From IDigJesus@aol.com Sun Mar 24 19:24:46 2002
Date: Fri, 28 Apr 2000 21:19:18 EDT
From: IDigJesus@aol.com
To: IDigJesus@aol.com
Subject: The Beatnik Pilgrim Vol. 5 Part 2

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(Here's the last leg of the journey, and enjoy the photos)

It took me an hour
To get my guns into Canada
I had to mail one of them
It took much earnest deliberation
Before I brought them with me
As I have killed no thing 
In many years
I may yet never use them
And while I cannot compare myself
With Francis
Likewise I cannot attempt 
To imitate him while 
Packing a gat
Perhaps my fear of bears 
Had the best of me

Vancouver is black mountains
Bending over into purple harbors
With cyclists
Unusual street people
Vintage clothes and cafes
That whisper dark things from the past

It is a shadowy place
European in architecture
Busy sidewalks that somehow feel lonely
Strange steel buildings
And distant, cold hollow faces

Next came sea to sky country
Lion's Bay
Squamish
I showered at a campground
Whistler is a laid back
Ski town
With hitchhikers
Ski lodges
And one fuzzy 
Radio station
It was one station or nothing
For most of the lands beyond

I was coasting down from some height
Steeped on some trail of contemplation
Toward Lillooet when
Across my path swooped down
Like a mighty phoenix
Falling from the sky
Not forty meters away
And hovering suspended
Above a mountain lake
To my right in clearest view
A bald eagle whose wingspan
Was a man's height
His yellow claws 
Lunged and broke 
The surface of the water

Nearby a solitary duck
Floated sheepishly away
As the white crested warrior
Stepped shamelessly
>From his perch in the heavens

Lost my way
Back through Xit'Olacw
Indian town
Didn't appear to belong to them
Up an incline with more snow falling
Huge drifts on the roadsides
And soon every inch of ground was covered
Only dark green spruce
Provided contrast to the white landscape
The land was horridly steep
And I felt to be standing
On a pinnacle with some green grinch
Staring out over Whoville
Snow was now coming down 
In a torrent
Signs reading "avalanche area"
Stood at every bend
Small avalanches 
Of twenty feet or so
Had broken and spilled
Into the roadway in places

My eyes have never seen such country
That was the land 
Before we found it
Before we named it "Possession"
That was the last echo
Of the First Heaven
The magnetic pull
Of Eden

Who can look on that land
And not call it home?
Who can see that place
With human eyes
And not be born again?

That river lay
So deep at the bottom
Of the canyon
That the very fires of hell
Must burn 
Just beneath
It's colored stones

Seton Lake is the greenest eye
Fortressed about
In a ring of giants
Few men will ever see her
The mountains, her brothers
Protect her well
She drinks from their wisdom
The snowy heights
They strive to attain
Pouring down into their sister
Their bride
Purest water is their words
Those who see her drink from her
And they are blessed

Passed the Xaxti'p Reserve lands
I saw another eagle fly 
Across the frozen pond
Of Marble Canyon

The radio preacher
Sauntered in at 820
On the AM band
And our spirits connected
Along the jagged heights 
Of British Columbia
As the joy which God Himself
Took over me
Was the strength that fueled my bones

I had heard a preacher 
On the airwaves in Oregon
Who shared with Thoreau and myself
The conviction that man 
Is not designed to work
9 to 5 every day of the year
Just to have two weeks 
To escape and live simply
To camp and live rustic
On the land

No
Man is designed 
>From the onset to live
More primitive in externals
That he may ascend to sophistication
In his spirit
And commune with God in simplicity
Unhindered with the cares,
Nervous breakdowns and stress related illnesses
That come with the acquirement
Of things

Work hard like the ant
Store up your goods in the summer heat
And in those few months,
You will have all that is needed
To live through winter's darkness
In the presence of God
Attending to higher arts
And worshipful endeavors

Towns became smaller
Looser and fewer
Further apart
And richer in character
They were more diverse
And not reproduced
With chain stores
And pre-made thoughts
A "make it work"
Mentality pervaded the minds
Of the people 
And all things were possible 
For those who believed

I stopped in 100 Mile House
Recorded my travels
At a pub
The waitress marveled
Over my "American money"
I pored over scrapnotes
Trying not to marvel
Over her

We are a people prone to wander
To turn from what is beautiful

I made my bed 
At 108 Mile house

In the cold, Canadian morning
I saw my third eagle
Hanging effortlessly
Over the meandering
Clay banks
Of the Fraser River
I saw three more that afternoon

The tongue is cloven 
Because it is divisive

The heart has many chambers

As I saw the giant redwoods
Being trucked away on their sides
I almost stopped to write
An Ode to the Development of Commerce
But my sarcasm
Can be better directed 
For the defense
Of a nobler tree

Drove mostly through "lowlands"
If such a thing exists in those parts
With little snow
And lakes that were only half frozen
Crossed the Skeena River
At Kitwanga
An old man from Montana 
Suggested the route

O, that harrowing 
Stretch of trail
Wicked Highway 37
Such a macabre beauty
As I reached the coldest
Northernmost summits
I had yet seen
God suggested casually
"You realize that you are insane^Å"
"I had a hunch,"
I responded

Towns now ceased to exist
And the sky was darkened with snowcloud
One may pass
On occasion a 4x4 or log truck
But otherwise all was silent

No snowtires
No chains
No full-size spare
No extra liters of fuel
Only trust
Did I have

And blanketed about me
In bright waves
Of unknown depth
Was my cleansed heart
Welling in snowdrift
And above in snowfall
And I coursed
Over sometimes pavement
Sometimes muck
Ever layered in snow and ice

I melted into the clouds
Into faint glowings
That lasted all night

Morning sky was white
The land a splendid ivory
When I awoke
Finally rolled into Iskut
Which consisted only 
Of the Bear Paw lodge
And a makeshift garage
Built of spruce logs

The Stikine River
Was no more 
Than a glacier
When I passed over her
Dease Lake was locked and frozen
Alongside the Tahltan Nation
And Halfmoon Creek
A meandering circuit of ice

In the rearview mirror
I saw the whiteness
Of the land 
Reflecting
In my black eyes
I thought it was my spirit

Then sang Ben Paisley
"As high as the mountains try
Your love 
Falls
All around me

As far as the east to west
My sins
Are taken from me"

When I passed Jade City
I counted every powdered mile
And then^Åat last
Yukon

I had reached 
The Alaskan Highway
I refueled 
And pushed toward Whitehorse
In a most surreal wilderness
With Latin chants
Ushering me 
Into the mystic heart of God

White Horse is the capital city
Over all of Yukon
Yet she could fit easily
Into the palm 
Of most middle Georgia towns
There were two radio stations
One with Rock N' Roll
Top Petty,
Hole covering Dylan,
Werewolves of London,
A native woman
Running a political ad
In some earth-textured language

I hear sorrow
In every foreign tongue
Beyond the shapes of words
The pitch and intonations
That falsify emotion
Below it all
Lies the hungry groaning
Of separated hearts

Before we fell
I suppose we spoke
With silence
For all was illumined
And communication
Unnecessary for understanding

I had some ribs
In Whitehorse
That were so musky 
They must have been 
Either caribou or moose
Yet so small-
They must have been 
>From a badger or a goat
They were loaded with salt
Yet the odor
Could not be covered
I worked them down
And thanked God for them

To the north
Was Klondike
I went Northwest
Toward Destruction Bay
And further lay Snag

The sun
Was languid but gorgeous
In Yukon
He rolled lazily
In his bed of snowclouds
That filled the sky
>From horizon's end
All day long
Sometimes he would stretch
And yawn
>From behind his covers

The loftiest peaks
In Canada
Lay to the south
In the Wrengels
They included Logan and Elias
I truly mistook them 
At first for clouds
Their summits are incomprehensible
They are Jacob's ladder

I pulled over
I fell to my knees
And I worshipped God

On the high rocks 
There was a wild herd
Of sheep
Over frozen Lake Kluane
A boulder heavier 
Than a Volkswagon
Had fallen from the cliffside
Onto it's surface
The lake didn't even crack

I met a guy at a small 
Hotel bar
Who had just lost his mother
I felt him weeping without tears
He drank away his sorrow 
And I left him there searching

I crossed into Alaska that night
I kissed the cold earth
And slept

I skirted around
No less than thirty 
Apathetic Elk
On a fifteen mile 
Stretch toward Tok
I stepped out of the van
And eased within 
Twenty feet of some
They seemed to be
Wonderfully absurd creatures

A lone gas pump
Stood outside a plyboard shed
In a yard full of hubcaps, 
Car parts, and mud
A generator hummed
>From behind the debris
As the only gasoline
In 60 miles
Lurched slowly from
It's metered dispenser

I saw no one
And except for the generator's rumble
The place may have been abandoned
There was no storefront
No glass window
I cautiously approached
The dilapidated house
And pushed open
The unlocked door

"Hello^Å" I asked
But no one replied
I stepped inside 
To what was someone's home
And simultaneously a garage

Greasy tools and gadgets
Lay on cluttered tables
Beside ordinary household items
It was dark

I walked slowly
Into the next room
There, sitting immobile
In the center
Of piles of magazines,
Alternators, and things 
Untouched for years
Was a stiff old man
In a thick white beard
Who may very well have been dead
For his appearance
His wheelchair covered
In old blankets
That smelled of urine

He watched Teletubbies
Dance across a black and white 
Static screen
Which rolled without tracking
After much consideration
I determined
That this was the only channel
That he received in these parts

I told him the amount-
Ten dollars
Three separate times
Before he understood
And made change for my bill
Not from any register of course
But from a leather wallet 
Which he managed to pull
>From beneath himself
This odd encounter informed me
That I had reached 
The final American frontier

With Dean Martin's 
Christmas album blaring
I dashed through a winter wonderland
Singing tunes like
"Baby it's cold outside"
and "Let it snow"

Anchorage
With it's airstrips of bush planes,
Glass paned museums,
Shopping malls,
And high-dollar office buildings
Seemed uncanny
After mile upon mile
Of ramshackle cabins
And homemade stores

I entered the Kenai Peninsula
As one marching 
To or from war
(Perhaps both)
Down through the collonade
Of towering white pillars 
To my left and right

Pulsing down the hill
And across the road 
Before my eyes
A large grey lynx
Muscles rippling 
Beneath it's sleek coat

Foolishly perhaps
I dismounted the driver's seat
And sought after him
On foot

Like the whisper of a thought
A forgotten dream
He was gone
Cold footprints
Spilling into the forest

On the final stretch 
>From Kenai to Homer
I passed a great moose
Who placidly ate shrubs
Amidsts the whining 
Cacophany of highway traffic
Soon afterward,
Three more eagles flew overhead

The mountains
Across Cook Inlet 
Are not real

They are a tracing 
A pastel sketch
Which God
Left unfinished

A blank canvas 
For the soul which imagines

A man whose spirit does not rest
Unless it constantly
Unfolds and reveals
It's Creator
Like the blossom in spring
Ever bringing forth 
What is shrouded in mystery

That man can sit 
Unaware of coldest 
Winter storm
In such a place
As Homer