I read a quote of a quote this morning, from Anthony Bourdain quoting Paul Bowles. I do mostly as he says, the former, as was a little disappointed in myself. It says, "Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was he had felt most at home."
I'm disappointed because since yesterday, I've been in a rush to get home. It usually takes nine days, and then I'm strapping on a jet pack thinking about nothing but the fastest way home, missing everything that's happening right now. In this particular trip, this is how I've been sleeping:
So sleeping has been stressful. We don't have an RV or hitch or anything with hard sides, just tent fabric less than a millimeter thick, which I continuously pictured a bear's paw coming through and ripping my face off. That and the constantly changing altitude has been an assault on my respiratory system. Many bloody noses. We drove south from Glacier, through Lewis and Clark National Forest, the temperature starting at 50 degrees and as we climbed up, we drove straight into clouds, rain turning to hail, the temperature dropping to 43. I couldn't see for a full second after the fastest windshield wiper setting cleared. As the elevation declined, the hail turned to ice on the road, and my fear into panic. Remember, beige Lincoln we're talking about here, not the patient truck behind me, probably with snow tires.
Fourteen days, 2 Airbnb's, and now two hotels, and a stomach that is back close to working order, I'm going to not rush the 30 hour drive home.