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Ron Huber trip log written while driving from Oregon to Iowa (en route to Maryland), from August 19,1987 through August 21, 1987.

August 19, 1987. Just outside of Burns, Oregon. Spent last night at the Becker residence. Joe wasn't around, but Mark and Jennifer were gracious hosts. They told me that a fight had broken out between the arrested ladies and some other imprisoned women. Tch tch...

Over the radio, I heard that Mary Beth Nearing was in a tree in Portland outside Senator Hatfield's office. George the greenpeacer was over in Washington State where some other demonstrations were going on.

I've left the west coast. Now it is sage country, rolling hills of the high Oregon plains. Cowboy country. Snow Mountain Logging Company has great yards of logs and a great gantry that lifts whole truckloads at a time, moving them from one pile to another. I watched for a while.

Car is running A-OK. Tires? Who knows how long they'll last.

A very nice 36 hours at Tina's country home. She wasn't there, but three men and three boys were. All organic pioneers. They'll be moving onward before too long. Tina, in a phone call, urged me and Samizu to come out there for a while. Perhaps. A beautiful lush greenscape on a creek off the South River. Her homes there have electricity and a flush toilet. Nice, nice, nice.

9:12 pm In Idaho. Bliss, Idaho. The Roadrunner Café. I was going to stop somewhere and cook some coffee, but yielded to the neon lights. Called home and hour ago: "Collect to Sasha from Ron."..."I'm sorry, Sasha is away for the week." Dear old Dad.

Watched a pick up truck burn up at a rest area twenty miles east of Boise. The glum passenger (whose suitcase was incinerated) and the driver who looked like a skinny Robert Redford, stood by with a small crowd of onlookers. The front end and driver's compartment were wrapped in flame. "The fuel tank gone yet?" someone asked. "Nope."

We all stepped back a ways. Them with a dull crump! the tank blew, sending a greasy black cloud into the air. After 20 minutes a BLM firetruck drove up and extinguished the flames. A deputy sheriff drove up and took notes.

Beautiful Idaho. Many mesas, light colored save for a black roof on each one. Mountains in the distance. I crossed the Snake River two times.

Two trucks carrying the equipment for the Charlie Daniels Band breezed past my laboring Toyota. Later I passed them. They were on the side of the road.

A glorious sunset, visible only through my rearview window as I drove through the evening.

I hope. This is good. I hope I can make it to Maryland. I hope I can sell Samizu's paintings. I hope I can write my head off. I hope I can save Roger from self destruction. I hoe Samizu and I are still a pair.. Together we are strong. Separate I have been a mess, kind of. Lonely; slightly crazed. Celibate. Marriage is a great shield, though behind it stands loneliness when separated. My oh my.

Some of Samizu's clothes are still at the cottage, secure underneath. So many loose ends not picked up. But I go where my heart is and that is to my dear wife's arms.

So tonight I shall try for Wyoming, though it appears quite a long shot. We'll see.

August 20, 1987 1:56pm. Thursday. Wyoming. Cruising along last night, I finally grew tired and sought out a side road to sleep on. But side roads are few and far between on the interstate. It is as if the public is not welcome on public lands.

Sweetzer Road appeared. I drove down it; the road becoming gravel quickly, sagebrush against my muffler. Stopped at a little turnout and pitched my sleeping bag. I awoke to the klutzy thud of cattle. There was a water tank across the fence from me and the bovines were trickling in over a hill. Young and older, a mix of cows and calves; all had ear tags stapled to their ears. The calves had one tag, their elders two.

In the morning cool, I tried to light my stove, but no success. I cursed, causing a minor stampede, packed and left, though the car resisted starting for some time. Then off! to enter and leave Utah in one day.

Had to stop for gas. The station wouldn't take my C-note, but I was directed to a bank across the street. The bankers were astonished that the gas station wouldn't take it. They broke it to 20's and I gassed and left, not stopping until Wyoming. My meat craving drove me to a café where I had a cheeseburger.

Little America--how bizarre. Miles of hypnotically yellow billboards pulling one's attention away from the gaunt splendor of Wyoming. The signs are matter-of-factual, cute and feature a penguin with a disarming smile.

Finally there. The billboards are mixed with official US highway department green signs announcing the place.

Little America is completely screened in with an evergreen wall/hedge surrounding it Strange in contrast to the twisted strata of the surroundings.

Gas. Dutifully pull in to the second regular pump..."Fill'er up... Regular... Behind the plate" and the uniformed flunky of Little America (a Little American?) puts in the hose. While the tank is filling, he walks to the front of the car, squats and takes down my license plate number. Hey...I asked him why. He shrugged and said "We're supposed to." Why though? I persisted. To keep track of how many people are coming through, he said. "Oh," I said, and he left.

How fascist that seems! Keeping track of who is passing through. Went in and sought the address of this place, but in the Green River Wyoming section of the local phone book, its name IS its address.

August 21,1987. Friday noon. Sandy's Café, Potter, Nebraska. The West is past. All rivers and streams here drain ultimately to the mighty Mississippi. I drove and drove, finally leaving Wyoming. Bypassed Colorado, going north of it on I-80.

Not much to report. Fiercely hungry, I stopped in Potter and bought bread, mustard, hot dogs and a tomato. Listening to radio talk shows as a way to pique my interest in things mainstream.

Wyoming's governor is in Taiwan, talking trade and tourism. This is certainly the way that southwest Oregon should go. Perhaps I'll talk it up in DC. A road race on 101, once a year? Could bring in the dollars if it were and international Monte Carlo type race.

The last month in Oregon keeps revolving through my brain.....After months of hard times in the Kalmiopsis, I went to the Round River Rendezvous with Joe Becker. Folks came west and I more or less gave up on it all. The Bobbsey Twins (Valerie Wade and Mike Jakubal) showed and made their way into things....

Credibility! howled Mike J We must keep neat, have our actions well orchestrated! Lockstep!

And the little red haired girl. I fear things have gone to her head. She accosted me, told me to never do anything in Oregon again. Funds from the Oregon Earth First! accounts would be closed to me. Heck, I never got any, anyway. Snippy little brat. I told her she was speaking for herself. She sputtered.

Whatever... Who cares? Symbolic protest is not good for much. Maybe, maybe not....

So now, I have $60 to travel from Potter, Nebraska to Cheverly, Maryland. Possible? Dunno. We'll see. The car is drinking oil and gas. Tires okay. I reckon I'll make it to the east and my beloved. Onward.

August 21,1987. Friday night. Iowa. 11:27 pm. Called home 45 minutes ago at a rest area. Tom answered. Of course Sasha is not available. He did inquire as to my location. "Nebraska",he was informed. I felt like saying "No! Almost in Iowa!" for Nebraska is such an enormously looong stretch of America. I pray I may never make this trip again, not alone at least. Maybe with a car or van in good condition, with good tires and lots of money. A motel would be nice; I just can't afford one. I'm not even sure I have enough money to get all the way home! Quien sabe'.

Well, well. Babble babble. I'll just drive deep into the night until...where does one sleep in the midwest? Everything is owned by someone. Yech. Maybe I'll just drive and drive and drive. All the way to Maryland. Sure.

Ahh. Coffee. The one nutrient I can afford. A bit of a pity they use plasticreme here. I guess all of those cattle are beef, not dairy.

Coffee and cigarettes. yes, that's the ticket.

END OF NARRATIVE.