone.

“Once my husband dies, if I still needed a tampon I'd run so fast I'd leave the string behind.”

She drank warm rail vodka, straight. She was not a happy person, and she made sure everyone knew it.

Finally I couldn't take it anymore and stood to leave. She insisted I take their phone number, in case I ever needed a place to stay.

Perfection & Opposable Thumbs

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You can't plan perfection. You prepare for the moments; pass through them; let them come. But even if you go searching, it never looks like you expect. 

I left the annual family trip in South Carolina and headed to Savannah, which felt familiar after years of visiting Charleston. A Southern city, beautiful and full of strange history. 

Normally, exploring a new town's bars and restaurants is my thing, but instead I retreated into the quiet of Skidaway Island State Park. I spent three days in perfect 68-degree weather. No humidity, almost no one around. I ran and hiked and read and slept.

It was absolutely perfect. Not at all what I'd expected or come looking for. The moss hanging from trees helped create a cool shade. There was always a breeze and sunsets were flawless.  Someone far off practiced the banjo, always stuck on the same chords.

I'd expected to spend time in the city, but instead rested. Settled into a pace where nothing needed to be accomplished.

In a barbershop, locals talked about their kids and joked about the rising price of haircuts. I saw a man in a fantastic purple shirt and matching fedora. The art and design school gives Savannah an young, vibrant feel.

At night, raccoons stole my food. "They only take the good stuff," a ranger said. Somehow they got bacon off the bottom of a cooler under 10 pounds of ice.  

Damn opposable thumbs.  

"I'm not a conservationist."

I was one letter away from home: Washington, N.C. 

The things we do –  our choices and actions and events – they matter. They belie inner truths. And on that particular day I had planned on getting a hotel room after more than a week of sleeping in a tent and the van. I wanted a good night's sleep, a shower and some space to write, before moving on to see family.

Instead, I cooked pork chops over a wood fire. It would seem that despite my conscious idea of getting back to four walls, something deeper rebelled.

And that's where I met Douglas. I was setting up camp when we started talking. He's an artist, working to boost awareness and respect for the Pamlico River ecosystem.

“I'm not a conservationist. This isn't environmentalism,” he told me in the first few moments. “The river is for everyone.”

His plan, he explained, was to boost respect and responsibility and let the chips fall where they may. “Speedboat racing has a place on the river,” he conceded. “Though, maybe not all the time,” he qualified.

He's working on a two-year project that includes nature-based art classes for kids, a four-part piece of music he's writing, and a book.

Later, I went for a walk and found him teaching a group of children. They were sitting near the edge of the river, drawing the root system of a tree that was only partially submerged. “They don't usually get to see this,” he explained, “how a tree grows and stays stable in water.”

He spoke passionately about the river, and seemed to get emotional when he talked about the ecosystem. Immediately, I liked him.

The park rangers had said there was no one else camping nearby, and when I woke up at 2 a.m. I knew getting back to sleep would be impossible. So I strapped on a headlamp and set about startling all the deer in the neighborhood.

The river was quiet and the moon was full. Even without light, you could find your way around. When the sun finally came up, standing on the banks seemed like standing in a painting.

Douglas gave me his business card. It doesn't list an occupation, only: “Art Music Books”

I like that. I don't know what he “does,” but I know what he loves. 

It was a crazy idea, she says.

I met Francois and Manoc and their daughter in two crappy North Carolina campgrounds. It's a small world when you're heading in the same direction, and we camped next to each other on consecutive nights.

Their daughter is six-months old. The three of them live an hour or so outside Montreal, and are using their paternity leave to explore the United States. They took their new baby girl in a van and set out to travel.

That's the whole of most of it. They both have jobs they will return to. They saw opportunity for an adventure and they took it, newborn and all.

It took planning, time. He bought the van on eBay. Flew to Seattle and drove it back in a marathon roadtrip. Spent months fixing it up.

She rolls her eyes at him. It was a crazy idea, she says.

And yet there we are. The four of us, laughing and drinking coffee in the Outer Banks. They've been on the road a month. Their daughter, so beautiful, she laughs and smiles. 

“She smiles when she's not crying,” Manoc said. And the baby does cry, at 5 a.m. They apologize to the campers around, but everyone just laughs.

They drive two or three hours a day, no more. When they find a good spot, they stop. “It's hard, traveling with her,” Francois said. I'm pretty sure he meant the baby.

He does the cooking. She writes and takes photographs of the trip.

We bond over camping stoves. Sleeping in vans. The craziness of movement. We barely missed each other a few nights before, camped just 60 miles apart.

Manoc takes the baby back to the van for a nap. Francois and I talk. He seems happy. He has his wife and child and everything he needs with him. The adventure won't last forever, but at the moment it seems perfect.

She rolls her eyes at him. It was a crazy idea, she says.

Cemetery Eggs

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The man appeared to be following six ducks around an old cemetery at 8 a.m. on a Wednesday.

Gene is a kite surfer, retired and living with his wife in a medium sized RV. They spend a month in the Outer Banks each year, and he's been coming here for 25 years.

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I was camped right next to the graveyard, at a site overlooking the water. The campsite cared for the ducks, but it wasn't clear that anyone was caring for the cemetery. Every day people would come and feed the ducks, but the gravestones were broken or overgrown.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking for eggs.”

“To eat?”

“The owners don't mind, they don't want more ducks. They got them a few years ago but they started breeding.”

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“The ducks live in the cemetery?”

“Yeah.”

“How are the eggs?”

“They're good. Jean found one the other day.”

Gene and Jean, living in an RV and eating cemetery eggs for breakfast.