1 – Connecting the Dots

I'd grown up in a rinky dink little town in the White Mountains of New Hampshire but really hadn't spent any discernible time in the States in over twenty-five years. It took five bullets and months in a hospital recovering for the Organization to send me back to where I really didn't want to be. I hated not having a choice. Bugger it. So, I made due. Once I got my "all clear" from the docs, I bought a reliable, little Ford Escort, a second-hand, ProLite Mini camper, somehow inherited a Black Lab named Sugar from a colleague, stuck seven pins in a map of the good ole USA – why seven? I don't know. Luck? - and figured I'd play connect the dots.

It was early March when I left The Secretariat in New York City: cold, wet, windy, slush. Not the dry heat I'd spent most of my time in in Kenya.

South. Head south to the warmth. First pin south was Georgia. Steer clear of the cities. I hate cities. Keep to the back roads if you can. Head through the southern states until the weather starts to warm. Play tourist. Why not? Not a whole lot else to do. They won't send me back to my job, my passion, what I'd spend my entire adult life doing. Not yet anyway.

"Give it time," they said. "Heal," they said. "You're home now. Enjoy," they said.

Home. My home was Kenya, whether it was the dusty, barrack-style base I shared with my team in the Mandera province on the Somalian-Ethiopian border, or the scattered villages I had spent years working in through the Rift Valley province, particularly in Laikipai, Maralal, or Nakuru, or the apartment the company held for me at headquarters in Nairobi, which I rarely used. It was the savannahs, the mountains, the reserves, the safaris, the people. That was home, not this. I had no one here. No friends. No family. No work. No purpose. Bitter? Ya, I was bitter, but I'm trying to take things in stride. Not a damn thing I can do about it, so I might as well just drive. Who knows what I'll find.

March saw me cruise through New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, and the Carolinas into Georgia. I made quick work of it. Wasn't into tourist mode yet. Just wanted to move. Stop for a night here, a few nights there. Unhitch the camper if I could. Motel it if I couldn't. Still kind of cold. Sightsee a bit. The coastline through New Jersey was interesting. Too touristy for me, though. Crossing Delaware into Maryland via a bridge then through the Blue Ridge Mountains into Virginia was the next step. The mountains were pretty; trees were covered with this wild plant called kudzu. Kind of looked like an overgrown rainforest. It hung from everything. Georgia was okay, but I just wanted to keep going.

Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. The third pin was Arizona. I liked Arizona. It kind of looked like the savannah. Flat for the most part. Dry. Hot. All along the way, I watched the people. Listened to them. Got a handle on their beliefs, their politics if you will. Watched the way they dealt with each other. Some folks were nice, others just made me uncomfortable. In East Africa, you know what the dangers are. They're pretty obvious, and you're always on guard. Here, the dangers were more hidden and uncertain. I didn't understand the culture, so I kept to myself. That alone was a wakeup call, highly unusual for me. I had always been the first to offer a handshake or friendly word regardless of language or culture. Always the first to jump in to help. Not anymore. Too much had happened.

By the fifth pin, I was heading north into Wyoming, and getting tired. But, driving over the Rocky Mountains, through the Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest in Utah sent a rush through me like I hadn't felt so far. Seeing the flatlands in the far distance as I came out of the foothills made my heart thud hard in my chest. It was something I couldn't explain, but made me smile for the first time in months.

Sugar and I pulled into a rest area off the I-80 just inside the Wyoming border. I let the dog out to pee and stretch her legs, gave her some water, grabbed a bottle for myself, and spread a state map over a vacant picnic table. Evanston was a few miles ahead. Had to take the highway through until I passed the city, but it didn't look too big, and the highways so far had been pretty empty. Shouldn't take long. I could go east again toward Cheyenne or travel north to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park. I smiled again. My father had talked about Yellowstone when I was a kid. He always wanted to bring us out here. My smile faded. Take advantage of the time you have. You, of all people, know how quickly it can change. Folding the map and tossing it onto the passenger seat through the open window, the dog and I hopped back in the car, drove through Evanston, taking a right at the first available exit, I-189 north. Yellowstone. Why not?

This is where I started to relax. It was the beginning of May. The weather was still pretty cool, at least for my thin blood, but a sense of peace and calm settled on me like a warm blanket. People were kind. They'd talk with you even while standing in line at the grocery store. Or, they'd stop to pat the dog and chat for a minute before continuing on their way. Strangers but it was easy. Nice. Familiar.

I stayed in Yellowstone for about a week before deciding to travel into Montana. Little Bighorn was too close not to visit. Native history had always been an interest. Plus, the landscape was calling me. Too much like Kenya. I was homesick.

It was on the way back into Wyoming when it happened. Detouring southeast off the I-90 on a deserted, stretch of back road, my car blew a tire.