Off Track, The Audiobook

On the final evening of my journey, from a placid camping spot in the heart of California wine country, I plan desperately for my return trip to Chicago and draw conclusions about my nemesis, the BFE.

It is my belief that every human being has a natural rhythm, a pace at which he prefers to move. For me, that natural rhythm is the chorus of the 1989 Cher song, If I Could Turn Back Time. On the summer solstice, the longest day of the year, I gain an extra hour crossing from the Mountain to Pacific time zone. As I do so, I struggle against the synthesized internal drum beat that tells me to “just keep moving," and I take requests for the soundtrack of my life from the people I've met on my trip.

Four days of isolation take their toll on my determination. Between Yellowstone National Park and the Oregon border, the emptiness and brutality of the remaining terrain nearly turn me against the values guiding my trip. My car begins to experience significant mechanical problems, and I go days at a time without finding anything I’m allowed to eat. Without a source of clean vegetable oil, I begin filtering used KFC deep fryer oil using filter bags I hang from my car’s trunk. As I filter the last of this oil on the Oregon border, a goat leaps a fence and frightens me into my car, summarizing in the process the combative relationship between Man and Nature I’ve uncovered during my time since Chicago.

Vegetable oil attracts bears. I’m well aware of this fact as I lie in a cold tent at Yellowstone National Park, smelling like my unconventional fuel, reflecting on the trip so far and owning up to a myriad of failures. I revisit three broken rules, including time spent on I-90. I ask myself whether I’ve failed or the country has failed me. The question seems facetious at first, but by the time two strangers help me jumpstart my car in the morning, I’m seriously wondering if traveling by the six rules I’ve chosen is possible at all in 2011.

Stands-And-Looks-Back, whose Wasicu name is Jim, finds me in Wood, SD, and talks to me through his car window for over an hour. The subject matter feels eerily familiar and prophetic at once as he espouses on alcohol abuse, isolation, greed, and the connections among the three. I don’t ask him about the long scar running down his left arm from elbow to pinkie. That night, I camp at an idyllic oasis in northeastern Wyoming, where I witness the destruction of family.

From its thoughtless lack of bathrooms to its unrestrained wildlife, South Dakota does everything it can to kill me—and then it actually comes close. Trapped in a brutal midwestern storm on the side of rural Highway 44, I’m confronted with my dispensability in the great ambivalent cycle of life and death. I survive, but with a newfound sense of vulnerability in my little metal Jetta.

A quick word from our sponsor as we enter the second half of the audiobook.

After my reenergizing weekend in Wooster, I drive north to meet another college friend, Rob, who lives in a considerably less-thriving place. Rob takes me on a depressing tour of Detroit, including the tragically unmaintained “Central Park of Detroit,” Belle Isle. After leaving Rob and refueling in Chicago, I spend the night on the northern Mississippi in the town of Winona, MN. There at the northern tip of America’s jugular vein, I ponder the coming days before entering one of the least populated expanses of the country--one in which I have no friends, no experience, and only one source of vegetable oil.

The womb is an incredibly noisy place, so much so that newborns aren’t accustomed to silence until several months after birth. At Cherry Springs State Park, a field in the remotest regions of the Pennsylvania mountains, I wonder if I’m taking longer than the average baby to adjust to the outside world. Determined to move in contrast to the “BFE,” I schedule myself for three days at the park; upon arriving, I’m immediately overwhelmed by the uncommon lack of structure and noise. Off Track’s sixth essay details this 60-hour period of isolation during which I struggle to truly embrace the values I claim to champion.

There is hope for mankind in Wooster, OH, where two of my best friends from college join me in my local-only vows; as it turns out, their support is only the beginning of the mighty forces that come to my aid. During the second weekend of my trip, I’m offered a much-needed dose of optimism as I’m introduced to a thriving local-only grocery store called Local Roots, to a bakery that’s survived 34 years of recession and corporate flight, and to the community convictions of the Amish Heritage Site.

Jeff Szymanski is an ex-military man gone veggie-burning blueberry farmer who lives near Olean, New York. I found him on the internet, and he offered to fill up my “veg” tank without asking anything in return—except that I meet him early in the morning, fourteen hours after I received his message. Surrendering an opportunity to try real buffalo wings, I drive south, spending the night in Alleghany State Park and meeting Jeff around 9 AM. While he fills up my tank, I learn about his time in the military, his decision to home school his children, and the remarkable ways in which his community has become his family. He directs me to a local farm stand, then to a local restaurant called Red’s and Trudy’s, whose owner doesn’t know where the meat he serves comes from. I continue to struggle with the meaning of my fourth rule (my vow to eat only local food) as I gobble a loose meat hamburger of mysterious origin under a placard that reads, “A man’s gotta believe in somethin’. I believe I’ll go fishin’.”

Watertown, New York was once known as “The Great American City.” Now, its paper industry is collapsing, its economy is dependent on the military, and everything except its one antique store is closed on Sunday. I don’t stay long, opting instead for the shores of Lake Ontario, where I meet a kind gnomish man who offers to feed me dinner. While we eat potato salad and hot dogs, we find common ground on the subjects of bird watching, camping, and the taste of a fresh local tomato (versus one imported from Mexico). I then discover, as two dozen friends and family arrive, that my host is a fundamentalist Christian farmer, and that what I’ve been invited to is his fortieth wedding anniversary. Nervous at first, I’m quickly drawn into conversation with Mark, a member of the Bible community who offers me the slogan, “conviction over convenience.” I begin to draw connections between the corporate abandonment of Watertown and the celebration of commitment and community that surrounds me on the shores of Lake Ontario.

After leaving the familiar womb of New England, I travel through eastern New York and up into the Adirondacks, over 2.5 million acres of which are designated in the state constitution as “forever wild.” I stay the night with John and Anne Fitch, who over 30 years have created a paradise for themselves on the shores of Saranac Lake. They show me how they built their own home, guest home, dock, boat house, and trolley (which runs from their home to their boat house). They tell me the story of Martha Reben, who came to Saranac Lake a dying tuberculosis patient and emerged a healthy adult, which leads into a valuable conversation about the relationship between Man, his fears, and his origins. That night, as I attempt to fall asleep in a guest house that feels too vulnerable for my liking, I wrestle with my own fears and fantasies in the face of the naked outdoors.

Vermont is the perfect starter state for someone taking on the BFE*. There are self-described radicals willing to provide lengthy interviews - and limitless free vegetable oil. There are friends and organic farms. There is natural beauty, curbside compost pick-up, and single-payer health care. There are no billboards. So why is this place being so hard on me? *Bigger, Faster, Easier

A car full of stuff, a mind full of ambition, and three hours of planning: the perfect foundation for a trip! The first essay (of fourteen) from OFF TRACK sets the foundation for my vegetable-oil powered trip across the country without fast food, interstates, chain stores, hotels, or credit cards.