Flotation Device

Biolab Road, Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge

Have you ever allowed your body to free float in a pool of water, suspended between ground and sky – weightless, clear, and ensconced?  To me, there is nothing else like that feeling of becoming part of what is holding me up – to just be without the pull of gravity, to drift without effort. And if you have floated, you will know that at some point, maybe seconds or minutes along, your body – seemingly all of its own accord - will begin to sink and search for something to grasp, some surface for a toe to gain leverage, some nearby person to reach out and steady you.

It’s like this on the road for me. If I had to label it for commonality’s sake, I’d call it homesickness. It’s the scratch-less itch. The inability to “be here now” without wondering if here is maybe better over there. When we have a sticks and bricks home, with a family or a partner or even alone, it’s easy to equate this feeling with the missing of specific things or people. But without them, it becomes an indefatigable yet illusive angst.

I have parted with so much – the material items that required a job to collect them and a house to sustain them, the familiarity of geography, and the ease of common social habits within an isolated city.  But, what I haven’t parted with are my memories or my grief. There is a special awareness of grief that the road brings. As the miles spin out, one’s mind wanders the vast and manicured avenues of memory and yearns for what was never really tangible in the first place.

It is month fifteen now and I find myself tracing the same routes, visiting the same places – and furthering my old habit of moving on with ease when the mood suits, only to garner nostalgia for the places I have left. I have set myself up for a solitary endeavor, following the heart of my introversion. And while gaining a truer understanding of my own nature has been a boon, I am consistently irked and astonished by the interconnectedness that pursues me wherever I go. There is no alone.

Free floating on the road demands a letting go of something I can’t yet put my finger on. I have learned to not make plans or reservations. I try to see what each day brings and know that I am able to pack up and leave a place in a hurry if need be. This is lovely in theory, but the ache remains. And the edgy feeling that things can change in a moment is disorienting and unsettling. The true nomads move around, maybe every week or two, or even every day or two. So far, mine is more of a migratory life. Cooperstown to Silver Springs to Buffalo, and back again, hands still gripped firmly on the flotation device. Brief spurs of sojourning, yes – but always leading back to something “known”.

The humidity of early spring in Florida breathes its nascent breath and for those who live in vehicles the time is close to move again. My mind traces back to where I have been and the comfort of those whom I love beckons me. How do I want to live this life? How am I best able to live this life? A stealth quest to the desert or perhaps a journey up the eastern seashores to all points Nova Scotia? Or, another migratory move, stationing myself somewhere for the duration nearer friends and family? I am blessed to know I can return, again and again, to the places where I am loved.

The indulgence of travel, the burning of fuel, the oft-times inability to recycle, and the turning of the mind to self first, all give me pause as I examine my choices. What is it I am doing out here anyway? Time and again I discover an anxiousness around strangers that has narrowed my tolerance for interaction, so incongruent with a spiritual path which guides toward love and compassion. Ultimately, I must admit this anxiety is in part the reason I yearn to stay put or move only within well-acquainted parameters. In all my fearlessness, I have met my fears.

And, ever-so begrudgingly I have begun to understand that yes, somewhere amongst the eons of required solitude is most certainly a need for connection, for the gravity that beckons me when I start to sink and the floating dissolves…seemingly all on its own.

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Some things I carry with me in my teeny home.

Things I have learned recently:

1. Looking in the mirror occasionally does have a purpose

2. Sometimes the B.O. you smell really is your own

3. Put your solar panel out every day, no matter how overcast

4. Showering is a minor miracle

5. Have multiple ways to protect against mosquitoes & ticks, including hiding and running away

6. If something doesn't feel right, it probably isn't

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Dung Intended

There is a such a huge influx these days of people who seek the freedom of travel and life on the road and as I myself career around from place to place, it has become apparent that a discussion of some practical issues may be in order. Let’s start with the basics. Yep. Let’s talk about poop and what to do with our feculent deposits when living in a small vehicle.

If you are living or camping in a car or SUV, chances are you don’t have a toilet that allows you to store your waste and dispose of it at a dump station. Pee can be relatively easy to dispose of – but still requires awareness and discretion (please people, don't dump your pee in a parking lot). Poop, however, is an entirely different matter. Basically, it comes down to where you are going to be doing your business.

For those who travel to dispersed areas in national forests, etc. where there is no toilet, historically the best bet has been to dig a cathole. It’s a good idea to carry a shovel or hand trowel when you travel and it will come in handy if you need to discard out in nature. Some national forests and other campgrounds have rules regulating the use of catholes: some require it yet there is also an increase in places that no longer allow it (it’s become a pooping free for all out there folks). Be familiar with any regulations before setting out.

On digging a cathole from the National Park Service (paraphrased): To dig a cathole, find a spot that is at least 200 feet (about 80 human paces) from a water source or a trail – preferably a place others won’t stumble across easily. Use your shovel to dig a hole 6” – 8” deep and 4” – 6” in diameter. After you make your deposit, stir it with a stick to help it decompose faster and cover the hole with dirt and leaves or rocks in order to hide the spot. Remember to always carry out your toilet paper. My preference is to use my collapsible toilet and then empty it into the cathole. An additional aid to decomposition can be had by spreading dry ash on the waste. An alternative to a cathole when camping in the wilderness is to use a special waste disposal bag commonly called a WAG bag. These are puncture proof bags which according to the manufacturer's description “traps, deodorizes and breaks down waste”. The manufacturer also claims these are safe to dispose of in a trash receptacle. These bags include a gel which helps the waste to decompose. Many people stay in established campgrounds, Cracker Barrel or truck stop parking lots, or find places that allow(ish) public overnight parking. If this is the case, always use a bathroom if it is available to you. We may not want to climb out in the morning and go into a public restroom, but truly, when nature calls, try to do everything you can to avoid having to dispose of your waste later.

If for some reason you are stuck with having to go number two in your vehicle, make sure you have some bags (or a container or both - coffee cans lined with a bag are one idea) on hand that are biodegradable and odor reducing for storage. You can also use the WAG bag mentioned above. You will need some sort of toilet – I use this collapsible version which stores under my driver’s seat (as seen in photo). The tricky part will be finding a place to dispose of your donation. Do NOT throw your poop in the garbage – any garbage – if it can be helped. There may be local or state ordinances against doing so. If you can, get to a public restroom and dispose of it in a toilet, but do not dispose of your bag in the toilet, including porta-potties. Find a way to wrap the bag and dispose of it separately in a garbage can. You may also be able to find a garbage designated for dog poo. If you must dispose of your waste in a regular garbage, use some sort of decomposing agent and make sure it is wrapped in a puncture resistant bag. Some folks choose to use ash, kitty litter, wood chips, sawdust and any number of other things to help control the odor and to make the bag safe for disposal. It is commonly assumed that poop can go in the garbage if properly bagged, much like diapers. However, diapers do a lot to control and seal in moisture and spillage. Imagine the items people throw into garbage cans at gas stations – things that may contain sharp edges which could poke a hole in your poop disposal plan. Ew! for the person who has to take out the trash. Ew! and extra ew as some pretty harmful bacteria could then be released, making the world a little less pleasant, not to mention less healthy, for us all. Be overly cautious when choosing to chuck your leavings in the garbage. This lifestyle certainly has its ins and outs. Even a weekend camping trip takes some forethought and planning. But remember, it’s especially important that it’s what we do with the outs that can make an impact on our environment, public health, and conscience. Hey – let’s start a movement!

****While I did not write this article to promote my Amazon Affiliate account, I do want to provide links to the products I use and recommend. Please note that I receive a small commission if items are purchased through these links. Disclaimer – I have not used the WAG bags.

TRIPTIPS Portable Folding Toilet 

This toilet collapses and fits right under the driver's seat when slid in from behind. I LOVE it! Have used it on the road and have plenty of space inside my vehicle to set it up and use. Doubles as footstool and recycle bin.

AWOKEN Unisex Urinal

Yes, people, I pee in my car at least three times a day/night. Combined with a plastic container for storage, this is perfect for me. And - no accidents yet!

Flambeau Outdoors Lil' Brute Fishing Tackle and Gear Box, Blue 

Perfect size for storing my urinal.  I actually have two.

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Phil

I first saw Phil at the corner of Buffalo’s Bailey Avenue and Broadway Street, an intersection nostalgic for prosperity. This corner, a convergence of neighborhood and forgotten industry, dusty with decades of historical poverty, has become a pocket ripe for panhandling and all sundry of shenanigans.

Phil’s hair stuck out in a wiry halo of gesticulation as he darted between the lanes of traffic. His smile beamed and glowed down into the windows of passers-by as they counted the red light seconds of his intrusion, most rolling their windows tight, a few making offerings in response to his undeniable charisma and impish charm. I was headed in the opposite direction, so went on my way, but the thought of him stayed. As I shopped for Christmas delights, my mind turned again and again to this fearless urchin and all he might be doing without.

Hours later, headed back to my daughter’s apartment, I returned to the intersection and there he was still! Now, he was on the opposite side from me again but this time I applied just the right amount of danger to the situation and swung a u-turn across four lanes of traffic. Pulling up alongside a gated auto shop, I caught his eye and waved a ten. He was by my side in no time, smiling away, thanking me profusely, and poking his gaze into my SUV. His eye caught on a blanket in the passenger seat.

“Got anything else? Food? I’m cold out here,” he hugged his arms and scoped my mobile mansion, so chock-a-block full of life-sustaining treasures. I handed him the blanket with a smile and again he glowed at me. “I’m Phil,” he said.

“Good-bye Phil,” I said and watched him skip away across Bailey Avenue, my blanket around his shoulders like an extra large fuzzy scarf, my heart now in his hands. Oh, Phil.

The rest of that late afternoon I spent researching ways to serve Buffalo’s homeless population. Were there any holiday food programs at which I could volunteer? Was there a way to take this new-found love of Phil out on the road and help others like him? For days after, every time I went into a store I would think – what does Phil need? Could he use these gloves? This hat? Alas, I did not see Phil again, but he stayed with me in countless, heart wrenching ways.

*****

This past year, my daughter’s apartment has been a haven for me. She has opened her home to me for visits and as a place to get off the road for a bit. Most recently she took me in when I needed gallbladder surgery. Her apartment is in the Lovejoy district of Buffalo, a gritty criss-cross of streets once dedicated to Polish immigrants. While still staunchly protective of its “own”, it is now also home to porch thieves, tweakers, and lazy opportunists. For all my daughter's generosity, I do my best to show my gratitude – mainly, you know, with money.

One evening she was getting ready to meet some friends for dinner and I reached for my wallet, only to remember about Phil.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry I don’t have any cash. I gave my last ten to Phil,” thinking myself funny and fully expecting her to ask who Phil was.

I don’t get the sharp turn of my daughter’s full attention often, but that brought her to a standstill, her mouth agape and her voice an octave above normal.

“You gave money to Bicycle Phil?”

My heart turned over inside itself and my mind, oh my story-spinning mind saw what a fabrication it had made. It took me a beat or two to ask some questions and confirm, that yes, I had given my money to one of the city’s most well-known pan-handlers.

“Everybody knows Bicycle Phil,” she said.

Sigh.

*****

Flash a few days forward to Christmas Eve with my sister’s family. At some point, the conversational space opened and I began to tell the story of Phil, along with my daughter's response. Before I got too far, my nephew’s knowing look told me – yes, he too knew Bicycle Phil.

“But, I didn’t see him with a bicycle,” I said.

“Oh, I’ve seen him panhandling with a bicycle with no tires,” my nephew’s comment got a laugh from us all.

Oh, Phil.

*****

As I write this blog, I stopped to search a bit for an image online of the intersection where I met Phil. Not kidding – the second hit was a Reddit thread “We all know Phil right? Broadway and Bailey?”

The jig was up - my special moment with an unknown person in need was now a city-wide phenomena. What had changed?

*****

A year ago as I headed out on my grand, nomadic adventure, my meditation teacher said something that has really stayed with me – “Watch your mind.” Indeed. What a story I had spun, a longing my mind had created, and even a bit of an attachment to the flood of joy and emotion I had felt in that brief encounter with Phil. Without any information at all, my mind with all its pre-programmed perceptions, had written the story of Phil with me as a lead character.

So, Phil, I have to thank you. Thank you for letting me practice generosity. And thank you, even more so, for leading me to the sharp clarity of recognition that comes when we see our perceptions for what they are. Because, in that moment there was no story - just a spark of love and the truth of inter-connection – on the corner of Bailey and Broadway.

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Be sure to subscribe to the blog here. Please note: Amazon affiliate links are links for which I may get a small percentage if used to purchase something. Thank you! :)