This isnt about Centralia per se, but it is about a year in college at WSU, where many Centralians went to school after they left home. Written 4 years ago. What a Year I called my son this week, hes in Ellensburg, chasing his age, chasing lifes robust twenty years. He doesnt know what he wants to be, he feels he has a lot of time to decide. I left home in 1980, bound for college in Eastern Washington, bound for my first release from the grip of parents, years to go to decide what I wanted to be. I took my car and left my motorcycle behind; thinking college life would be academics and wrestling. I was young, younger than my eighteen years, innocent. I wasnt a drinker when I was young and living at home, part of the fear of having a drinking parent, drinking scared me to be honest. That first year, the rigors of wrestling empowered me. I gained 2 inches in height, which I needed, and I packed on 30 pounds of muscle, it was a gift I hadnt expected. That first year felt glorious and I fell in love with college, so much so Id spend the next fifteen years in school; however, this isnt about the ups and downs of those years, but rather one year in particular. I went home that summer and longed to get back to school, I was nineteen and there was nothing to do in my hometown, I needed to get back to the life, after all, I wasnt growing old, I was growing up. My second year was as good as the first, I was sprouting wings and I felt so free, so free I wouldnt come home for summer, and that is the journey I want to go on one more time, if only for the trip on this paper. I went back to riding my motorcycle, traded up to a 950, took it anywhere; took it everywhere. Back then, I wore a bib snow cover-all suit, cowboy boots, and since there was no helmet law, I wore a wool cap with a cassette recorder and headphones strapped on, listening to the Who, Eagles, Three Dog Night, Steve Miller, Cat Stevens, a bunch more music that was years old. I wasnt into the techno dance music of the early 80s. So there I was, REALLY FREE, riding against the wind on sun chapped summer days, crisscrossing eastern Washington and Northern Idaho with nothing to do but ride. I was taking classes on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, leaving me with four-day weekends every week. On Friday mornings, Id pack my sleeping bag and a small carryall on the back of my bike, propping it up like a backrest, and head out up the 27, nothing but wheat fields and farm houses, and Three Dog Nights Shambala piped into my ears. The first town was Palouse, named after the wild horses once roaming the region. Id breeze through without so much as a hello, one stop sign and east I headed on the 6, into Idaho; warm summer days, skipping in and out of forested land and open fields working my way to an old dried up mill town, the sad and ghostly Potlatch, My Generation playing on the tunes. I always wanted to stop in Potlatch, all the vacant homes, but what was the point, it was nearly deserted. Id rise up a little crest and roar on my way, traveling miles without life, eventually passing a group of homes with their own post office, calling themselves Princeton, followed by another set of houses with their own post offices, calling themselves Harvard. I still smile thinking of Princeton and Harvard out in the middle of nowhere. Id stop, put new batteries in my Walkman, crank up the volume and Brown Sugar by the Stones would carry me on. Into the velvet green forest of St Joe National Id go, losing sight of the heat and sunshine but blessed to be traveling with nature. It was serene. Id pop in James Taylor or Cat Stevens, welcoming the calmness, welcoming the peace. Sometimes Id stop, turn everything off, and listen to nothing, just my own heartbeat, my own thoughts crowding in to shepherd me. I was twenty, I was not growing old, I was growing up. The 6 travels a long time through Northern Idaho, my intersection was the 3, but often Id go the five miles past it to stop in Santa and have lunch. To live in Santa, is to live in the wilderness, but I always felt the comfort they must feel being from Santa. Who in the heck is going to misbehave in a town called SANTA? Getting back on the 3, Id go north towards St. Marie, the biggest town in those parts; the parts of Idaho in the inland and hidden from view. Its a real town, ball fields, parks, even an airport. I dropped out of the forest and came back to reality, back to wide open, my headphones pumping out Crosby, Stills and Nash. Id have to gas up, my target was the 90 and thered be many miles with only lakes ahead of me on the 3. Three hours would have passed since I left Pullman, I wasnt half way yet, itd usually be around 11am. My urge would get the best of me, we didnt have cell phones, so my arrival would be guessed on. Id slam the throttle, cruising at a little greater speed to get to the 90, tossing in tougher music, the riffs of Blue Oyster Cult, coursing through me. I loved seeing those signs that read, Hwy 90 fifteen miles, Hwy 90 ten miles, Hwy 90 five miles. Hwy 90! I was there, two lanes, open, little traffic, there for the taking, Steve Miller singing Jet Airliner in my ear, go boy go. East I headed, passing cities: Pinehurst, Smelterville, Kellogg. But there was more, there was Osbum, Silverton, and Wallace, the last town famed for the ladies that took care of the miners, every boys fantasy, but no, I never checked out the legend, I had somewhere else to go. After I went through Mullan, and I lifted the volume of the Walkman playing American Pie, I raced to the Montana border. The beauty of the countryside was evident and awe inspiring, images which make thoughts write great things, mountains to my left and before me was Lolo National forest rising in elevation and letting out an exhale of cool breath down the slopes of Rockies foothills. I was entering big sky country. It might have been one oclock, it might have been later, I didnt care, it was so wide open, I knew why I was on a motorcycle, I was as free as a bird, as free as the coyotes howl, I was twenty, I wasnt growing old, I was growing up. I couldnt tell you any of the little towns but one anymore; my focus was on my destination. That one town was St. Regis. I remember St. Regis because it was where I turned to go up Paradise Falls highway 135, not really a highway, but rather a road that no one patrolled, so go as fast as you please. It was winding, and how I survived it week after week is anyones guess, maybe it was listening to Sittin on the Dock of the Bay, chillin, keeping my throttle down just a little. As beautiful as the trip was so far, this was the coolest part, a river zigzagged to my left and then to my right, cliffs to my left then my right, jutting out, kissing the sky, touching the ground like a prayer, like a sea sick sailor kissing the soil, pristine, untouched, only a ribbon of asphalt cutting through. It was such a mountainous region I traveled with the river, when the river forked I jumped onto Hwy 200, headed east along more untouched beauty. The melodic horns of Chicago bringing music to me as my mind took in Mother Nature. The 200 gave way to the north traveling 93. I was getting close, time to let Journey bring me the rest of the way, past St. Ignatius, past Ronan, traveling at times 100 miles an hour. Slowly, Flathead Lake would come into view, Sweet Home Alabama tickling my eardrums. There at the base of the lake was my destination, Polson, Montana. From Pullman to Polson, I traveled every weekend to see a young girl I was smitten with. She grew up in our hometown, moved away when she was a freshman, and I was a senior. I didnt notice her in school, but apparently shed noticed me. Through a friend she found me in Pullman and sent word along with a picture of what three years did to her, she became a woman, a cute woman. She was fun, and I was drawn to make the trip every week. It was my last summer as a semi kid, semi man. I didnt know that then, and I wouldnt know that until the next summer when a new romance would shake my foundation, and rock my innocence, but for that summer of my twentieth year, I was growing up and not growing old, I was free, I was alive, and if there is a lesson here for my son, my son living in Eastern Washington, dont forget that tomorrow is not as young as today, today is here for you. I can still remember pulling down her long driveway, Stairway to Heaven playing as I looked at her beauty, walking up to meet me, waiting for me to arrive. Travel on Son, travel on.
Posted on: Sat, 24 May 2014 23:49:17 +0000
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