Maybe, it the revenge of the bugs? I wouldn’t put it past them. What if one of them lived long enough to pull off a stunt like in one of those suspense thrillers where you think the bad guy is dead, but he’s not.
So, I spend the next twenty-minutes with my tools reattaching the hose and fastening the clamp. No easy feat ….
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Swelling clouds with rich flame-blue colors, swirled with orange-red, moved south to north overhead.
Of course, by the time I got a camera in hand, the clouds had mostly dissipated. Managed to catch a fleeting shot; nothing like the fullness of it when I first stepped out of ARGO. The scene became a video-short in my mind’s filing cabinet. Odd how these moments occur. - John W. Butler
The imbecilic graffiti triggers a super odd flashback. Reminds me of arriving on the University of Texas campus in Austin to start classes. It’s the beginning of my university education on the famed forty-acres. I walk into the UT Tower building at the center of campus, making a stop at the restroom located just beyond the north-side doors.
On the metal stall wall is written:
(Also on the BUZZ PODCAST link in the article)
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LIGHTING CEREMONY AT MOUNT RUSHMORE - John W. Butler
Pulling into the park, there the old guys were, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Theodore Roosevelt and Abe Lincoln, four presidents carved in stone on the side of the mountain. The sight was impressive.
I took a few photos, then lingered to absorb the scale of it, while sitting on the outdoor patio eating Buffalo stew from the park restaurant. The hot stew was filled with peas, carrots, potatoes, and tasty buffalo meat. The seasoned steam rising off it in the fresh mountain air transmuted the visual experience into one that reached all the way to my stomach.
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Grizzly Bear Creek - By John W. Butler
It was pitch-black-dark by the time I pull into campsite number ten. Both clouds and the tall trees in this thick national forest blocked any light from above. My objective is to not hit any trees as I drive slowly next to the metal stake with my designated campsite number.
I’m really sleepy now. I make my bed in the back of ARGO, then lay there reading for less than a few minutes. With little haste, the weight of my eyelids cannot be pushed back any longer.
“I’ll sleep extra late,” I mumble to myself. My last words on my descent into unconsciousness.
Read MoreHe eases the truck up near me. I wave to signal I’m a friendly-type, hoping, of course, that he’s a friendly-type too. Don’t want to get shot out here for trespassing, or for any reason. It does cross my mind.
He stops short and rolls his passenger side window down as he leans in my direction.
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Sometimes you have to leave a place to learn how special it is to you.
A girl named Dorthy Gale found that out in a most peculiar way. I’m on my way to visit Dorthy’s house today.
Driving north on Hwy 83, the one running smack dab up through the middle of America, I made it through the Texas Panhandle, crossed the Oklahoma Panhandle, and now I'm in the frying pan of Kansas.
As I have mentioned before, 83 has been called the “Road To Nowhere.” But I call it Heartland Highway,
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Some writers have called Highway 83, “The Last American Highway.” One guidebook dubbed this highway, “The Road To Nowhere,” which, in all due respect to the travel guide, seems disparaging, belittling, and frankly, stupid. I wasn’t the best student in my high school geography class, but I can see the road does go somewhere, and on both ends of it: old Mexico to Canada. Two exciting, diverse places, albeit, one very violent, the other passive and peaceful. So in my humble opinion, this demeaned Highway 83 needs a more notable name.
I’m naming it: HEARTLAND HIGHWAY.
Read MoreReflecting on a key year in American history and a high school graduating class in Texas.
Modern day nomadic tribes are in nearly every American city and town I’ve traveled through this year. From Maine to California, they are at intersections holding brown cardboard signs with forlorn scribbles. They are sleeping in the doorways of buildings, under bridges. They lurk outside of stores asking for spare change. Wandering rootless vagrants. Languishing, distressed and discarded on cold dirty sidewalks. The homeless.
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Continuing my trek north in Washington towards Canada I left Whidbey Island via Deception Pass ... crossing over the Deception Pass Bridge to Fidalgo Island. The pass connects Skagit Bay with the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Kayakers get an adrenaline rush during tide changes riding the standing waves in class 2 and 3 rapid conditions. I'll take a pass ... on kayaking the pass. 😉 My knees were queasy just standing on the bridge with a low railing on the bridge walkway and cars passing just a foot or two away.
Named by George Vancouver. Double bridges were built over it by the WPA in the thirties.
JohnButlersBuzz.com 🚐 John Butler at Deception Pass
Maybe it’s my imagination, Maybe I had just been staring into the direction of the sun too long driving west. But I think it was more than that. It’s hard to explain. I felt a spiritual sense about it. A shadowing, if you will, as I drove through the desert Indian territories in New Mexico and Arizona....
Read MoreAfter a few restful weeks in Oregon, I crossed into Washington state. Unfortunately, my campsites ended up being named Dismal Ditch and Cape Disappointment. I didn't name them, Lewis and Clark did.
The weird vibe didn’t hit at first, though. When the Seattle skyline came into view, a wacky ham and eggs song triggered in the back of my brain. One of those off-the-wall tunes you can’t get out of your head once it starts playing in there. You know, the one ....
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I hadn’t talked to anyone in several days except for the border agent who stopped me. Traveling through miles and miles of sand, cactus, and cake-bake heat had taken its toll on me. I was ready to talk. And I did.
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“What are you doing?” He did not have his hand on the holstered gun hanging from the right side of his belt, but the position of his cocked arm beside it made it obvious he could easily retrieve it.
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After my celebration of July 4th in the Grand Canyon, I started heading for old Route 66 to continue my journey west. I had wanted to drop down to Sedona after the Grand Canyon. It was even closer now. Why not, I thought.
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Cadillac Ranch is an art project that was funded by Stanley Marsh 3. He was known as a prankster and philanthropist in West Texas. It was created by an art group, the Ant Farm. It consists of 10 Cadillacs partially buried in the ground nose first. Each spray painted, continually, by those who visit. And visitors are encouraged to do so. It is located just off the road along I-40, by historic Route 66.
Continuing my drive northwest from Fort Worth, I took the smaller roads, on past Wichita Falls. I headed a little further north to Burkburnett, Texas. What’s mostly there is an interesting history, Texas oil history. Oil gushed up. Money rained down. People rushed in.
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Working with my dad in the yard together. I was 4 years old when this photo was taken.
My dad said he soon learned that on the night of the funeral, under the cover of darkness, the neighbor, who had sold the mules to my grandfather, snuck over the fence and took the mules away.
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How would you handle a major life altering event in your life ? This video is an insight into the way Mike Fick handled his life changing in the blink of an eye ... when the ladder slipped ....
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