The summer of 2007 I decided to embark upon an ill-advised adventure. My plan was to buy a motorcycle and take off on my own to see the country. I knew that I needed a decent amount of preparation if I was going to be successful. More than anything I needed money, a resource that I had balefully little of. I formulated a very simple plan: I would work my ass off all summer. I started pulling about sixty hours per week between two jobs with a goal of saving up five thousand dollars. I figured I could get a used bike for a grand, pick up the rest of the supplies I needed for about the same, maybe drop a few hundred on motorcycle lessons because I didn’t want to break my neck just fifty feet from my house, and I’d still have a couple thousand for the trip itself. That would be more than enough for me to hit the road for a few months when the next summer rolled around.

 

As the season drew to a close, imagine my shock when I had actually come up with all the money. My bank account had five thousand and change, enough to get me through the next year while working around my school schedule, so I kept forwarding my plan. I learned to ride and found what seemed like a decent bike online. Trouble was, once the dust had settled and the title was in my name, the damn thing didn’t run anymore. I’m not sure if it had to do with me putting it down on some ice just hours after I bought it, or if it was a lemon to begin with. I don’t know because I didn’t put any effort into diagnosing the problem. I let the bike rust away in a storage unit all winter and spring. When the next summer rolled around I watched my grand solo adventure pass me by.

 

So why am I telling you all this? Is that what this book is about? An obituary of my failed endeavors? Somewhat. It's more than that though. This is a book of stories. What does that mean exactly? Well, let me try to explain.

 

Throughout college I worked at the bowling alley on campus. I usually pulled the night shift because I had too many classes to work during the day. That meant I would typically be there from about 5:00 PM until sometime around midnight. I was working that shift one night of my freshman year when Eddie, Sheila, Logan, Darien, and I decided we’d go four-wheeling after we'd all clocked out. Why? Because we were dumb children with too much freedom. Somehow we thought that 12:30 AM on a moonless evening would be the ideal time to start clawing our way through terrain that placed heavy demands on our ability to see what was in front of us. In spite of the empirical stupidity of our decision, we had made it and by God we would follow through on it. So as midnight rolled around we closed up shop, stole about twelve Hershey bars from the candy stock so that we’d have s’mores materials, and hit the road.

 

Back in those days I was driving an Isuzu Trooper lovingly dubbed The Icebox, owing to the fact that it was a white box lacking any notion of aerodynamic design. I had taken it into the mountains with my coworkers once or twice before, so I wasn’t too concerned about the physical toll on it. Still though, trying to navigate steep terrain, narrow gaps in trees, and ill placed rocks strewn about the path with nothing but the leader’s headlights and a few handheld lanterns made for even slower going than usual. It wasn’t until about 3:00 AM that we decided to make camp in a little clearing, and it wasn’t until dawn broke a few hours later that we noticed the sign placed not twenty feet from us that read, quite plainly, “NO CAMPING.”

 

Along with that sign, the early morning light revealed Eddie, Logan, and myself huddled around a fire pit collectively pondering what to make of the day. Being young men of a mountainous persuasion, we decided the best thing would be to venture out for a hike. We let Darien and Sheila continue their slumber as we wandered down the nearest path. It wound through the hills and, though it was getting late in the spring, we soon found an expansive slope covered in the remnants of that winter’s snow. It was just off the trail to our left and we could have easily followed the well-worn path away from there, but dammit we had to conquer the slope to prove that we were undaunted by any conditions. Keep in mind though, this wasn't the soft, fluffy snow you'd find in January. No, this was the grizzled snow that had held on for months. The stuff with a rough crust on top that scraped up your ankles and grainy bits underneath that soaked through your shoes. The stuff that made you wish summer would get here already so that it would all melt away at last.

 

We began our conquest of the hill, but we quickly found that the incline was too steep to simply hike. We’d get maybe ten feet up the hundred foot slope then slide back down to the bottom. Fortunately though, we were carrying six knives between the three of us. We took one in each hand and began assaulting the slope, carving out footholds to support our weight, stabbing into the snow ahead of us to stabilize our ascent. It was tough work, and by the time we were halfway up the slope I was damn well ready to be done. That’s likely why I got sloppy and began shifting my weight on a step before I had gotten enough purchase in my next knifehold. In that single moment everything gave way.

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My foot scraped out of the hold, my knife sliced a deep gouge in the snow but didn’t take, and I began sliding helplessly down the slope. I did my best to stab the snow as I slid, hoping desperately to be able to stop my descent, but it was to no avail. I slowed just enough to plan how to cushion myself when I hit the bottom, but there was nothing else I could do.

 

When I finally reached the base, I got up, dusted myself off, and realized the full effect of what had happened. By sliding all the way down the same trail I had gone up I had erased every single foothold I had carved for myself. I would have to start all over again. So that’s what I did. This time I had the diligence to ensure I did everything right. Eventually, I arrived at the top of the slope, maybe ten minutes after Eddie and Logan, where we discovered we were actually near the summit of a very low peak. I could see it rising in front of us, but it was at such an angle that all I could see behind it was the sky. That couldn’t be it though. We were in the Rocky Mountains after all, there had to be more beyond this peak. So I set out to find what there was.

 

The terrain up there was more conducive to hiking. It was angled such that it received direct sunlight most of the day, so the snow had pretty much all cleared. The only obstacles were small shrubs and low grass. Even so, Eddie and Logan were worn out from driving all night and fighting their way up the slope, so they decided to call it quits where we were. To be honest, I wanted to as well, but I had to know. I set out on my own, trudging up the last thousand feet until I finally reached the top. And what did I find once I got there?

 

Another mountain looming in the distance.

 

See, when we set out to climb a mountain, it doesn't really matter whether we succeed or fail. There’s always another mountain after that one, and another after that, and another, and another. And every time we try to climb one we learn, we grow, and we come back with another story to tell.

 

So these are my stories. The stories of my triumphs and of my defeats. Of the road, and of my journey, and of my life.

 

Please enjoy.