The tent diaries 6

“On such a trip as mine, so much there is to see and to think about that event and thought set down as they occurred would roil and stir like a slow-cooking minestrone.” - John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley

I was wrong about Wednesday's post being my final tent diaries entry. I remember I wrote this kind of sloppy epilogue after I returned to Sarasota. 

People who had followed my journey in the newspaper said I ended things so abruptly with no tidy conclusion or rewarding epiphany. Of course by then it was too late. I had hogged full-page spreads in the newspaper for six weeks. So for myself and my friends I wrote this, a little thank you note. 

I was feeling pretty sappy and as usual, verbose. 

--

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

The Oregon Coast & Thank You
Just did the dishes. Zac cooked bean burritos for dinner tonight. I cut up cubes of cheese and tomatoes. We listened to This American Life. Max won cards. Rachel drank White Russians. Cubbie licked Sadie's ears and teeth and I told some stories about Oregon and Wyoming using accents and flailing hand gestures.

I reached Bandon, Oregon at ten o'clock at night and if I had approached the end of the continental United States the coast of Oregon gave no warning. Like a security blanket, high bluffs and forests shield the Oregon Coast. When you drive from Klamath Falls to Bandon there are only subtle hints of the Pacific Ocean. The dark is pitch dark. (So much of coastal Oregon reminded me of a previous trip to Rhode Island.) I S-curved down highways and through national forests. I constructed in my head the image of the United States. The shape of my country, kind of like a chicken breast.

I rolled down my windows. The night looked like it might feel cooler and it did. I could smell it. The coolness and the ocean. The air felt like cellophane. I hung my arm out the window, flattened my palm and let the resistance turn my fingers into peninsulas. Peninsulas like Florida. I missed Florida. For the first time since moving to Sarasota three years ago, I had, during a phone conversation with Joe, called Sarasota "home." Used the word without hesitation. I missed my home. I missed Joe. This I was sure of. So many nights I narrowed my eyes like Matilda, beaming him into my tent whenever I felt lonely or I wanted to share something spectacular with him. Like, "Hey didja see those wild horses humping each other today?"

I missed my friends and that became more apparent as I went about my daily business without once laughing. I love to laugh goddamit! Without human company when do you laugh? What's there to laugh about? What does your laugh sound like when you're alone in your car, your tent, on the side of a dirt road? It sounds psychotic that's what. Lunatic. Laugh alone sometime without a television on, or a radio station dialed in, or a good book on your lap. Laugh without any of these devices and you're bat shit crazy.

I laughed anyway. With my hand out the window and my fingers like peninsulas, I laughed. Cubbie poked his head out the window and left it there for some time until I took a corner too hard and jolted him back into his seat. If the trees weren't so high I'd have seen stars.

Route 101, the Pacific Coast Highway, runs like a braided ponytail up the coast. I reached it and turned left. I had never seen the Pacific Ocean and now at every traffic light I craned my head out the window — was I there yet? Would I drive off the United States like Thelma and Louise? I could hear the crash of water on rocks. Crashing like tambourines! It was ten o'clock at night and I had traveled the width of my country. Sound the trumpets. Yet no trumpets would sound.

I would reach Bandon, where thanks to Joe I'd manage to get a $200 hotel room for the $60 military rate. Good luck? Good karma? Did I deserve either? I was so sick of the sight of myself. People had treated me so kind along the way. They were what I had expected — good, kind, curious and eccentric. How I like my people.

Before I left Sarasota my coworkers at European Marble handed me an envelope containing $200 in twenty dollar bills. My tent, my table, my cooler, the picnic basket, the propane burner, boxes of couscous, cans of tomato soup … all of them given to me by friends and coworkers. 

On the night before I left Sarasota Zac hosted a dinner where he cooked my favorite author's favorite foods. John Steinbeck's beer milk shakes. Hemingway's gazpacho. He invited my friends over and we toasted my trip from a plastic table set up in our apartment parking lot. Then he handed over a brown paper bag filled with Shell gas station gift cards. The cards took me as far as Chicago, and I saved one for my return trip. Redeemed it in Dade City, Florida. As I pumped my last tank of gas, I kissed the magnet strip. 

The unfolded roadmap on my wall with thumbtacks in it had become more dream than journey. More challenge than vacation. A rite of passage in my own head and in no other. The Mormons go on a two-year mission. I drive alone from one coast of the Unites States to the other.

In Estes Park, Colorado I'd treat myself to a mandarin chicken salad, a People magazine and a Blockbuster movie courtesy again of my boyfriend, who would treat me again to chicken fingers and curly fries at a diner with a name I wished I remembered in Bear Lake, Utah.

In Boise, Idaho I'd eat Cracker Barrel mac and cheese on Susan Holsing, a former European Marble coworker, who bestowed upon me a Cracker Barrel gift card that, if I continued to eat $3 mac and cheese off the kid's menu, would get me from Tampa to Portland.

Today in Sarasota, I met Rog and Ricci for coffee at Starbucks where, thanks to Jason and Jess, I treated us all to iced coffees in the titty-sweltering humidity.

So! This is the last blog. Finito. I did it. I write way too much anyway. I use too many metaphors and too many similes. I abuse similes like a drunk abuses– fuck, see.

I'm listening to the CDs Teisha gave me in Springfield, Missouri. Cubbie will be getting a bath soon. The walls in my bedroom are empty, save for an old drawing and my map of the United States with the thumbtacks in it. I'm debating whether or not to donate my bed to Goodwill as the house I'm moving into in a few weeks is fully furnished. I like my bed. It's a nice bed. Pillow top mattress. But it's a bed. It's stuff. A thing.

I guess what I'm getting at (what I was getting at 1,000 words ago) is thank you. Thank you to everyone who helped me along the way. People are better than stuff, better than places, and I'm ecstatic once and for all to be back in Sarasota with my people.

Thanks for reading.

The tent diaries 5

Just before I left Florida, my friend Ricci gave me a dragonfly, with this message written on the wings:

“All that glitters is not gold. All who wander are not lost.”

I’m sleepy now as I write this. Uninspired for the most part, sneezing in an auto repair shop, where I’m getting the oil changed in Joe’s car. It’s 9 a.m. on a Wednesday and I’m drinking Timmy Ho’s out of a plastic travel mug. Mechanic's coffee is always too black and too dank for my taste buds, so I usually bring my own. 

I’m listening to Ani as usual, and to the woosh of power tools ripping lug nuts off tires in the shop. It’s sunny out and what I really want to do right now is curl up like a cat in the light cast by the vertical blinds hanging in the front window. 

I brought a book and my laptop – the laptop so I could write an intro to this last installment of tent diaries and a book so I wouldn’t have to write.

Life is banal and beautiful no matter where you are. That’s what the road taught me; what staying with strangers and friends taught me. People's lives are no more or no less glamorous than your own, whether you live in Athens, Ill. or Sisters, Ore. 

Nature is nebulous and left entirely to interpretation. I fell in love with the trees in Oregon. I fell in love with the sky in Idaho. I would have married a sandwich in Wyoming had a notary been present. I got shitty directions from a boney hag in the Ozarks and shitty directions from a plump doe-eyed girl standing beside a fly strip in southern Oregon.

I was flagged down on a highway somewhere between Wyoming and Utah by a 40-something couple, whom I lent my cell phone to and pathetically my tire iron, which of course was too small to help change the flat on their empty horse trailer. 

Before I even opened my mouth they told me they were from Sarasota, Fla., heading to Oregon to pick up a horse, which of course was laughably surreal given that I was coming from Sarasota and heading to Oregon too. 

I had driven thousands of miles, met dozens of people, mowed through three loaves of bread and an entire jar of peanut butter and here I was, on a desolate stretch of brown highway somewhere between Utah and Wyoming, handing my cell phone over to people from Sarasota. Processing this information caused my mind to explode into stars. I coughed and laughed and stomped my feet. It was the most understated well-I'll-be-damned moment of the entire trip. 

Not a single vehicle passed us during our 45-minute exchange. 

--

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Bear Lake, Utah
Knocked my socks off.

--

Thursday, June 28, 2007

Twin Falls, Idaho
There was a three and half hour traffic backup on I-84 outside of Twin Falls, Idaho. People were moseying about their parked vehicles, truckers kept getting out of their cabs pounding the sides of their tires with hammers to make sure they were what — not leaking (I don't know.) It was 6 pm. The sky was starting to fade from baby blue to watery pink. The clouds looked like taffy. The moon cocked curiously to my left as the sun did that thing it sometimes does in the summer— it gave an encore performance. The night wouldn't settle on Idaho and I wondered if it was because I was so close to (but not in) the Pacific Time Zone. Sprinklers lined the fields in straight ghostly patterns, water arching like colorless rainbows across the green. I rolled down my windows to a cool, sweatshirt-y night. The couple in the Toyota Tundra in front of me said it was a major accident two miles ahead. We'd be stuck for several hours. Jesus. We'd been at a standstill for over an hour already. I was about to ask if they knew any other way to get to my campsite but I looked at their plates and saw they were from Montana.

The girl in the Hyundai behind me had Idaho tags so I asked her if she had any suggestions. (The last time I set up a tent in the dark I hammered my thumb numb with a Dollar General mallet.)

"No other way to your highway than to stick it out here til this accident clears," she said. "That's what I'm gonna do."

She was so sweet and peaceful, on her way home from work. She was wearing black work pants and an undershirt. An hour later I walked back to her car. She was sitting with her windows down, contentedly listening to the radio. I offered her my bag of Oreos.

"Really?" She asked.

"Really," I said. "Take it. I've got plenty of food in this car. I've kind of been living out of it."

Feeling like I'd slighted the couple from Montana I walked up their window with my box of banana bread from Laramie, Wyoming. They too were starving and graciously accepted. They thought Cubbie was cute and well behaved considering the traffic backup. I was very proud of him and when I got back to my car I pieced up some banana bread for Cubbie too.

As the sun fell it peek-a-booed behind the sprinklers, the ch-ch-ch of the water hitting the fields put me at ease. It was the most beautiful summer night I've seen since leaving my home in New York. The stars looked like someone flicked them into place. The sky spread so seamlessly flat it looked like my mother had hung it out to dry. Two miles further up the interstate two people died on the side of the road. A semi truck was on its side. I was reading a book; the couple from Montana was eating banana bread, the girl from Idaho was eating Oreos. I covered the moon with my thumb. The horizon, unmistakable, moved me to tears.

--

Friday, July 06, 2007

Klamath Falls, Oregon
This is a story of expectations, highways and disappointments:

When I reached Klamath Falls, Oregon at 9 o'clock in the evening I was deliriously tired. I had gained one hour of daylight and I was ungrateful for it.

My day had started in Jerome, Idaho with a blueberry muffin, scrambled eggs and a long hot shower. I had shaved my legs for Oregon. Wore my favorite dress for Oregon. And then I'd driven for ten hours through Oregon.

If you've even driven through Oregon or plan on doing so know this — there is only one interstate in Oregon and it runs north to south. Its only concern is getting you to Portland and then finally Seattle. That is the objective of I-5. It begins (or ends, whichever way you look at it) in San Diego, California and goes as far as Blaine, Washington. It takes you from the Mexican border to the Canadian. It does not take you through the guts of Oregon. That is the burden of the highway. The highways (and there are a few) will take you through the fibrous, pulpous, and at times mystical region known as central Oregon. These highways are fantastic and frightening. They make you feel infinitesimal. They cut through desert, through forests, climbing the sides of mountains and spanning valleys. They remind you that you are composed of water. That people need people. That you could scramble up the rocks, reach the top of a plateau, crawl into a crevice and disappear. Those who pass through would never know you existed and it would mean nothing to them if you were to ever emerge again. If you're feeling lonely these highways will make you feel lonelier. If you are looking for vindication these highways will not vindicate you. If you're feeling lost these highways will not find you and they will not lead you to a place where you are found. If you are looking for answers to questions you've not solved in years, these highways will not answer them. They will however roll out before you like a tattered scroll as you drive 90 mph and they will let you doggedly work things out in your head. They will absorb the things that have plagued you. That is what they do. They run east to west and they absorb you, cleanse you, and wring you out like a wet rag. Highways like the Outback Byway, the Volcanic Legacy Byway, the Central Oregon Highway… They will crawl inside your head and claw at the parts that make you feel safe and warm. Every fifty miles a town will appear along these highways and you will take that town with you wherever you go. The people who live there will ride with you wherever you go because that is the only way some of these people ever leave. On more than four occasions I asked for directions in south-central Oregon.

"Can you please tell me the best way to get to Bend?"
"No clue."
"How about to Crater Lake. How far am I from Crater Lake?"
"Sorry. Can't help ya."
"Are you familiar with Oregon?"
"Yeah. Born and raised in Klamath Falls."
"But Crater Lake is supposed to be close to Klamath Falls."
"Yeah, beats me."

I was 45 minutes from Crater Lake, the deepest lake in the United States. I found it easily using my maps, my books, my compass, and the northern star. I exhausted every navigational tool I had in the state of Oregon.

In Klamath Falls I checked into my campsite. I was still wearing that goddamn dress. Cubbie was restless, buckled into the passenger seat. The Klamath Falls campground was also the Klamath Falls gas station and liquor store. I was cut in line by a man and a woman buying two 40 oz Budwesiers. They reeked like smoke and booze. They had six teeth between the two of them and I wanted to say, excuse me I'm waiting in line here. I've been driving all day to get here. I have a date with Oregon. Can't you see? But I didn't speak up, just backed up, gave them their space and let them cash out. When their credit card was declined I didn't roll my eyes. I was patient. I picked through the Oregon postcards on the wall.

"Just run one through," the woman slurred.

The clerk ran one bottle through. The card was accepted. The drunkards rejoiced, walked away with one brown bag, six teeth and in the case of the woman — no shoes.

I asked for a tent site for one night please. One night in Klamath Falls and then I'd be off in the morning.

"How close am I to the Oregon coast?"

"Umm … I'm not sure."

"Any suggestions on the best route to the coast?"

"Mm. I haven't been to the coast in years."

"Are you familiar with any east-west highways?"

"I uh, don't know. Maybe the people at Walmart might know."

--

Friday, July 06, 2007

Bubble Burst, Oregon
The things I did not photograph are the things I cherished the most.

I'm home now. I'm in St. Pete. Sitting in Joe's apartment. The pug is asleep next to me. His fur matches Joe's couch. Joe's at work. I'm watching the Cartoon Network. I'm wearing the green sweatshirt I bought in Bandon, Oregon.

The drive home cost me some fingernails, a flat tire, a dented muffler and one sleepless night from one end of Nebraska to the other. When, at 6:30 in the morning, I could not find a motel with any vacancies in the entire state of Nebraska, the kid working the front desk at a Holiday Inn said, "Sorry, no rooms left." I snapped, "You have got to be fucking kidding me," I knew I just needed to get myself home.

It was actually Joe's idea to go to the coast. I was defeated. I'd reached Klamath Falls and I was defeated. I'd driven as far as I could drive. Two drunks in a campground underneath a highway overpass had cut me in line. I had not eaten properly in days and anytime I attempted to eat properly the food wouldn't go down. I was homesick. Homesick and too stubborn to admit it … until eventually I did and it came pouring out.

"I think you should drive to the coast."

"I had a picture of Klamath Falls picked out in my atlas. It looks nothing like the picture. It looks nothing like the picture because the picture was of Multnomah Falls. I had the wrong friggen waterfall."

He told me to calm down. (He's good at that.) I calmed down. He'd mapquest the coast for me. I was only six hours from the Pacific. I should get some sleep, go see Crater Lake and keep going west. I should pick out a place on the ocean and just calm down. I should relax because it would all work out. These things always do. And then, he said … I should just come home. He missed me.

My funds were running out. Totally running out. I needed two days in one place that did not involve ten hours in a '97 Honda Civic that smelled like a Dutch oven. I picked out a dot on the Oregon Coast. Bandon, Oregon — a coastal town as far west as I could go. My heart filled with blood. Blood poured through my arteries, and like a nest of sleeping spiders, my veins and arteries perked up, carried the blood to my brain. The same surge that compelled me in Sarasota to pack up my car for Oregon compelled me to quit fucking complaining and keep going. I was almost there for god sakes.

In the morning I ate what was left of my stale banana bread. I spread out a sheet under a tree and read my Albert Einstein book until I reckoned it was time for Crater Lake and then I took down my tent, rolled up my sleeping bag, fed Cubbie some Alpo and buckled us both back into the Dutch Oven Civic.

--

PS. The first picture is of Crater Lake in Southern Oregon on the crest of the Cascade Mountain Range. Below it are my sneakers, all wet and sandy from running into the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life. 

The tent diaries

In the summer of 2007 – less than three months after I started dating Joe – I took a road trip from Southwest Florida to the Oregon Coast. I was gone for a little over a month. Just me and the pug in a borrowed tent. With a loose plan, and a 1997 Honda Civic stocked with jars of peanut butter and cans of vegetable soup, the pug and I camped alone in state parks from Asheville, N.C. to Klamath Falls, Ore. 

It was, to be brief, the most amazing and fantastic adventure I've ever taken. It's been almost two years now and I was thinking today about how inspired, how bold and how awe-struck I was at the time. How utterly fearless. 

I didn't have a blog blog then. Instead I chronicled the trip in a series of newspaper stories that I emailed to my editor by ripping off wireless Internet connections in Holiday Inn Express parking lots. 

In addition to that column, which Joe so aptly named "Heidi Go Seek" after I called him in Osceola, Arkansas to pick his brain for headline suggestions, I also wrote these rambling MySpace "blog" posts. Here are the first four – unedited, un-tweaked, grammatical errors and all:

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Savannah, Georgia
All I know of Savannah is that my motel has free wireless. As my Nana would say, "It rained like the dickens," so I did the sensible thing and booked a room at America's Best Value Inn, watched "John Tucker Must Die" and ate popcorn chicken from Sonic.

I had all the intentions of setting up camp on Skidaway Island, Ga., reading dusty literature and writing something that would make someone sigh. Instead I surfed DevilSpace with it being free wireless and all, broke my daily allowance of $30, showered under hot water with Dove soap and cursed the misfortune of having tailed Tropical Storm Barry from St. Petersburg to Savannah.

--

Monday, June 04, 2007

Asheville, North Carolina
Asheville is like a good peanut butter sandwich. It is exactly how I imagined it. Creamy. Easy to spread. Fun to lick off my fingers. Good on apples. Plentiful. Generous. Good even when it's not brand name.

My pug likes Asheville better than Savannah but I credit the weather with that. It didn't rain! Although last night the wind picked up for a good 30 minutes and in that 30 minutes my tent shook so badly I could only imagine eight burly men looking like the Brawny paper towel dude shoving the thing back and forth like a game of hot potato. Cub was trembling and I don't use the word trembling often.

I was told this trip might kill me. People are creeps and pyschos. Who the christ sleeps in a tent across the country alone, my nana asked me. I was told to carry sharp or heavy blunt objects. Upon talking to a police officer in Sarasota I was told to get a concealed weapons permit and a handgun. My father refused to discuss this trip with me anytime I called, as if not talking about it would make me stay safely in Sarasota where I would spend the summer walking my dog on the beach, getting $58 tickets for ... walking my dog on the beach. (Which I got the day before I left town. Fellow Sarasota dog-lovers stay away from Shell Beach!)

Anway, back in Asheville my neighbors one tent over are from Chicago. Their names are Bob and Jen. Jen brought me over laundry detergent and Bob likes to fish for bass. On this trip however he's mostly snagged snapping turtles. A crying shame really. One turtle was so flipping huge the hook broke off in his mouth. I asked Bob if the hook would find it's way out of the turtle's mouth and he sort of shrugged, a cigar wedged between his lips and said, "Ya never know."

When Jen asked me if I was traveling alone I hesitated. ("Goddamit never tell 'em you're alone," my father warned.) Well, duh. It doesn't take CSI Miami to figure out the chick with the pug are without human company.

So I replied, "Well, yeah. I'm alone."

"Aren't you scared?" Jen asked.

I wanted to say, sometimes yes.

"No," I said (with forced bravado.) "There are more Bobs and Jens than creeps and pyschos, right?"

Oh, the naiveté!

On to Gaitlinburg, Tenn. I hear Gatlinburg is the Las Vegas of the mountains.

--

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Gatlinburg, Tennessee 
I'm lying in my tent at 11:30 at night. It's raining out. Pretty little popcorn rain in a one-man-one-pug tent. If Joe were here I'd be whispering, "This is soooo romaaantic."

Turns out Yogi Bear's Jellystone Park also has wireless access. Yogi totally is smarter than the aver-age bear.

So! These are the Smoky Mountains. It's true what they say about them too- there is a blue-green haze that hovers over the forests in Tennessee. Like North Carolina is burning incense and the smoke is wafting to Tennessee.

It's thundering out in a pleasant way. Please let is stay pleasant all night. Cubbie is snoring. I just ate six chocolate donuts, felt guilty, brushed my teeth, rid myself of guilt breath.

The owner of Jellystone Park drives around on a golf cart with a big "T" on the back of it. He loves my pug. Has one himself. Heard from the girl up at the front desk that I'm camping alone. Said, "If there's anything you need darling you just let me know." Then he pet my pug and said, "You got yerself a good companion," and drove off.

My neigbors one tent over are about 25-ish. Sean and Rachel from Baton Rouge. They got engaged beside a waterfall yesterday.

"It was a piece of junk waterfall," Sean said. "But she said yes so that's all that matters."

Rachel invited me over for hotdogs and s'mores. I took a raincheck, hung in my hammock and read a book. I'm digging the Yogi Bear park ... although this thunderstorm is really starting to pick up. Ey! I can barely hear my iTunes.

--

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Memphis, Tennessee
I can't sleep in Memphis, Tennessee. This time I booked a room at the Deeelux, Inn where I could give Cubbie a bath. He's snoring at my feet in this big scary bed. Maybe he's happy now that the tree sap is scrubbed from his fur. Maybe he doesn't care. I hate motels. I much prefer camping in the woods to staying in a motel alone. There are two flies in this room. Two dopey flies. I swatted one earlier with a washcloth and killed it. I set the washcloth on the bedside table ready for the next kill. Also on the bedside table -- my pepper spray and swiss army knife. I hate motels.

I gained an hour. It's only 3:15 in the morning. Only.

Memphis was a whirlwind, last minute detour in the name of my father. He has no idea I decided to skip Louisville, KY in favor of Memphis so I could go to Graceland to purchase an Elvis baseball cap for him for Father's Day. My dad loves Elvis. He's never been to Memphis. If he were on this trip he would insist on following the tour guide throughout the entire tour. 

He'd be the guy asking the questions along the way.

"Really? So Elvis loved orange marmalade on his toast? Get outta town! Say, is that his original baby blanket?"

By the time I got to Graceland the place was closed. So I took my pug for a walk up Elvis Presley Blvd. upon which he took a shit. And then I walked across the street to a (nearly) 24-hour Elvis emporium.

The most overpriced souvenir in Graceland -- gold sunglasses. And I wanted them too! I wanted them to wear around Sarasota for when I go through the Wendys Drive Thru. Instead I got an Elvis bikini for ten bucks. It was a wise choice. I'll wear it to the YMCA on Euclid Ave.

There's this scene from, "A Thing Called Love" in which Samantha Mathis and River Phoenix get to Graceland but Graceland's closed for the night. That's how I felt tonight.

For breakfast I want an omlette in Memphis. What are the chances of my waking up in time for breakfast? What are the chances of my finding a diner in this town that serves breakfast all day? 

Hmm ... I'm thinking something like the Bluebird Cafe. I'll Google it.

--

PS. Pictured above is my tent in Asheville, N.C. I purchased the red collapsable hammock from a Vietnamese five-and-dime in North Sarasota. If you look at the picture and squint to the far left, you'll see Cubbie, my pug. If I've failed to identify Cubbie until now, I apologize. He wanted to remain anonymous and requested that I simply refer to him as "pug," but since I'm not editing these old entries, I must (by default) reveal his true identity. If you want to friend Cubbie on Facebook, click here. 

My pug gets better mileage than your SUV.

An ode to my pug's paws:

I haven't met a dog fanatic who hasn't expressed joy over their pet's exquisite paws.

My pug's paws are works of art. The black pads, all circular and button-like, get so rough I want to exfoliate my face with them. They feel like the old upholstery buttons on my parent's scratchy couch. 

Whenever we go for long walks, I'm grateful for the pug's durable pads. They can endure sticks and stones and random sharp sidewalk debris. Honestly, the pug's paws are better equipped for outdoor traversing than the shitty flip-flops I wear every day.

Sometimes he will get a thorn stuck between his pads, and rather than howl and whimper with his paw in the air, he will soldier on – 27 pounds of pug marching onward into the neighborhood with a limp so slight passing dogs barely notice he's lost rhythm. 

The paws themselves smell like corn chips. Many dog's paws smell this way. I know it's disgusting and you may think me vile for it, but I love to sniff the pug's paws. Like a kid with a runny nose seeking out his favorite germ-drenched blanket, the pug's paws fill me with a fuzzy warmth that coats my heart in cashmere and aids in the flow of serotonin. 

And the fur! The fur looks like wood grain on a two-by-four leg of lumber cut from an ancient oak tree – so straight and so smooth when you pet with the grain, and so course and so stiff when you pet against the grain. 

But it's the pads that impress me most. It's the pads that I envy when I look at my own fleshy feet. 

When the pug and I camped across the country, he stepped on many a wicked thorn, nosed around in many a pricker bush, popped a squat on many unforgiving cacti, but no pointy plant was too sharp for his dime-sized paw pads. 

His paws shatter toy breed stereotypes. They are as rugged and rigged for outdoor adventure as the paws on a Bernese Mountain Dog. 

If it weren't for my pug's vacuum-sealed face, he'd have soared over sand dunes in Bandon Beach, Ore. with the ease of a heron.  

If it weren't for his asthmatic lungs, I'm certain he would have combed the The Rockies like a mountain lion hunting elk at dusk.

If not for his diesel engine pulmonary system, combusting externally in the North Carolina heat, I'm confident the pug's muscled legs would have carried him up the Blue Ridge Mountains to the top of the Grove Park Inn, where together we would've sipped tea in high-backed Adirondack chairs facing the sunset.

And perhaps if his sausage roll body had been a little less eggplant-shaped, we'd have frolicked the Ozarks like Maria and Captain Von Trapp. 

If the rest of him would keep up, my pug's paws would outperform Firestone Tires. 

--

PS. Photo of my courageous pug after he lumbered his way to the top of a red rock formation in Garden of the Gods, Colorado Springs. 

PPS. When the pug is not ascending sedimentary beds of sandstone, he slumbers on top of Joe's head in a queen-sized bed in St. Petersburg, Fla.

PPPS. Note: I purposely did not mention the pug's trifling dewclaw.