If you’ve been a fan of our travels and haven’t checked out the mag, I encourage you to do so now! We just dropped an issue for Bisbee, Arizona where we not only explore that unique little town (and I don’t use unique lightly, it’s truly one of a kind) but also talk with traveling bands Shovels & Rope and Hymn for Her, get our coding fingers dirty with a complete walk thru of how to create your own travel blog, and of course, loads more.

After you’ve had a go through the magazine, dive into our Kickstarter project. We’ve got one of my trademark videos up there packed full of great tunes (again, thanks to Shovels & Rope!) and all the info you’ll need.

The Quick and Dirty on Kickstarter

Kickstarter is a website where folks like us who’ve got a project—whether it be making a new album, doing a public mural, or publishing a magazine—can try and raise funds for the project. Those funds are raised by folks like you, who believe in the project and want to see it succeed. You can back us with $5, $500 or $5000 (or any amount you want) and in exchange you not only get to see Wand’rly keep kicking ass all over this country and writing about it, but you also get access to some cool rewards, like t-shirts, our handmade minimalist wallet, access to exclusive to backers apps and social network stuff for travelers, all types of goodies!

But we’ve only got 30 29 days left to raise the full amount, so please, head over there right now and check it out!

Even if you don’t want to or can’t back us, we’d be appreciate of the support that sharing the project on Twitter or Kickstarter will do for us. We’ve even built in these handy links here to make it easy for you!

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Every small town, sparsely dotted along highways like silver hairs on a young soldier and free of the clutter of strip mall America, is a welcome break from full throttle climbs and wheel wobbling downhills. Walmart, Subway, Days Inn, McDonalds, gas stations that take credit cards; these are invisible to me now, the mountain people won’t tolerate them and the desert is too empty to support them.

Long mullets fly from passing Harleys, crotch rocketeers whiz by like spacemen and the vast majority of bikers these days, the retired couple, all extending hands to signal a unity of two wheeled respect. I’m no speed demon and the baby blue wrapped around this 150cc engine neither screams trouble nor tough, but the tent and pack on my rack signal my long haul, that this is no joy ride to the lake, but an adventure, and as epic, solo and free as I’ve ever undertaken.

My stomach is satisfied on one meal a day, I drink only water and smoke countless cigarettes that can never kill me. Evenings outside of the clutchy grip of cell towers leave me reading paper books, sewing patched holes in my clothes and studying this atlas until there’s nothing left to do but situps to pass the remaining midnight hours.

There is nothing between me and heaven but a helmet and my thoughts, ample hours of the day to work through what is and what might have been, how I’ll live outside of time and all the weights of land ownership, fiscal responsibility and the trappings of politics, religion and small talk about the unstoppable weather. My eyes are filled with canyon vistas, countless antique cars trashed in personal junkyards and the olive green brush of desert flats. They dart from pothole to mirrors to treeline, cautious of split second danger, wide eyed in the wind to suck in all of the exhilaration of motorized movement sans the big protective boxes of cars and rigs and RVs.

On these back roads all the locals, rare a stranger do they see, wave or nod, touring bicyclists pant heavy up hills and barking dogs defend their homelands. The tank runs dry, I reserve tank it to the next station, barely making it. Three Mexican fellows, each twenty years older than the next, ask me about speed, distance, clutch works, miles per gallon, smile at all my replies and intermittently exchange Spanish with one another.

There is no disappointment on this road, nothing begging for attention, no criticism. The mountains don’t cry out, look at me!, anymore than they deserve to be, the valleys don’t cast blame for feeling so low. GPS and cable television, police officers, and the weight of satisfying the society around me are all irrelevant.

I head home, laughing at the idea. THIS is my home, wherever I am and though our transient life gave way to sedentary, desperately clutching at a place to fill the soil with roots, I can’t deny that only in the uncertainty of unhindered, uncompromised motion do I truly feel like a human being. Not merely a person, as we as people seem to be puzzle pieces seeking out our correct place in the bigger picture, rubix cubes looking to shuffle all around until we match up our sides, all too often shuffled again by another color wanting to do the same. No, I feel the “being” in human being. These 80 short years or so we have to make every ounce count, to show the universe thanks for making us as close to gods as they come in this solar system, until we’re devoured again back into the big cycle to become trees and soil and worm food, just as we were before.

My hotel morning room is smokey, my pack nearly empty, and the sun is beating out its desert welcome cry. Today is my most desolate of stretches and the chances of that golden oldie of a sun being my only companion for 150 miles is good, and well and good with me.

The train took it’s time, as it always does, I seated next to an older blonde fellow Pennsylvanian woman all too willing to impart her life’s story on my half-listening ears. Woe was her, a hard life of too strict parents, car accidents, abusive spouses, and prescription drug addictions. Her first husband, a good man by her account, had been a rodeo cowboy, they and their two children once traveled Wyoming through Arizona the rodeo circuit, until a car accident killed him and their daughter, forcing the woman to return East with her son. She nearly cried, 20 years later, as she told me how he was the love of her life, how they’d expected to travel and live together forever. Most recently, a stroke had left her unable to ride her cherished motorcycle and she now hobbled on a cain, massive pillbox in one hand, defeat in her eyes. I listened to every story, all 45 years or so of her life. She was an exaggerator, not quite a liar except for those she’d concocted to deal with her own addictions. We fell asleep in our chairs and I was gone before the morning could wake her.

There are few more satisfying situations in life than stepping off a train in the Austin, Texas early morning, a tent and a few spare clothes strapped to your back and the sound of the lighter as it sparks the tobacco rolled into your lips. I had no hotels lined up, and very little communication with friends in the area, the insecurity, uncertainty of it all as exhilarating as any acid trip. But without the hippie freakouts, of course.

Weekends of six packs with new acquaintances, dinners with oldest or dearest friends, cigarettes shared over late night conversations about everything but religion and politics or easy casual dinners about nothing but the two would ensue. After long months on the road, after meeting and exploring and readjusting, it’s immensely desirable to kick up your boots in the comfort of very easy conversation, familiarity the warm summer rain, the hot cup of cocoa on Christmas Eve.

This morning I climb 10,000 feet or so in the belly of a massive metal bird, bound for Denver where I’ll sleep under the Rocky Mountain stars and begin a thousand mile trip to my desert home on the back of a baby blue vintage scooter. This will seemingly be the end of an era for me and mine as we’ve decided to settle down the rambling on in favor of a simple life under the Texas wilderness sun. There’s an overshadowing sadness about that, but nostalgia–like it’s sister, longing– is best served in small doses and so I’ll do my best to make a motion of the moment as we hover over these clouds, into those mountains. Movement is natural, in our family’s blood, so to wish for it to come is as ridiculous as a tornado wishing it could spin or the clouds wishing they could rain.

As we parked the RV, a middle aged man in an Arizona Cardinals hat and sporting Olympic style calves was riding his bike uphill and under this desert blaze, in full bicycle glory. When we finally got into Lou’s, he was already seated and enjoying an iced tea (served out of a Mason jar, no less), watching infomercials on a TV older than Olivia. A much older man sat at the table across from him, shorts and socks pulled up to his knees, his gobbler of a neck hanging down to his striped blue and white polo shirt, hunch backed and coke bottles for glasses, reading the weekend paper.

60 year old Coca Cola and train memorabilia, a juke box that could outwit the Fonz, and two veggie omelettes would get us through the morning, before it came time to explore this rusty old village.

The night prior, dear friends, was as hard as any for coach passengers aboard train number 4, also known as the Southwest Chief. In the first coach car trailing the observation lounge, two large and loud Latino women were boisterous and unruly, the threat of random hilarious annoying children speak loomed long between but full on throughout the night, backed by the twisting turmoil of trying to fit 5’8″ of human being into two foot and a half wide, broken seats. Not a single stop from Los Angeles through Flagstaff yielded enough time for the conductor ladies — one thin and sprite, the other thick as molasses — to allow us to leave the train even long enough for just that first drag of midnight nicotine.

Olivia gave at it with her greatest of valour, carving a niche for herself by somehow straddling two swiveling lounge chairs and an end table, doused in light some slow motion strobe effect there, laying under the massive glass windows of the observation lounge, streetlights beaconing in to her every eye twitch or so.

Slowly and ever so subtly it came over the train, then, a glow so beautiful to the restless, trained and weary that you might not even see it if you weren’t so desperately begging for it all through the hours so indeterminably late and early, as we were. Purple, simple sunrise. I pulled back the window blinds as Olivia appeared, head brought to a sleepy rest on my rightmost shoulder. We watched the sun go from just hinting at itself over the Earth’s long curve to it cresting omelet egg-like to its current position of high in the 7:40 am sky, where — after a heartily well earned and yearned for breakfast — Olivia has fallen to sleep atop my hoodie, arms crossed to hold the rising morning heat in her belly, hat pulled down to nighten the early day.

It’ll be four good, good days in Flagstaff, well deserved after four long, solid days of trainery.

Alas, we had two hours to kill between train transfers and I couldn’t waste an opportunity to explore America’s second largest city. Union Station, which houses LA’s Amtrak and several connecting public transit options, is a grand old Spanish-tiled villa of a building centrally located near what seemed to be the city center (given that city hall was just around the corner), and so we dipped into the squelch of sun and summer to find what we would. And find we did, the area immediately surrounding Union Station was an eclectic mix of skyscrapers, a downtown mall, a Mexican plaza and Little Tokyo.

Olvera Street is basically a park surrounded by pedestrian-only brick sidewalks, each lined with tiny wooden cart shops doling out Mexican foods of all types, and every Latino themed knick knack one could imagine: tiny rustic wooden guitars you can have your name painted onto for $10, shirts with slogans like “GI Jose, a Real Mexican Hero”, and various carved animals, cacti, and sombreros of a painted wooden nature. Oh, and don’t forget the massive American flags for sale, because no store would be complete without 20 square feet of stars and stripes.

A few blocks down, in Little Tokyo, a middle aged Japanese man plays his saxaphone next to a wishing well, surrounded by txt messaging teens in skinny jeans, every sushi and sake variety you could want (including a store named Frying Fish, the Japanese apparently willing to make a good joke at their own expense) and plenty of stores selling Hello Kitty chop sticks, Doko kimonos, and Super Mario cell phone cases.

This little jaunt through LA has me optimistic about any returns to City of Angels, though no immediate plans to rush back are in the works.

When riding Amtrak short distances, you can expect the ride to be fast and comfortable. All trains have a bar, complete with booze and snacks, and larger trains even have a nicer dining car. Bathrooms exist, but they’re kind of difficult to use as the faucets barely excrete any water and you’re being shaken all over the room as the train sways. And, of course, remember that the little kid in there before you was doing the same.

Beers and snacks are expensive; the competition while trapped on a rolling steel cage isn’t exactly fierce. Many cars have plugs, so you can charge your phone, watch a movie on your laptop or watch the baby in front of you learn the first rule of electricity: don’t lick it.

For longer trips, overnighters, you can rent a room. There are a few types of rooms, but I’ve only ever had the small “roomette” which is basically two chairs that recline into one another to form a bed, and a dropdown celing to complete the top bunk. You get free water, a guy comes around a makes your bed and checks if you want any coffee (also free), and meals ate included with the price of the room. Which is the worst part–Amtrak rooms seem to simply double your fare, and it’s not exactly cheap to ride rails. When it comes to cost, it’s as much or more than flying and way more time consuming, which is why the extra cost for a room appeals to enough people that they often sell out; spend a night sleeping in a chair with a pack of rabid teenagers in front of you and a baby banshee behind you and double your fare for a private room starts to sound really fair.

Aside from the bathrooms, the trains are clean, usually all too well air conditioned and no smoking is allowed on trains. Fear not, though, the conductor will let you know which stops it’s okay to pop off for a smoke and they’re generally frequent enough that you won’t get too fitty, moreso in the east as opposed to the Midwest and Pacific Northwest.

So trains are slow, more expensive than cars or planes, and occassionally uncomfortable overnight, but if you’re the travel loving type, they’re the best way to get around on a motorized vehicle. You can sit back in an all glass observation lounge, sip on a Sam Adams and watch the world go by. Trains are great for downtime, to gather your thoughts, meet new people (instant common ground, you’re both trainskis), and unlike the wretched Interstate, actually get to see the country; trains run through mountain valleys, along great lakes, and through big cities and small towns alike. Geography in motion.

So if you’ve never been and can handle a little relaxation but little actual sleep, get yourself a ticket and ride!

But that’s the last few weeks and I’ve got two days and a train’s worth of northern California, possibly the Redwoods, and gorgeous Oregon ahead before my glorious rendezvous with my lady in waiting.

Before the bus pulls out, a kid walks by with a Heinz shirt, boldly displaying the PA keystone and reading “I put ketchup in my ketchup”, reminding me of my roots and that it’s been quite a long while since I’ve seen Tristan.

Various photos from our travels on the final day of our cross-country jaunt. We took these traveling through Colorado, Utah and Nevada. Phil took the majority of them, by the way, with his wonderful real deal camera (unlike my puny little digital that I fits in my back pocket and has been in every cave, sandstorm and bar fight I’ve seen over the past 4 years – thanks babe!)

They’re mostly your standard “from shotgun, through the window” type of photos, but some beauties nonetheless.