Chasing the Sunset

The announcement came over the PA system from the stewardess that it was once again okay to use electronic devices.

The plane was about half full, and I was lucky to have a row to myself, seating myself next to the window. My mom has many times wondered why someone with long legs would ever want to sit by the window, but it's the seat I choose any time it's available. I guess I've always traded cramped legs for the chance to watch the landscape crawl past below. Plus, I'm the person that tucks the blankets in beneath them when they sleep. I think I just like the feeling of small spaces and tight quarters.

Coach lay quiet and in the dark, aside from a few reading lights scattered throughout the cabin still lit. It was comforting to know I wasn't the only one unable to sleep at 2am. I fumbled around with my backpack between my legs until I was able to slide my laptop case out from between a pair of shoes and some books. I reclined my seat as far as it would go, slid the headphones over my ears, and spent the next 2 hours watching one of my favorite movies, The Darjeeling Limited. The narrative follows 3 brothers taking a train through India, seeking to reconnect after the death of their father.


Ultimately, it's a story about letting go.


I got the call a few weeks earlier from my mom, and the news wasn't good. Back in November, my Grandpa's back had started to act up on him, and it progressively got worse. My updates came through phone calls and emails from my Mom, describing frustration over my Grandpa's declining condition even after repeated visits to doctors, and their inability to come up with a clearer idea of what was causing the pain beyond "a pinched nerve". While I never verbalized it to anyone, I knew it was much worse than that.

I'm 26 years old, and for every single one of those years, I've spent Christmas Eve with my family at my grandparent's house. Even as the years wear on, schedules become crazier, people begin moving away, and life continues to evolve, the one constant each year has always been Christmas Eve. My Grandma cooks up a feast fit for kings, my Uncle makes drinks and tells jokes that are sometimes so bad they're hilarious, and the rest of us sit around watching A Christmas Story, playing cards, and in general just enjoying being back together as a family again. At the absolute center of that has always been my Grandpa. Each year I wait with great anticipation until we're given the all clear to head into the living room filled with boxes of every shape, size and color. I won't pretend like I'm not excited for the presents, but even more-so, it's because we've sat in same spots since we were little kids, and that means I've always sat next to my Grandpa.

To describe my Grandpa is to describe a generation. He grew up in a world paralyzed by the Great Depression, and it showed in the slippers and jackets he would rather duct-tape together than throw away and replace with new ones. Grumpy, but with a wink, he was the ultimate teddy bear who pretended like he never wanted anyone else to find out. I owe much of my love of sports to him, as so many of my memories growing up being at their house revolve around watching golf with him on TV, knocking golf balls around the family room with the putters he always kept stored next to the garage door, and playing pickle in the backyard with him and my brother. Watching baseball games with him was always an adventure, as it meant the TV would be muted because "those damn announcers never talk about the game". And yet two seconds later, he'd be telling the story of how he was at a Brewers game at County Stadium way back in the day, listening to Bob Uecker call the game on the small battery-powered radio he brought in with him. Sitting along the second-deck railing down the third base line, he heard the crack of the bat as a foul ball came directly towards him. He leaned, risking his life as any fan does just for a chance to get a finger on a baseball, and caught it with outstretched hands over the railing. At this point in the story his eyes light up, as he tells you that only seconds later, he hears Bob Uecker's voice come across the radio waves and exclaim, "Oh and a fan just made a FANTASTIC catch of that foul ball down the line!" To this day I can picture the dresser drawer in his room where he kept the ball. As an adult, it's the story more than any other that stands out from all the ones he's told.


As a child, it was my favorite story about my hero.


The dishes were just about done when my mom popped her head into the living room to let us know it was time. We all sprang to our feet, quickly scurried into the living room, and assumed our spots around the room. Working around the room, my mom always sits in the chair next to the tree, Grandma in the chair to her right, me in the middle of the couch along the back wall with my grandpa to my left and brother to my right, Dad in the chair to our right, Aunt in the chair next to him along the side wall, Uncle in the chair next to her, and my sister and cousins scattered on the floor.

My heart sank as my Grandpa, weakened so much by the immobility that had come as a result of his back pain, slowly shuffled into the room and tried to get comfortable in the chair my uncle usually sat in. I'll never forget how different it felt with him not there on the couch, throwing wrapping paper around the room, pinching my knee until I beg him to stop, and getting excited each and every year when he opened his favorite present, the one filled with the ultimate sampler of sausages and cheese. I never realized until that moment how much of my joy each and every Christmas Eve came simply from him being there next to me. In those moments, it was the first time Christmas Eve ever felt different.


Yet looking back, it'll be the last time it ever felt the same.


For weeks I had dreaded picking up the phone whenever I saw my Mom's name pop up, fearing it would be the news I had already been expecting. She told me that after further tests, they had finally found the root of his pain. His prostate cancer that they had been effectively treating for the past few years had unknowingly spread, and was now in his lungs and bones, causing him the extreme discomfort in his back. A very similar storyline had played out just a few years earlier with my Grandpa on my Dad's side, and somehow from the moment I heard something was wrong, I knew history was going to repeat itself. At Christmas I had a Grandpa with a very sore back, a month later I had a Grandpa who wasn't going to be around for much longer. The conversation with my Mom quickly turned to flying me home to see him. With his condition worsening, he had been taken to the emergency room a few days earlier, and was now staying at the hospital for the foreseeable future, or at least until they could get his pain under control. She gave me his phone number at the hospital, which I called often during my lunch breaks over the days that followed. I knew how much he was constantly being asked how he felt, so I did my best to take his mind off all that and keep him company, talking about hiking mountains, being embarrassed around cute nurses, and golf.

A few weeks later I found myself watching a movie at 2am on a plane somewhere over Montana. His condition had worsened even more during those two weeks, to the point that I was sure I had missed my chance of ever seeing him again when, after landing, I turned my phone back on and saw a text from my Mom at 5:50 in the morning telling me to call her when I got in. My Mom is rarely-if-ever awake at that time, let alone texting, so I immediately feared the worst. My memories return to me in all different levels of detail, but one that is as real to me now as it was in the moment was when I called her back. I was on a moving sidewalk just after getting off the plane, my hands shaking as I pushed send. It only took hearing her say "hello" to know that he was still alive. My heart started beating again as she told me how they almost lost him overnight, but were since able to stabilize him.


You quickly realize what an unpredictably beautiful mystery life can be, when hearing that your Grandpa almost died brings unspeakable joy to your heart.


I had planned on getting picked up by a friend, but my parents were already on their way into town from Madison after hearing the news themselves, and just a few minutes later I saw my Dad pull up outside through the baggage claim windows. He had already dropped my Mom off at the hospital, and we were charged with the task of running a few errands before heading to the hospital ourselves. I was in desperate need for comfort food, and I think my Dad could tell, because not more than 20 minutes later the waitress was dropping off a plate full of french toast in front of me at George Webb. It was nice to have a little time to regroup after traveling all night, and more than anything, just enjoy getting to sit and talk with my Dad for a few minutes.

For the better part of that day and the couple that followed while I was in town, I spent time in my Grandpa's room at the hospital. My Aunt and Uncle were often times there as well, along with my parents, and of course, my Grandma.

My grandparents relationship was probably in a lot of ways very stereotypical of the era they came from. My Grandpa was the provider, my Grandma the caretaker. My Grandma is absolutely the most sweet, selfless, loving person I have ever met, and the perfect match to deal with the grumpy teddy bear that was my Grandpa. She kept him cared for, and he kept that little smirk on her face every time, no matter how grumpy he might act, he'd make some little comment to get her to smile and say with just the right amount of playful scolding, "Oh Don..."

One of the first things I noticed was how being in the hospital setting was an incredibly difficult thing for both of them to deal with. My Grandpa was a little more grump and a little less teddy bear than usual, and my Grandma was doing everything she could to help him. It was then more than ever before that I saw them at their most vulnerable, as he was no longer in a position to be able to provide for her, and she was much less capable of taking care of him. Yet even with the loss of roles that had been 50+ years in the making, their love for each other shone through the pain. My Grandma would sit for hours beside him on the bed, holding his hand, with a loving concern in her eyes as she watched him while he napped throughout the day. Her gaze rarely, if ever, wandered from his. When all else was stripped away, even the very core of what they have always been for one another, it was still so obvious what an incredible love they shared. The memory that will forever remind me of this came from something as seemingly insignificant as her combing his hair. My Grandpa was just a shell of himself at that point, weakened and pale from months of immobility and pain, but he wasn't going to let that be an excuse to look disheveled. He would ask my Grandma to comb his hair, as much for a comforting massage as it was to give her a way to still care for him. I can't even describe the way the twinkle would return to his eyes, the smile to his face, the moment that comb touched his head. True love can be found in something as big as a lifetime of memories.


...and something as little as a comb


It was cloudy and near nightfall as my flight back to Seattle took off, my window view nothing more than blotches of gray and black. I closed my eyes and laid my head against the headrest for a moment as we continued to climb, only to re-open them to one of the most beautiful scenes I've ever laid eyes on. It seems cruel that sunsets are often times hidden from view behind a veil of clouds, and I counted myself lucky to be flying above them. Streaks of orange and yellow stretched out across the violet horizon, with the clouds below topped by the faintest shade of pink, as if sprinkled down from the heavens. After taking it all in, I dove into a book and zoned out for an hour or so, before once again gazing out the window, and to my surprise, finding myself greeted by the very same sunset as an hour ago. I quickly realized that with the speed we were traveling, we were essentially chasing the sunset west across the landscape. It ended up lasting well over 2 hours, and I became overwhelmed by the story I was being told in that moment. Life itself is a game of chasing sunsets, as the most beautiful moments, the ones we never want to see come to an end, are so often the most fleeting. In one way or another, we all spend our lifetimes trying to find that perfect speed, that random combination, that special key, that'll make our sunsets go on forever. Not everyone figures it out, but I believe my grandparents did. For the entirety of my life, I have only ever known them as loving, happy, and content, enjoying the endless beauty of the sunset that was their life together.


A few weeks later on my drive to work in Tacoma, my phone started vibrating, alerting me to the call coming in. I knew as soon as I saw that it was from my Dad that I had seen my Grandpa for the last time.

He had passed away in his sleep the night before.

Back while I was visiting, there was a moment where I found myself alone in the room with my Grandpa as he slowly dozed off. A few minutes later he snapped back awake, looked right at me, and asked "did you get an autograph?" He blinked a few more times, realized he was awake, and explained to me he had just been dreaming about getting a baseball player's autograph. It was such a comfort to know that, even amidst all the fear and pain of dying, he was dreaming happy dreams of his childhood heroes. My Grandma later told me the same thing happened when she was with him, as he woke up and told her he dreamed the Hall of Fame coach Don Nelson had come to visit him in the hospital.

......

My Grandpa always spoke about wanting his ashes spread on his favorite hole at his favorite golf course, describing how beautiful it looked. I'd like to think the dream he had on his last night was playing a round of golf where every hole looked exactly like his favorite one. And as his soul moved from his physical home to his spiritual one, he finds God waiting for him at the next tee box. God welcomes my Grandpa with a warm hug and a booming laugh, and asks if He can join in for the rest of the round. My Grandpa happily agrees, and with a big smile, hits a beautiful tee shot, pain free, right down the middle of the fairway.


Just as the sun begins to set.


-Alex

Roadie Day 3: Familiar Faces

(quick note, the pictures can all be clicked on for much larger versions)

Easily one of my favorite parts of the entire trip was my stay in Livingston, MT on the 2nd and 3rd nights of my journey West. A week or so before I left home, I was going over my plans with my Dad; Where I was going, places I'd like to stop and see along the way, mostly in an effort to ease my Mom's worries that I'd somehow get lost in South Dakota and never be heard from again.

When I mentioned that I'd like to see Yellowstone, my Dad perked up, both because he had just been there the year before on a flyfishing trip, but also because he had a cousin who owned a hotel and some apartments in Livingston, a town once considered the original gateway to the park.

Two emails by my Dad later, and I had a place to stay for free for two nights, because of the generosity of a man I'd never met, and who probably barely-at-best knew of my existance before that email.

Why do I feel it's important to mention that?

I've always said that if end up being half the man my Grandpa Kaul was, well, I'll have lived a life better than most. I don't honestly know how to put it into words, but books could (and should) be written about the Kaul men in my family. Any time I've ever been in their presence, from my father, grandfather, uncles, and the many others I've met over the course of my life, I'm overwhelmed by the feeling that I'm sharing the company of great men.

My grandpa was the kind of man who could walk into a room of 100 strangers, and walk out an hour later with 100 friends. It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me well that Kaul men tend to enjoy talking. It's funny how you look back on your relationship with someone you love after they've passed and think about what you would have done differently. With my grandpa, I would have had a tape recorder with me every time he told a story. When I was 14 years old, I went and saw the movie The Perfect Storm with him. On our drive home, he related the movie to a time when he was in the Army, maybe just 18 years old, on a small transport boat headed for Japan that drove right through a hurricane. While his stomach remained steady, he was unable to stand the smell of everyone else below deck throwing up. He decided that he'd had enough, and despite the fact that half the bow disappeared beneath the roaring sea each time it plunged down one of the massive waves, he grabbed a few feet of rope, went topside, and literally strapped himself to the deck. Amid the pounding rain, crashing waves, and the very real thought that the boat may not resurface after the next plunge, it was there that he rode out the hurricane.

I think in many ways I grew up that day. As much as I had (and still have) a whole lot of kid left in me, I remember realizing that I wanted to be him someday. That I wanted to tell epic stories that no one would believe, but they knew were true simply based on the look in my eyes as I told it. I wanted to be a man. I wanted to be a Kaul. I wanted to live a story worth telling.

My grandpa may no longer be alive, but my father is just like him, and I'd like to think myself much like my father. It's because of that heritage that so much of my grandpa continues to live on in me, and with each adventure I pursue, it's like I'm bringing a little part of him back. In many ways, the life I find myself living today is the direct result of a story heard by a boy 11 years ago, told by a man he knew first as his grandpa, and second his hero.

I can't wait to tell him my stories someday. 

Speaking of stories, let's get back to this one. And my "Uncle Dan".

He has a strong build, someone who I imagine probably played linebacker in high school, with welcoming eyes, and a big smile. He wore a white beard that wrapped his chin from ear to ear, and spoke in a way that reminded me of my grandpa. I don't know what it is exactly, but there's something recognizable in every Kaul I've ever met. Sometimes its a look, sometimes a mannerism, but with my Uncle Dan, it was the way that, from the moment he sat down with me, he began telling stories. Here I was meeting a distant relative who I was familiar to by last name only, and it was like I had known him my entire life. With stories ranging from the history of Livingston to long ago memories of my grandpa, 40 minutes passed before I had even thought to check the time. The only reason I even considered leaving was because Yellowstone was calling, and he assured me his stories were nothing compared to the ones I'd experience myself. Of course, I wasn't allowed to leave without a promise to stop by his house the following morning for breakfast before continuing westard. I happily, humbly accepted, as my protests that he was being too nice were only met with a big laugh and strong handshake.

I'm lucky to have met another man, and story, worth living up to.

Yellowstone.


I'm struck with the realization that there are places on Earth that cannot, and probably should not, be described with words. Yellowstone, more than any place I've ever been to, is one of those places. Yet here I am with a blog, pictures, and a desire to make a fool out of myself by trying.

Here goes nothing.

After about an hour-long drive south from Livingston through the mountains, I found myself at the gates to the park, which literally is a giant stone gate that looks like it's straight out of Jurassic Park.

Yellowstone itself is the crater of a still-active supervolcano, a massive remnant from an eruption that undoubtedly changed the world when it last went off hundreds of thousands of years ago. Nearly 40 miles across in every direction, the road follows the rim of the crater in a circle through the park, with attractions like Old Faithful and the Yellowstone Falls along the way. The crater is so big that there are several different landscapes found within, from rolling prairies where buffalo herds still roam, to mountains blanketed in pines, to a canyon whose views and grandeur rival that of it's big brother the Grand Canyon.

the canyon, easily one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen

Yellowstone Falls - massive and breathtaking

Compare this to the last picture for size. See those people on the right? 

As I drove, I became more aware of the sky than I ever have before. It was a different kind of blue, like one I had never seen before, creating a magnificent background for the rolling plains filled with animals below. One of my favorite places to go hiking back in Wisconsin is Lapham Peak, a beautiful wooded trail system carved out of the forest, highlighted by a giant wooden tower at the top of a hill. The views from the top are incredible, but I always remember being slightly disappointed, as even on the clearest of days, a thin layer of yellowish smog hovered around the horizon line in every direction. This coming from a state known for its clean air. Yellowstone has none of that. The smokey lens created by highways, industry, and the constant need for power, is replaced by a sky whose color has inspired generations of artists to try and capture it, whether by painting or poem.

female Elk

Buffalo roaming the plains

as I was taking pictures of Yellowstone Lake, this guy snuck up on me from the side

 I was almost glad that it wasn't an entirely clear day, as the clouds created a perfect contrast against the steel blue backdrop. Each one drew itself across the landscape with their shadow, as if themselves artists, hoping to capture the imagination of a young child looking up, and for the very first time realizing the sky was filled not with clouds, but with teddy bears and princess castles.

Further on down the road, I caught sight of a giant plume of white smoke off in the distance through the forest. Seeing as I was driving on top of a volcano the size of Rhode Island, a small part of me worried that something bad was about to happen, but a much bigger part of me stomped on the gas pedal, eager to see what was going on.

As I crested the top of the next hill, the land leveled out into a giant field, with a panoramic view of Yellowstone Lake sprawled out in front of me. Across the lake I found the source of my curiosity, a forest fire eating it's way through a field of pine trees. Any fire started naturally within Yellowstone is allowed to run it's course without interruption, as long as no lives are threatened. The result was a relatively small fire, but the corresponding view was nothing short of incredible.

I could have photographed this for hours

Throughout other parts of the park, there were noticeable sections of the forest that had been burned through recently, with blackened trees standing as mighty tombstones marking the forest that once was, while new pines just a few feet tall were working their way up from the forest floor. And it was while I was driving through these scarred forests that I remember having a very peculiar thought. In the Christian world, a lot is made of the term "common creator". We say that because we ourselves, and the world around us, were all created by the same God, it's natural to assume similarities would exist across all aspects of creation. For me, that similarity was no more profound than when I realized humans and forest fires are a lot a like. 

I swear this will make sense.

Forest fires themselves are like what so many of us experience in life, events that forever change who we are. But just as in life, they come in two very distinct forms:

The "fires" that show us our need for God, and the "fires" that allow us to grow through God. 

The forest fire started because of carelessness on a camper's part, is like the challenge we face living in a sinful world. The situation was entirely avoidable had we only taken a different approach, but instead we give in to temptation, and are left with a damaging impact. Yet these fires are rarely contained just to the forest. Because of being typically started in campgrounds or on hikes, they start closer to civilization, and often spread to other people's homes and property. Rarely do our decisions affect our lives alone, as we often find those around us, those we hold closest to our hearts, hurt as a result. That one little spark that we thought we could just kick some dirt over, soon became an inferno as a result of our apathy. It's a fire like this that cannot be put out on it's own. Before the damage becomes too great, it demands intervention to save those otherwise doomed to see their lives end up in flames. 

Anyone else like the idea of Jesus as a firefighter?

Then there's the second type of forest fire, the one started by a strike of lightning in a thunderstorm. These fires often come out of nowhere, and become seemingly too big to handle before we know it. These are like the times God tests us. In a flash, our lives go up in flames, and we scramble to figure out what to do. Whether it's a collapsed lung, a freak accident, or getting your car window smashed in, the initial reaction is always one of painful shock, and the realization that, no matter what happens, things will never be the same. But that's not the end of the story. While those trees that burn will forever wear the scars of the fire they endured, new growth will soon emerge, eventually feeding off the ashes of the previous fire to grow even taller than those before. This is the challenge set before us by God. Life will never be easy, perfect, or go just as we planned. We will experience events that will forever change us, challenge us, and leave lasting scars. But it's from those scars that we learn and grow. They are a reminder of the pain endured, the struggles that were encountered, but as with anything God has a hand in, they also stand as a testament to His love and grace. The thing about scars is they are a result of pain that was, not pain that is. He has placed within each one of us the ability to withstand such hardships, and overcome. While others may view scars as a chance to empathize with what once happened, I view mine as proof that I've been made stronger to handle what's to come.

In the same way that steel finds its strength through fire, my once brittle faith has, through fire, been forged into the faith of a man of God growing ever stronger. 

I've got the scars to prove it. 

-Alex

Roadie Day 2: The Open Range

I don't know how the West was this big secret that I knew nothing about for almost 26 years, but am I ever trying to make up for lost time. After another day of blue skies, rusted trucks, and several more species of insects going extinct at the hands of my car's grill...I'd say it's time for a recap.

Where the heck is Wall Drug?

As the bumper stickers suggest, Wall, SD (and more famously, it's drug store) is a place you either know about or you don't. After arriving too late last night, I decided to stop by this morning for some breakfast and to see what exactly made this such a well-known part of the American travel landscape. Wall itself is nothing more than a few gas stations and a water tower, until you turn down Main Street and suddenly find yourself in the middle of the Wisconsin Dells. I got there around 9:15AM on a random Thursday morning, and was immediately met with the realization that there was absolutely nowhere to park, even though the entire stretch of Main Street was more parking lot than road. Luckily a car pulled out just as I was driving by, and I scored a choice spot right in front of the Wall Drug Store. 

I think if you rearrange the letters it spells "tourist trap"

I really won't go into it too much, because it's basically just a drug store with a cafe and a bunch of gift shops attached to it. I'm pretty sure it all started because after 300 miles of nothing on the South Dakota highway, people were willing to stop anywhere. Still worth seeing though, and I scored a sweet bumper sticker along with a dynamite plate of french toast and eggs, and with me, that's always a win.


The Hills Have Eyes

It's funny to have gone through life with perceptions on things like the Badlands and Wall Drug, hearing about them, seeing pictures, whatever it might be, and then you actually see them and it's nothing like you imagined. Nowhere is that a truer statement than when it comes to Mt. Rushmore. I don't really know what I was expecting exactly, but it certianly wasn't a 30 mile drive winding through the beautiful Black Hills Forest, only to suddenly come through a clearing and find myself face to face with one of the most impressive man-made creations I've ever seen.

It's amazing what TNT and 14 years can accomplish. 

The Last Best Place

If you're wondering why I cruised through the morning events, even something as iconic as Mt. Rushmore, it's because really all I want to do is write about my drive through Montana. After leaving the Black Hills, and briefly cutting through the corner of Wyoming for about 30 miles, I entered the Great Plains of Montana, and continued my journey westward towards Livingston, MT, my final destination for the night. 

What stood in the way was over 400 miles of the same Western frontier explored by the likes of Lewis and Clark. I almost felt like I was being cheated having to take the road. Montana is the kind of place that, while vast and wide, simply should not be conquered at 75mph. 

The landscape sprawls out ahead of you like the pages of a book, with hills off in the distance preventing you from seeing what's coming in the next chapter until you crest them. It's almost as if an ancient ocean used to roll across the grassy plains, creating wave after wave, crest to trough and back up again, each one about 30 miles apart. The bottom of each wave swallows you up, as if to try and convince you to pull over and stay a while, promising that the beauty you see around you is as good as it gets. 

Resisting the urge, you begin the next climb, the anticipation building as to what you'll see when you reach the top. And what a sight it is. Each crest brings a new surprise, a new land to explore, often times completely different from the one you've just experienced. 

In the blink of an eye, the land goes from barren to forrested, with the Custer National Forest dotting the landscape as if the beginnings of a beard on the jaw of Montana. 

Then come the hills.

At first, they're nothing more than glorified bumps, but soon they're forming pointed peaks and flowing valleys across the landscape. Look closely, and you'll swear you see one that looks like a nose, the next one a chin, almost as if the land were trying to create a face for itself, pushing up from beneath the surface, the soul of the state trying to break free.

Horses, cattle, sheep, even buffalo dot the landscape, members of ranches unseen, bringing life and movement to an otherwise motionless existance. As you realize that this land, these animals, are nothing more than the small number that happen to run up against the roadway, it's almost staggering to consider the amount of life going on unseen, hidden behind the curtain of hills and trees. 

As the sun begins its slow descent to sleep, and you continue to put distance between yourself and the life you used to know, you find yourself cresting a particularly tall "wave". Just as you reach the top, you realize the landscape has once again changed. Those aren't hills ahead of you, those are mountains. At first just peeking up over the top of the hill, you almost get the sense they're forming out of the ground right before your eyes as they come further into view. 

The drive itself is hypnotizing. 

You get lost in the beauty of the landscape, the voice inside your head begging you to pull the car over and take more pictures. Stretch your legs. Get out from behind your dirty windshield and see, without filter, skies so blue you'd swear you were looking into the eyes of God. 

Lost in this hypnosis are thoughts of hunger, thirst, or a need for fuel. When you finally realize the gas light is on, you haven't a clue how long it's been trying to get your attention, so you quickly pull into the next available gas station to refill. Stepping out of the car, you find yourself once again in the middle of Nowhere, USA, a small town with nothing more than a few houses, boarded up general store, rusted playground, and ballfield whose surface is more dirt than grass. It's a town that outsiders would think could use a fresh coat of paint, but it doesn't much care what you think of it. You'll pump your gas, wash your windows, and in a flash, be gone. There will be hardly a sign of your ever having been there besides the tire tracks leading out of town. Yet long after you've gone, there it will remain, having stood the test of time, weather, and bigger cities with flashier lights. It has always, and will always, be exactly what it needs to be for those who live there. 

Home.

Roadie Day 1: I Spy Something Flat

The good news?

I cranked through 10 hours, 590 miles, 2 states, and 23 gallons of gas as I made my way to western South Dakota today!

The bad news?

I still have 2,347,864 miles to go...

Okay not quite, but 1,200 miles still separates me from Tacoma, WA.

So...

Instead of thinking about that, how about a recap of how I got here?!

Background:

About a year and a half ago I was reading through Donald Miller's book "Through Painted Deserts", which recounted the story of how he, as a young man, decided God had bigger plans for him, but it involved taking a road trip in pursuit of a fresh start from Houston, TX to Portland, OR. It's beautifully written (I dare anyone to finish it and not want to take a road trip of their own), and reading it was basically the most important thing I've done in the past 2 years.

Why do I say that?

2 reasons:

At the time I was reading the book, I was in my second year living at home after graduating college, working at a job that didn't relate to anything I studied, and basically questioning pretty much everything about God and His plans for me. Then came this book, and this specific quote:

"And so my prayer is that your story will have involved some leaving and some coming home, some summer and some winter, some roses blooming out like children in a play. My hope is your story will be about changing, about getting something beautiful born inside of you about learning to love a woman or a man, about learning to love a child, about moving yourself around water, around mountains, around friends, about learning to love others more than we love ourselves, about learning oneness as a way of understanding God. We get one story, you and I, and one story alone. God has established the elements, the setting and the climax and the resolution. It would be a crime not to venture out, wouldn't it? 

It might be time for you to go. It might be time to change, to shine out. 

I want to repeat one word for you: 
Leave. 

Roll the word around on your tongue for a bit. It is a beautiful word, isn't it? So strong and forceful, the way you have always wanted to be. And you will not be alone. You have never been alone. Don't worry. Everything will still be here when you get back. It is you who will have changed." 

6 months later, I was in a car to Delaware about to start the most influential year of my life.

The second reason?

The first time anyone asked me "so what are you going to do after this year?" my mind instantly went to Through Painted Deserts, and how amazing Donald made the west coast and the city of Portland sound. So my gut reaction every time was "uhhh I don't, probably move to Portland!" Well when you have a temporary job, you get asked that question alot, and the more I said Portland, the more I started to believe that's what I actually wanted to do. By the time I actually started applying for AmeriCorps positions, I was basically searching within a 200 mile radius of Portland.

Within a week, I had an offer to drive 3,000 miles to Tacoma, WA to work for Habitat.

God works in mysterious ways, doesn't He? 

Now, at this point you've probably realized I'm incapable of writting short blog posts, but stay with me as we fast forward to the present day.

After making my way back from Delaware and spending a much-needed week and a half in Wisconsin with friends and family (and a slight detour to Minneapolis to visit my amazing friends Chuck, Renee, Rob, and Liz) I found myself with a packed car, full tank of gas, and the open road calling.

Here's a few highlights...

Morning:


Knowing that my day was going to consist of 600 miles of Minnesota / South Dakota highways, I was expecting the worst...and flattest...and boring(est)...trip imaginable. Couldn't have been more wrong. The first few hours as I made my way southwest out of Minneapolis were some of the most beautiful hours I've ever spent in a car. Rolling hills, winding roads, and trees about to peak with their fall colors were more than enough to keep my spirits up as I watched towns whose names I'll never know roll past outside my window.

Afternoon:

As I crept closer to South Dakota, the land began to flatten out, the towns got further apart (and much smaller), and the songs shuffling on my ipod started blending into one giant experiment in hipster music. It was time for a pit stop. I pulled off the highway into a gas station in Reliance, SD, and quickly realized 2 things: That it was suddenly 94 degrees, and that my car is a death trap for bugs...

I've re-named it "the Flyswatter"

Ran in for a quick bathroom break and cold beverage, and couldn't help but smile when I saw 5 or 6 old-timers sitting around a table shooting the breeze, with accents that would put residents of Fargo to shame. My favorite part of any road trip is the chance to explore parts of the country I've never seen before, and I always seem to find myself drawn to Nowhere, America, and guys like those at the gas station. America is still a farming country at its core, and these small towns, kind people, and honest conversations are the best part of what makes America an awesome place to live and discover.

Evening:

I compare driving in South Dakota to driving on the moon. It's very flat, there's no trees, you can see for miles in every direction, and most often you're the only person in sight.

Well, it would look like the moon if not for the several thousand billboards along the road telling me that Wall Drug has 5 cent coffee. I've heard Wall Drug is a can't miss for any traveler going through, and had fully planned on stopping today, that is, until I got my first glimpse of the Badlands National Park from the highway. What started out as me telling myself "I'm just going to drive through", turned into a 2 hour stop-and-go trip through one of the most beautiful places I've never seen. Not to beat a dead horse (named "cliche"), but these pictures simply do not do it justice...

it looked like this at every stop for 40 miles

The best way I can figure to describe it is something like a mini Grand Canyon, except you can drive through it, and the Colorado River is replaced with cattle herds and dude ranches.

I couldn't have driven through at a better time. The sun was setting, the temperature had dropped, and a cooling breeze was whispering it's way through the formations jutting from the ground. My windows were down, sunglasses on, and The Avett Brothers were providing the perfect soundtrack as the sun set over the hills in the distance. My camera couldn't take pictures fast enough.

God's voice is never louder in my ear than when I'm out in nature, and with views like this, it's like He was practically shouting. And not to mention showing off. What a blessing it is to be able to experience a day like today. 

I wasn't the only one enjoying the sunset

Wall Drug was long closed by the time I got to it (don't worry, I'll be doing a little backtrack bright and early tomorrow to check it out) but it was well worth it. 

Well, that about does it.

Day 1 is in the books, and as I sit here at my hotel in Rapid City, SD, I can't help but look forward to the adventures to come tomorrow and beyond. Keep checking back for more updates and photos as I go! And last, though absolutely anything but least, my thanks go out to everyone for the love and support I've received over the past few weeks. I was able to raise well beyond my goal of $600 because of your generosity, and I couldn't be more thankful. I am humbled to know that so many people are praying for and thinking about me, and I promise to make your support worthwhile. 

God is good. Alex is tired.

Goodnight everyone.

Why I need your help...

Friends and Family,

As the title suggests, I could use your help.

I have no money. 

I have no money because I chose to live and work in poverty for the past year. (I have the foodstamp card to prove it)

Why is this a problem? 

Because I chose to do it again next year, only 3,000 miles away. 

Let me explain...

This past year, I've been an AmeriCorps member working as the Youth Coordinator with the Sussex County Habitat for Humanity in Georgetown, DE.

And an AmeriCorps member is...?

AmeriCorps is essentially the domestic Peace Corps. As a member, I am placed with a non-profit organization and agree to serve with them for a year, in exchange for a modest living stipend and student loan assistance upon completion. The idea is to live in poverty along with those you serve, which I am doing as I live and work alongside 10 other AmeriCorps members here with Habitat. To give you an idea, our income this year is 60% below the median for Sussex County, which helps to explain why we're all big fans of foodstamps.

my AmeriCorps family

So why did I choose to do this?

I have had many experiences helping those who are, in certain ways, less fortunate than myself. However, I am not motivated by a sense of feeling sorry for them, or guilty because of what I have in comparison. In so many ways, those experiencing hardship, pain, or loss often exhibit some of the strongest examples of character and will imaginable, far greater than what I often feel I am capable of. Ultimately, I serve because I have a heart for those reaching out a hand in need, and because the person I am and the faith I have has given me the desire to be the hand that is reaching right back. 

I'll give you a second to grab a tissue...

Okay, so that all sounds good, but am I actually any good at it?

As the Youth Coordinator this year, I managed the recruitment, scheduling and programming of over 500 youth volunteers throughout the course of the year, who helped contribute over 4,000 hours and $18,000 to further the growth and development of Habitat and it’s mission. Their volunteerism helped Habitat complete and dedicate 9 houses this year, with 4 more currently under construction. (because that doesn't sound like it was pulled straight from my resume...)

Beyond the work site, I found places for groups to stay if they volunteered for a week, organized cookouts, beach bonfires, community dinners, and in general, treated them to a daily dose of that Alex charm you've all grown to love. (admit it)

just a small sample of the youth and adult volunteers

So now what?

With my year of service here in Delaware coming to an end, it was time to decide what comes next. If it's not already obvious, I consider this past year to be one of the greatest experiences of my life. 

I've learned that service will be my career, not just my passion.

I've learned that you can love total strangers almost instantly.

I've learned that table saws and fingers don't mix. (learned that the hard way)

I've learned that owning a house can sometimes make all the difference.

And most of all, I've learned that God's plan for me is an adventure that's just getting started.

An adventure you say?

"Washington DC is not a place to live in. The rents are high, the food is bad, the dust is disgusting and the morals are deplorable. Go West, young man, go West and grow up with the country." - Horace Greeley

I'm pretty sure Horace was on to something (in more ways than one), which is why I'll be packing up my belongings, turning my car into my very own mobile home, and moving to Tacoma, Washington in late September for another year as an AmeriCorps member, this time working as a Volunteer Coordinator with the Tacoma/Pierce County Habitat for Humanity. 

The only problem?

Remember the part where I mentioned I have no money?

While that's not entirely true, a cross country move is proving to be more costly that I previously thought. 

The Breakdown

• roughly 3,000 miles / 30 mpg X $3.70/gal = $370 for gas
• tolls along the way = $30-$40
• a 48 hour drive = $150 for motels along the way
• food / drink / Wall Drug bumper sticker = $50

Grand total = right around $600

Now trust me, it's not like I haven't already considered alternative fundraising options:

• donate blood (pretty sure I did that enough this year already)
• bake sale (somebody needs to investigate the girl scout monopoly)
• ponzi scheme (too 2010)
• hold up convenience store (people just laughed)
• forest gump style cross country run (I can't grow a beard)

I think it's pretty clear that I've exhausted all other options...which brings us full circle...

I need your help.

I've started an account at chipin.com, which is a website that allows you to safely and conveniently donate to my fundraising effort using paypal (which will link directly to my paypal account).

To sum up everything I just said, I am looking to spend another year helping alot of incredibly amazing and deserving people experience the dream of homeownership, and need your help getting there. Absolutely every donation will go toward my trip out there, and if you're all amazing and fund me above and beyond that need, it will go towards helping me pay the bills and maybe have a little left over for some fun exploring when I otherwise may not have been able to afford to.

To help break things down, I came up with a little system for donation (and fun rewards!)

It's $600 to go 3,000 miles, so 20 cents per mile.

How many miles will you sponsor?

• 1-100 miles (.20 - $20) 
•  A personalized photo postcard from the road!
• 101-250 miles ($21 - $50) 
• A postcard, plus a phone call where I'll tell you how awesome you are for at least 15 minutes! (you can also pay me not to call you)
• 251-500 miles ($51 - $100)
• A postcard and phone call, plus a handwritten letter with photos once I get there!
• 501+ miles ($101 - )
• Everything else, plus something cool for Christmas from Seattle
• 3,000 miles ($600)
• I'll let you name my first kid

Thank you for taking the time to read and consider this, and please send me your address / phone number if you do decide to sponsor me so I can properly thank you! You can donate by clicking on the widget below, or by going to http://alexkaul.chipin.com/go-west-young-man

And if you don't have paypal or would rather just do it by mail, my address (until September 16th) is:

501 S Bedford St
Georgetown, DE 19947

I love you all, and look forward to sharing my adventures next year with you!

Alex