We had decided to leave the gear at Skip's overnight to ease security concerns, to return the next day around noon to load up and hit the road for Denver--about a 24-hour drive. It was definitely starting to chill off at night, and Jesse's bare legs were getting cold with the scant protection of his denim travel shorts. So it was off to the Dollar store across the street from Skip's as the rest of us waited, smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit. I took the opportunity to throw sixty bucks in an envelope and run over to a nearby mailbox and drop it in the slot to Dede. It was getting close to end tour time, and I figured any money sent from here on out would probably not beat me home, so I decided to just hang onto the rest of my meager earnings.

Jesse came back from the Dollar store with his purchase--some light blue denim jeans, but decided he'd better try them on before we left, so he ducked into Skip's for the verdict. Well, er, due to his extended girth achieved over the past several months of good home cookin', he had to trek back to the store to exchange the jeans for the next waist size up.

The next stop was the local pawn shop--a nearly irresistible destination for touring musicians. I find it a bit depressing to walk into a place like that and see past musicians' broken dreams hanging on the wall with tough-talking price tags on them, with everyone knowing full well the pawn broker bought the hapless hopes for a fraction of their value. It has the aura of opportunistic scavenging to me, especially knowing the agonizing care that often went into the original purchase of that reissue Strat, or that tarnished cymbal, or that brand new effects box. Nonetheless, here we were gazing and gawking without any intention of buying anything... Terry wanted to find out how much he could get for a gold chain he had, with the hopes--if the price was right--of picking up a different one. The pawn broker, a rotund, greying slick-haired used-car talkin' kind of fellow, failed to impress Terry with his offer. Terry said, "He didn't talk right." And that was the end of the deal.

As we approached the Indiana-Illinois state line, we spied billboards touting the "largest music store in the world," Woodwind Brasswind in South Bend, Indiana. I needed sticks bad, and was getting frustrated trying to find the nylon 3A's. No one seemed to carry them except in Portland. I checked FIVE stores on this tour in major cities, and none of them carried that particular size. Now in Portland, four music stores carry them. What's up with that? Anywho, I figured here was my chance to get some 3AN's. Jesse needed strings and a new guitar cord, so it was decided to stop by this music superstore. It was nearby the freeway, although we had to go through a maze of industrial complexes to get to it. It looked like about a 150,000 sq. ft. warehouse, with a fancy pond in front sporting giant brass instruments mounted in the middle. The entrance was a pretentious arching modern sculptured logo about three stories high. We walked in and I went right over to the drum section. No 3AN's! Geez. I went up to the catalog counter and looked in their extensive catalog. They had 3AN's in OAK, but I wanted HICKORY. Finally, a clerk opted to help me, but it took a five-minute computer search to find 3AN's that were in stock--they were not in the catalog. I wanted ProMarks, but I settled for Zildjian, since that's all they had. The price was a buck under what they are in Portland, so I was happy. I bought three pair. After my purchase, while waiting for Jesse to get his stuff, I scouted the store, and decided to pull out the digicam for some snapshots. I was trying to get a good angle, and was backing up toward the security guard's station. "Hey, sir! No cameras. No pictures." I had already snapped three or four, and suddenly thought he was going to confiscate my camera. "Oh, sorry," I humbled myself, "I didn't see the signs. I'm not from around here. Orygone..." The guard seemed content with my apology, but kept an eagle eye on me the entire remaining time I was in the store...

By dawn we were about two-thirds there, and hungry, so we took a breakfast break. The waitress had two other tables to wait on besides ours and you would have thought she was getting slammed. Pouty and exasperated, I thought she was going to stress out when we asked her to do separate checks. The food was institutional grade, but prepared thoughtfully, and I was satisfied. I had been wishing the whole trip that I was better able to sleep in the van, but the best I could do is doze for a few minutes. Kenny, on the extreme other hand, could sleep deeply, snoring to beat the band (literally), while sitting up. He said that with his apnea, he did his best sleeping upright. Even with my turn to lie down on the back seat, I couldn't really get to sleep, so I just gave up, aiming to make up sleep time at the motels.

We made it to Denver by about 9:30 a.m.--about 22 hours after leaving Angola--crashing at a Motel 6 75 feet from I-95 in eastside Wheat Ridge area of Denver. I immediately fell into deep sleep until around 3 p.m., waking up refreshed and ready to do some exploring. After snagging a cold cut sandwich at Subway and a big cup of coffee at the next-door 7-11 in hand, I strolled off down a side street, believing I had spotted a pond or lake out of the side of my eye. Sure enough, I shortly arrived at the Jack R. Tomlinson Park, sporting a beautiful small lake framed with willows and attended by large flocks of geese, who were grazing and honking unafraid of the occasional human passerby. Now this was more like it. I picked a scenic picnic table overlooking the pastoral scene and relaxed. I realized how over-urbanized I'd become. Our itinerary kept us in the downtown areas of each city, and I found I was missing natural organic surroundings on a deep level. I munched contentedly on the sandwich and savored the cup of coffee, while a flock of geese strolled past me eyeing any possible morsels that may fall.

With my newly-found nature connection, I returned to the motel glowing in biospheric splendor...