Sandman's Journal

Part 1:
Dad picked up Froseph at the Amtrak station in Stanley two days ago. What is a Froseph? Webster's defines one thusly: 1. a dark rainbow, 2. an avalanche of cheer, 3. potential blood beneath the tractor. I'll add a supplemental description: a Froseph is a free-thinking anarchist scavenger with cherubic features and long dreadlocks.

Indeed, my friend Froseph makes your average citizen do a double-take. When Mom took him to the Buckskin Bar for pizza, they were greeted with a friendly but gender-inaccurate Western welcome: "Take a seat, ladies!" Froseph's attire consists of the traditional black anarchist garb plus his own signature pink scarf. He was something perhaps never seen in person by Dunn County eyes. It was as if Chief Sitting Bull's most flamboyant son had nonchalantly walked into General Sully's Army camp prior to battle and helped himself to the slushie machine.

Part 2:
Froseph and I are hurtling west at at 35 miles per hour along icy I-90 like two Jedi pilots navigating through starry snow. We are following behind a snowplow, because the left lane is filled with five inches of powder. We haven't even begun our ascent of Lookout Pass and the roads are as bad as Bryan Adams (Froseph's metaphor, not mine). We are debating whether to pass the plow. The good thing is that at this speed we probably won't get into a serious wreck if we slide off the highway. The bad thing is that we're in a huge hurry to catch the 6:30 ferry out of Anacortes tonight.

Parts 3 & 4:
Days are blurring. Two days ago on my birthday I woke up in Vancouver, British Columbia (auspiciously the city of my birth), and unloaded 10,000 pounds of live fish.

Shawn, my boss/co-driver, recently confided to me that he has trucked over five million miles in his 25-year career. That equates to driving to the moon and back 10 times! By the time I reach Orcas Island tonight, I'll have traveled 5,000 miles in five days.