To Boldly Go...

We employed the now rather cliché Star Trek trope--"To boldly go where no one has gone before." Some rabid trekkies would correct me, "it should read 'where no MAN has gone before." My riposte: "We grew up in the Next Generation era. So sod off."

We did grow up in the Next Generation era, my brother; friends (like brothers); and sister (also like brother). Perhaps there was a sort of popular culture inclination in the '80s to explore. Apart from Star Trek, all sorts of adventure-travel type films were pervasive in my home--If you were alive then, you can probably think of at least ten. Tolkien's works were also required reading at an early age. Well, not required, but both my mom and dad were avid readers, and their reading interests spilled onto their film and television interests, which in turn spilled onto us, and eventually we began reading books that originally inspired those films in order to fill in the narrative blanks left by director's interpretations of the source material. In other words, the movies and T.V. weren't telling the whole story, and we wanted it. Regardless of the inspiration, Tolkien was there. Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf were my first literary heroes who undertook grand adventures, and walked a lot.

When I was supposed to be digesting the significance of Magellan, Pollo (not just a water sport you know), and all those other rather European boat dudes, I kept thinking about how much more honest walking is. That, and how it really sucked that there weren't any new places to go see because boats, planes, and automobiles greatly expedited exploratory travel. Hell, Columbus never went anywhere no one had been before--apart from having a really bad sense of direction and a bad case of conquistidor syndrome, he just claimed to have seen peoples no one had previously encountered, ignoring the fact that those peoples had discovered themselves just fine and were even on very famliar terms. The cursed rush to map the rest of the world helped to demolish any sense of mystery that we grade-schooler Star Trek/Ground Trek/high adventure afficianados had hope of harboring during the labored hours of 1st grade.

As fate, and an overdeveloped sense of adventure would have it, we land-locked "Goonies" decided that there were vast expanses of hill country to be explored in Finley, Washington. The oppressive asphalt and concrete jungles of the Tri-Cities had yet to penetrate our wind-blasted paradise. We had heard tales of lost treasure, devil worshippers, the ghost of a suicidal Indian, and drunken teenagers, all inhabiting the hills not quite north of Oregon and sort of south of Washington. I was a partial perpetrator of such tales, as I had originally lived back in that vast, untamed expanse that is almost Oregon--apart from our cousin's house, there were no other houses as far as the eye could see, save for the humongous air hangars used to store farm equipment (amongst other treasures), and our trailer. Until my brother was born, the youngest children I had regular interactions with were at least 13 years my senior. Thus, my hill-bound adventures started early.

Upon setting out, my comrades and I thought ourselves as public servants: how famous we would become once the silent springs of Jump-Off-Joe were discovered! We would be no less exalted for demolishing a coven of devil-worshipers and harassing teen-aged drunkards who were probably even smoking pot. The stories concocted by local elders only surved to fuel our wanderlust--if they had said a Dragon lived in those hills, you can be sure that we would have devised some means of defeating it.

There was only ever one rule our parents demmanded that we keep: never stay past dark. While we were invincible so long as the light hours shone on, our powers somehow weakened at the onset of night. At times, we cut it close--too close. More than once rampaging trucks filled to the brim with beer careened past us in our hooded coats and cloaks. We were clever--holes on the sides of the hill afforded us well-concealed hiding places. We knew how to erase our tracks quickly. We knew the lay of the land. We had a Ranger's handbook!

Sun-swept fields, green or beige grasses, earthen smells with sandy sod, and the looming shadow of Jump-Off-Joe pervaded. By the end of the day, our senses were assaulted and our sense of adventure excited, yet sated for the time being as hunger and thirst drew us back to home base. Certainly tomorrow would yield even greater treasures...

Decades later my brother and I are drunk on Tequila playing Yatzee with our mom (well, I am drunk). I am fat, bearded, and careworn in ways that I never thought possible. I am not that old, you must understand, though I have started getting gray in spots--my hair will likely prematurely lose its color. My brother is in similar condition. Only two of us are present, though our group has stayed very close over the years. Once one shot too many goes down, I come to the realization that we never found what we were looking for in those hills. Now they are inacessable, as the railroad in their draconian litigation have barred anyone from venturing too close to their property. Increasingly paranoid farmers threaten lawsuits that are serious rather than the bullets that were not in the old days. I can't even bring myself to drive out in the direction of our expeditions anymore, as the area has become a yuppie-warren. Windmills dot the landscape that we once walked on--filthy tributes to supposedly "green" power sent to California or some other place not here; murderers of birds; murderers of view; murderers of memories that I lie to myself about being able to keep unpolluted. Our last outpost into the unknown is now owned by someone else, as our friend's family were forced out due to financial hardship the year we graduated high school. Then he disappeared into Iraq--we write him still. I think about all of this; I don't know why; as the last bit of "too much tequila" streaks down my throat. Then, somehow, it becomes audible. I don't remember what I said exactly, or how my brother affirmed and expanded on what I was saying, but that doesn't matter--our reasons for those adventures came rushing out of nowhere. Despite all the hair-brained childish reasons for seeking out ghosts, pirates, and whatever other specture spurred us on, there is an ultimate truth here--we need to go.

I think that the cheesy lyrics to the Rankin/Bass animated version of The Hobbit sum up this impetus best:

The greatest adventure is what lies ahead.
Today and tomorrow are yet to be said.
The chances, the changes are all yours to make.
The mold of your life is in your hands to break.

The greatest adventure is there if you're bold.
Let go of the mold that life makes you hold.
To measure the meaning can make you delay;
It's time you stop thinkin' and wasting the day.

The man who's a dreamer and never takes leave
Who thinks of a world that is just make-believe
Will never know passion, will never know pain.
Who sits by the window will one day see rain.

There were a lot of other words that were said that night, in all probability even cheesier than these lyrics. However, my brother and I, in a manner frustrated by the limitations of language (regardless of inebriation level), were trying to explain how it is that we "work." The lyrics above do not really encompass the entire issue--being "useful" also plays a role.

Our last journey through the hills, undertaken sometime when we were all in high-school, was the most significant of the many, many quests we had undertaken over the years. Some four or five of us got a really bad feeling that day. Whatever the reason, something told us that this would be our last march together, and something else suggested that we were actually needed this time. Though all of us were in our late teens, we still found the possibility of having a reason to go out into the hills intoxicating. As children, we could not isolate the reason or even make audible the need to explore--it was a silent understanding, until that tequila night. We set out early in the day (by our standards): noon I think. Despite how savvy we should have been, none of us bothered bringing anything for food or much to say about water either. Those hills, by the way, are parched dry, unless of course there is a silent spring to be found still.

The day wore on and we came to the base of a hill called "Jump-Off-Joe", a landmark that none of us ever dared cross. It takes several hours to climb to that point--we went further than we ever had that day. Sitting upon the ground at the base, the sun began to creep west over the Rattle Snake Mountains; it was still taboo to remain after dark, even after all these years. Our throats were parched and we were all hungry, sure signs that it was indeed time to turn back. However, some of us (myself included) wanted to venture further up the hill: if we could get to the summit, then there would be little else we could hope to accomplish in Finley, save for exploring the deep ranges where I used to live. As we deliberated, someone noticed a trail of smoke up to the south behind the apex. After a few minutes, the trail transformed into ghastly plumes. As long-time residents, everyone knew what that meant--grass fire. Such fires are very common in Finley, and incidentally, very dangerous. Many skilled firefighters have been overwhelmed by the fast-spreading flames; assailed, encircelled, and trapped. For most of us, such a bad omen signalled that we should indeed retreat as quickly as possible. Though it was unlikely that the fire would reach us for a long while, the risk seemed unecessary. Yet still, something seemed very necessary about taking this risk. Something told all of us that we needed to explore past the summit, to make the journey and see what was burning.

Days later we discovered (via newspaper) that our trail of smoke was emanating from a crashed helicopter. The pilot survived, but was so injured that he was unable to move from the wreckage. Though he was found alive, he was in poor condition, and his recovery process was slower than it should have been--slower because we didn't take up the one quest in that we would have served some purpose. Our final journey was an abysmal failure, and we know it.

I know it. We were sensible, careful, prudent, and very, very grown-up. I say "grown-up" because we were more worried about worrying other people and eating than sharing in grand adventure. As children, we at least would have seriously reported the smoke, rather than our glib, taciturn contribution we provided as young adults, despite our gut feelings.

Yet none of it was ever about accomplishing anything specific--that is why our goals were so fantastical and ultimately why we caved in at the prospect of serving a true purpose: either we were too afraid of being disappointed once again, or even more afraid that we would actually be needed.

I have taken walks since then in hills unknown to me. One was on a retreat, where my brother and I were chastised for "trail-blazing" (i.e. not walking on the proscribed path, despite knowing how not to disturb flora and fauna). Thus, we decided to venture on ahead, to hide in the hills, to show those bastards that we knew where we were even though we had never been there before. Our president (this was a student government thing) convinced us that the looming thunder-storm was not so condusive to expansive travel: he had found us at the furthest edge of a plateau leanding downward, as we left signals for him that we knew the rest of those dolts would never catch. We even almost convinced him to come with us; I could see the glint in his eyes. "It will only be five hours out, and five back. Easy money." Then there was really no purpose other than to show that we had the constitution to undertake such a trip, to prove to ourselves that we could have found that pilot if we had just acted. After all, "to measure the meaning can make you delay."

Generally speaking, being sensible is a good idea. Jumping into too many things impulsively can lead to very poor outcomes--most of us have made those types of decisions. Nothing done can really be undone. On the other hand, nothing done means just that: nothing done. Nothing ventured, nothing ventured. Here I yet again struggle to put into words the significance of those journies. Looking back on it, as children we were desperate to replicate something "authentic" in terms of adventuring. Even those European boat dudes were legit in that respect, while we never gave ourselves any credit likewise. Now, it seems to me that everything we did then was in the spirit of adventure in the purest form it ever could be--we lacked the understanding that what we were doing was ludicrous, thereby affording it an authenticity unparalleled by any administrative designation we would have loved back then. In having no one's sanction, we truly were explorers in the sense that we sought to expand our understanding and sense of the world around us without a compulsory impetus. We saw roads everywhere. For whatever reason, those roads called out to us. In a way, they still do.

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.
Roads go ever ever on
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green
And trees and hills they long have known.

In the film rendition, as the above song plays, Bilbo notes "There are moments which can change a person for all time...I suddenly wondered if I would ever see my snug hobbit hole again. I wondered if I actually wanted to." Though I generally am fond of the food and drink that "hobbit holes" provide, I must say that I can understand Bilbo's sentiment. During his walkabout, though more directed and focused with a clear beginning and end, Bilbo wanted that freedom to do as my friends and I did as children. The sentiment even makes sense for Tolkien biographically--he harbored many of the same gripes I do about changing landscapes and industrialization in his home. Worse still, nearly all of his childhood friends were killed in the trenches--both at least partial parallells to my own origins for similar feelings now, an eerie aside considering that I knew very little about Tolkien biography up until a few years ago. Back then we were caught up on a Tolkienesque purpose, everything had to be a quest--that desire still stands after a fashion. On the other hand, I at least partially understand now why I wake up in the middle of the night and feel like driving someplace not here. I wonder if that same impetus, at least in part, drove on the Romantics to also go there--Someplace not home.