Pro Se

Solemnly presenting my case, Pro Se, for the divorce–the judge’s supercilious attitude was on full display when he immediately flagged my paperwork for a dating error, only to later retract his claim once he realized my filing was actually flawless, powerless to deny it on any legal basis. I paid the $15 fee for the duly-judged decree, got the hell away from the courthouse crawling with expensive lawyers and paralegals, and began planing my escape from The Hard Gray Edge. Two years later I packed up a brand new 2-door 4x4 Tahoe Sport SUV replete with leather upholstery and a kick-ass stereo system to take a three-week road trip across the west and northwest states, driving all the way up to Port McNeill on the northern end of Vancouver Island, BC. Once there I would spend a week kayaking among orca in Johnstone Strait while camping on a small, entirely undeveloped wilderness island. On the way up, I stopped in Mora County, New Mexico to look at a parcel of still-raw wilderness land I was considering purchasing to build a homestead on. It was totally perfect.

After phoning my agreement to purchase rights to the parcel, I continued on my way west and north at a leisurely pace, unconcerned about much of anything and very happy about this turn of events. I could see the path to living and working full time in a home/studio on my homestead land with its construction begining at the turn of the century, occupying it full time by the year I turned fifty, and continuing my career there as owner/operator of my own little company until it was time to retire. Free from the marriage, nothing could stop me now.

A stop at Yellowstone next, I somehow arrived there when no other tourists were present, having the boardwalks and trails and breathtaking pre-fall beauty of the place all to myself, a few park rangers, and who knows how many members of the wildlife community living there.

Moving on a few days later, I stopped at Ozette Lake in Olympic National Park and spent the night at Ozette Campground with the goal being a float out of the North End and across Ericsons Bay over to the primitive trail by the same name where I could hike through the ancient forest to the Pacific Coast and camp a couple of days on the beach. As I was preparing to pull the canoe off of the Tahoe, I spotted a beautifully strange canoe with a bow canard wing. As I was looking it over, its builder came up and we had a conversation about it and solo open canoeing in general. His creation was a beautiful work, sleek and fast looking.

A very freindly fellow, he described that the handmade vessel was designed specifically for west coast surf canoeing and how he hoped the canard might prevent pearling when the bow dipped low after careening down the face of big waves. He admired my Sawyer DY Special, commenting how he enjoyed the life of and profession as a canoeist. I envied it all.

Striking out shortly after sunrise, the weather was bright if not clear, with a high-ceiling of thin, unbroken cloud layer. But it was warm and the winds were mild and blowing in my favor.

Once across the water, I double checked my backpack and hid the canoe deep in shadows of the ancient forest before striking out along the trail to the coast. Before very long, the dirt trail turned into a plank trail laid out across huge fallen trees. This was unexpected and I stopped to think about it for a few minutes. It looked dangerous, not in the sense that the planks might snap beneath my weight, they were thick and well seasoned, but not rotten at all. So I cautiously proceeded out onto them, thinking about what I would need to do if I met anyone coming from the opposite direction and had to negotiate getting around each other without toppling off of the trail. I could tell it would not be easy, if possible at all, to get back up onto the planks if I survived the fall. I had been told by the park ranger to expect seeing others on the trail who were coming back from an early morning hike from Wish Creek way.

About half way through without encountering anyone, I decided I wasn't going to see others out at this end of the trail so early in the day. Then I felt the urge to relieve my bladder. The urge became insistent, then unrelenting. I knew I would have to go sooner than later or else.

Stopping at a good spot to do so, at a place with a hand rope, I held it in a while to wait and listen in complete silence for anyone approaching. Hearing no one, I quickly unzipped, deployed, and cut loose. Ah, release. That's when someone else came hiking my way on the planks I was stuck on with no way to dodge behind a big tree. I know they saw me whizzing away, but I had no options except to finish business and zip up before we were face to face.

She was an elderly woman, possibly in her sixties. Pretty, too. And grinning as she greeted me. I edged as far out of the way as possible and she passed. I smelled no perfume or other artificial scent. I hoped she could not smell anything from me, either. I just said good morning and looked sheepish, I'm sure. Then she was safely past and I continued on my way.

I could hear the noise of waves before I could see the ocean, glad that I didn't still have a brimming bladder to deal with as the sounds washed over me louder with each step forward.

Then I was on the beach, looking out over the Pacific Ocean. It was grand. It was fantastic.

I felt wonderfully alive and full of energy and momentum. Hiking down to the campground before night fell, I was able to get the tent pitched above high tide line and a meal-in-a-pouch prepared. Leaving the pot on to boil water, I wolfed the food down and pondered my situation, having no regrets having set out on the journey and great anticipation for years ahead. I saw myself living on the Front Range within two years time, working on the homestead parcel steadily from that point on until my 50th birthday at which time I could start my own little company, then operate it another ten to twelve years into full retirement.

Using the last bit of boiling water to make a hot buttered rum nightcap, I relaxed more than I ever had before in my life, my vision of what would come in the future clear and attainable. The best part of it all would be getting there Pro Se, without encumberences impeding me.

Twenty-one mornings after leaving, I was back in the metroplex, wondering why I had returned. The sun was rising angry red through the pall of air pollution constantly stewing there. Expecting to be fired for taking a three-week vacation, I looked west before merging back onto the expressway heading east. I didn't dread returning to the office, it was a good job I was still enjoying, and I stayed on at it another two years before switching to a different company to gain experience coding in Java. That switch panned out well and at the turn of the century the move to the Front Range happened as planned. So did startup of my own company at age fifty, and retirement right on schedule twelve years later. Goals all achieved.