FINAL CHAPTER!
Chapter 18. There is No Place Called Home.
NOCA: A Daily Testament of Youthful Discovery in the Wilderness.
July 31 cont’d…
Heather and I navigated through the sprawling metropolis of Seattle, Tacoma, and Olympia. Interstate 5 was our river of asphalt. In Oregon, we didn’t waste time with Portland or Eugene; we weren’t concerned with civilization, we were wrapped up in Mother Nature. We were astounded by the heavy clear-cuts in Oregon. In areas, the horizon was leveled, chopped away, massacred and ugly.
After bypassing Eugene, we headed for the Coastal Byway, Highway 101, by hopping onto Highway 38 West towards Reedsport; a curvy road along Elk Creek, through Elkton and along the banks of the mighty Umpqua, a gorgeous river in Oregon. From mountain lake to the Pacific Ocean, the Umpqua blesses all with its beauty.
We drove through a town named Drain and at Reedsport, Oregon we gassed up. Heather and I were both cranky, but managed to keep our spirits high because we were on the historic Highway 101 South, “Hitchhiker’s Way”; Gary Snyder’s famed route from the Pacific Northwest to San Francisco. As we traveled, we noticed the Oregon Dunes and at Charleston, we made camp at Sunset Bay State Park along with the rest of Oregon, as far as we could tell. We paid sixteen bucks to set up camp next to the public bathhouse. We ventured from the bustling campground and visited a nearby beach. After curling our toes in the sand and enjoying a tremendous sunset on the Pacific Ocean, we called it a night.
August 1
I looked out the tent at sunrise to see the orange clouds of a new day. I didn’t feel rested, but knew what sleep I got, had to work. I peed in the bushes as all the Sunset Bay campers slumbered. Heather and I packed up and were down the road to a scenic overlook by 6:30am. When we pulled up, we heard an unusual repetitive horn-like noise. Upon further investigation we discovered it to be the honking blow of hundreds of seals and sea lions. The Pacific Ocean was stretched out in the distance and below us, on Shell Island, were California sea lions, Stellar sea lions, harbor seals and Northern elephant seals. They were lazily strewn about on their own island in the sun. We noted pelagic cormorants, oyster-catchers and a variety of seagulls spinning in the sky. Many of the sea mammals were swimming in the calm water while others awkwardly moved about, flapping their flippers, causing a raucous with chaotic sounds. With our binoculars, we could see their pink mouths spraying steam as they bellowed otherworldly trombones. It was exhilarating. Heather and I watched in amazement as the sun rose to warm our back sides.
We drove along a dead end road and heard a bizarre chirp from the bushes we had never heard before. We got out of the car and discovered it was a wren-tit, a tiny bird found on the Pacific Coast of California. After all that excitement, we were starving, so we sat on the rocks, heated up some thick oatmeal and watched the ocean crash into the immense rocks ashore. Near the water’s edge, there was a man who appeared to be taking sea samples. He may have been doing something scientific. We had flashbacks of our summer employment as field biology interns, which seemed like light years away.
We left our wren-tit and seal and sea lion friends and hopped onto “Devil’s Highway”, Highway 7. It did appear to be the edge of Hell. As far was we could see was obliterated forestland, clear-cut into nothingness. It looked as if a terrible battle had taken place. Mother Nature had unfortunately lost that battle.
Before long, we passed through quaint coastal towns like Bandon, Gold Beach and Brookings, then rolled into California. We met road construction on our path to Jedediah Smith Redwood State Park, where for the first time in our lives we witnessed the magic of the Coastal Redwoods. Those ancient trees house the energy of the heavens. The monstrosity of the redwood trees made me feel as if I was driving through a prehistoric landscape.
When we pulled into Jedediah, we avoided the three dollar fee by saying that we would only be staying for 15 minutes. The dude working the station handed us a 15 minute pass and said, “Park somewhere unnoticeable”. That just so happened to be our specialty. We were hungry, so we cooked up two bags of Ramen noodles and chowed sandwiches amongst the gargantuan trees. We were enamored by the shamrock and fern understory and the glorious stream flowing by.
We did not linger long at Jedediah State Park and were back onto Highway 101 South after lunch. We cruised the Redwood Highway, through Redwood National Park; shafts of light beamed through the high canopy. Heather and I were overjoyed to be surrounded by the incomprehensible redwoods. Their girths were mind boggling and I felt empowered by them. Each grove would end far too soon and suddenly there would be no more mystical shafts of light beaming through the elevated canopy, no more magic, only tiny saplings taking the big trees place.
We traveled to Arcata, California, the home of Humboldt University and considered pushing on without stopping, but we remembered that Barry said he’d be traveling through Arcata too and that we should try and meet up with him. At 6:33pm, from a phone at the Humboldt University’s Visitor Center, we somehow got a hold of Barry. We decided to meet at Patrick’s Point, north of Arcata.
Our reunion with Barry was fabulous and it was if we had never parted. We chose Dry Lagoon Camp, the “environmental site” in a spruce grove on a high cliff above the Pacific. A wonderful evening ensued, as always with Barry, our leader and prophet. We also hung out with a wild vagabond named Brian who was nearly 9,000 miles into his own epic journey. We all shared salad, bread and smoked salmon as the night sky awakened.
August 2
On a foggy evening in California, I slept hard and dreamt curious dreams the entire night through. I woke to an empty tent. Heather had gone to the shore break to inspect birds with Barry. I stumbled onto the sandy beach and breathed deep, the salty air was a natural remedy for my sleepy disposition. I witnessed brown pelicans flying low over the waves and western gulls were quick to make a stab at the pelican’s hard earned food. Barry pointed out a common murre and a group of Caspian terns. Barry and his phenomal naturalist abilities continued to impress us. He called out the names of shorebirds and with magical intimacy, he gave tidbits of information about each. He had become a fixture in my mind. Before he left us at 9am, he made a final recommendation that we visit Yosemite National Park. We told him half-heartedly that we would. Then, sadly, Barry was on his way. Heather and I pushed towards San Fransisco.
The traffic intensified as we neared the city of Santa Rosa, so we decided to skip San Fran and headed on Highway 12 towards Napa and up I-80 to Fairfield, California. We enjoyed the wine region very much, but the amount of people on the road was driving us insane. Out of Fairfield, we took Highway 12 to Lodi, then followed Highway 99 to Manteca. The day was growing long and it was scorching hot, but Highway 120 out of Manteca was serene, with a gentle sunset and a mild breeze. We were glad to be out of the traffic jams and moving towards Yosemite. We were taking Barry’s advice. He told us to camp for free before entering the national park and to make sure to get into the park before sunrise.
On Highway 120, we wound upwards in the darkness, our headlights gleaming from cliff sides. At the top of our climb we found Groveland, California, where we took a step inside the Iron Door Saloon. We found a unique blend of folks. There were white hairs and hippies, chicks in all black with dark makeup under their eyes, tattooed wild haired people, frat boys, sorority girls, rednecks, bikers, stoners and whatever other stereotype you can think of, they were all there and all drunk. The bartenders were overworked and we couldn’t get a drink to save our life. The odd thing is, we felt like the dirtiest of all the strangers in the bar. Heather and I walked out of the old western swinging doors in no more than 15 minutes after we had walked in, happy we had at least experienced the place. As we walked out the doors, a large woman was wailing a bad rendition of “Wind Beneath My Wings” on karaoke. Heather and I were ready to make camp, but wished we could have mingled with the wild crowd at the Iron Door Saloon a bit longer.
There is something about the back roads of America. On the interstates and major highways people are trapped inside bubbles, but on our lost highways, the bubbles burst and you can take in the countryside, one breath at a time. I love desolate roads that lead to quaint mountain towns and hidden natural wonders.
After searching for over an hour on the gravel roads outside of Yosemite, we found the perfect campsite. We chose a site off of Harden Flats Road and planned to be up and at ‘em before the sunrise the next morning and before a suspicious park ranger could catch us. We couldn’t tell if we were illegally camped or not. We didn’t see any signs and were anxious to rest. We rolled out our bedrolls and flopped our sleeping bags out under the Yosemite stars. The jewels of the night sparkled above us and the Milky Way was a stream of light. We needed no tent, only the earth as our bed and the canopy as our cover.
It has been a haul, the California traffic, road after road, but what an adventure. From the Oregon coast, through the high and dry Coastal Range, the flat and fruitful Sacramento Valley, and into the Sierra Nevada, our drive has been worthwhile. I lay here and hope no California bears come and bother us. I’ve heard stories that the California bears are more daring than the bears of the Pacific Northwest. I can barely wait to see Yosemite.
August 3
Heather and I conclude that the sunrise is the finest part of the day. Many people are used to seeing the sunset, but I reckon less people witness the sunrise. I love being blessed with the mild and fresh morning sunlight upon my cheeks. What a wonderful challenge it is to get up with the sun.
We slept off and on during the night, as the stars shone upon us through the pine canopy. I dreamt wild dreams and woke in darkness to find Heather wrapped in fear, claiming she had heard something approaching us from the mysterious forest. The full moon was creepy and spectacular. The morning sun came just in time. No bears nor mountain lions feasted upon us in the night.
We were in the car by 6am to beat the crowds surely rushing into Yosemite National Park on the clear Friday. On Highway 120, we saw a couple of cars cruising in the entrance, but for the most part, we felt all alone. We were fortunate to find the entrance booth completely empty and we drove right in, no fee. The highway winded through stands of ponderosa pine, Douglas fir and giant sequoia. We headed into Yosemite Valley and discovered charred snags and new shrubbery shooting out of the darkened earth, signs of recent forest fire. We observed a distant meadow being swallowed by encroaching trees. This meadow was once a lake, then it became a marshland, and then the grasses moved in. Now, time had brought another change…the forest.
In the Valley, we received a magnificent view of the mounting sun on top of El Capitan, the granite hulk. El Capitan was formed by large chunks of granite flaking away over time, leaving a round mass of bald rock with a sheer fce. It is a climber’s Mecca and a natural wonder of the world. We found the stained Red Creek in the bottoms. In the forest, the understory was dry with a leaf litter groundcover. Heather and I gazed at Half Dome and North Dome, some of the most infamous rock formations in Yosemite.
The campgrounds were crawling with tourists and many campers were beginning their day. Heather and I took a pleasurable hike up Tenaya Creek to Mirror Lake and smelled horse manure along the way. It was dry; we kicked up reddish dust with every step. We dreamt of the moist temperate rainforest of NOCA. Near Mirror Lake, we made love beneath the pines and almost got caught by a couple of hikers. We washed up in the tiny creek and hiked towards the Honda, passing a battalion of people on horseback, beginning their guided tour. Many seemed miserable as they rode by without a smile. Heather and I were glee and grinned. Only a few folks mustered a wave, but one couple gave us an over joyous hello.
We loaded up and headed out of Yosemite Valley, east on Highway 120, through the park, stopping to climb a round mound of granite. From the highest vantage, we beheld a 360 degree view of Yosemite National Park, even witnessing the strange silver beauty…El Capitan. Yosemite was a rare place, yet very different from NOCA.
On Tioga Road, we drove slowly and took it all in. We made a worthwhile stop at Tenaya Lake and I walked barefoot to the shore and waded in with a mellow pace. I stood in the clear lake up to my thighs, meditated on the coldness and dove in for a bath. Heather was soon in for a dip as well. By 11am, we were absorbing the sun’s rays on a grassy beach under the Californian sky. For lunch, we ate thick broccoli soup, a turkey sandwich and some chips. Heather took a catnap as I listened to the German and French conversations going on, on both sides of us.
We made a quick stop at the Visitor Center, glancing at Tuolumne Meadows. Our Yosemite finale was a hike up to Gaylor Lake. Barry had made the recommendation, so we felt inclined to follow through. The hike got our hearts pumping and the vistas were spectacular. Gaylor is a deep alpine lake of the Sierra Nevada and we napped along its shore. Many other friendly folks were enjoying the locale as well. Soon, we walked down and drove out the park exit, never paying a dime in fees. The young guy working the exit didn’t even ask us for the twenty dollar fee. We smiled, laughed and drove happily away.
Our next destination was Mono Lake, which is an unusual body of water with tufu formations leaping from its midst. Tufu forms are made of salt, forged by spring water leaking through the bottom of the lake. The end result are large bleached stalagmite-looking creations poking out of the water. In the middle of the lake, sits Paoha Island, brilliant white in the sun. There was a fee station set up beyond the parking lot, charging three dollars a head to get a closer look. We figured seeing it from a afar for free was good enough.
We took Highway 120 to Benton, California, the town where the only water was warm, because of all the hot springs in the area. We strolled into a Victorian home posing as a convenient store to fill up our water bottles with cold water after our arid ride through the sage, sand and dry wind. The kind shop owner said, “The only water here is hot, from the springs, but in the fridge there’s water in a bottle and ice cream in the freezer.” I grabbed a grape popsicle and Heather got a chocolate and mint ice cream delight.
We continued on Highway 6 into Nevada. Travel was amazing. We witnessed mountain passes, valleys and flat desolate wastelands as we drove under the fiery sun, through a parched wind, on a drawn out highway. There were no signs of life, no reasons to stop and zero cops. There was only Heather and me inside the Honda, blazing along at 78 mph. We would travel for 40 minutes on a straightaway, climb a mountain range, round a set of curves and then coast, screaming downhill to another continuous path in a forever valley. Nevada was an awesome place for a road trip. Gas was very expensive, but the solitude was outrageous. You can camp about anywhere you want; throw down your mat and sleeping bag to rest under a delicious sky.
With the onset of dusk, we witnessed a Nevada sunset. The burning sun reddened behind a wall of dry mountains and a great mass of glowing clouds. The desolation of Highway 6 was unbeatable…I feel the power of travel running through my veins. I am drugged by the Nevada twilight, looking straight ahead, over mountain ranges and through valleys. I could keep driving here forever. There is nothing ahead but adventure. I want an eventful life; having something to look forward to everyday. I must never stay in one place too long, while I am young and restless. I want to shed my clothes and be naked in the wilderness of life. Spread love and peace; meet wild hobos and hippies. I want to see what is going on in places like Tonopah, Nevada. I want a sunburnt, windblown quest in the Wild West. I feel my heart; or actually I think I have left it behind. It stretches out over this vast land. I miss Nevada already, and I am still here.
After quite a haul, we stopped short of Ely, Nevada, shy of Highway 50 and made camp alongside White Creek. We pulled off Highway 6 onto a gnarly gravel road and drove eight miles over a couple of huge rocks, through sage and groves of dry-loving stunted trees. We found a deserted campground and noted little sign that any human being had ever stayed there. It felt like wilderness, besides all the cow patties. There was running water in the streambed, a bit muddied up from free-range cattle, but it was awesome to witness water in the vast desert. When I walked to the edge of the stream, tiny fish scattered. In the darkness, we shined our flashlight upon two creepy eyes on the ground beyond the stream. When we investigated a bit closer, the thing flew. We figured it was a nightjar species resting in the tall grass, either a common poorwhill or a nighthawk.
The stars were bright, but not half as bright as the gleaming full moon. Crickets croaked while Heather and I enjoyed one beer a piece. I strummed a few songs, riffing about NOCA memories, praising the life of a wanderer…I am amazed at the fluidity of life right now; if one allows things to occur, to flow, life will unfold beautifully and your experiences on earth will be better because of it.
We are sleeping for free in America! I am not paying a dime for this perfect evening; the best things in life are free. I don’t want this to ever end. There is a rising terrestrial globe in the east; an orb full of glory as it creeps gently over the Great Range. Writing by the light of the moon in Nevada. Heather and I are blessed with the desire to see the west in a unique and inexpensive way.
We visited Yosemite today, after sleeping for free in another spot tucked away. We saw Mono Lake, which is thankfully still being spared from the water vacuum of Los Angeles.
August 4
The Nevada night got frosty under a clear sky at 6000 feet in elevation. No cattle tromped on us as we slept; we struggled to stay warm in our sleeping bags. I woke briefly as the moon was setting in the west, and at that same moment, I could see a dim glow of the rising sun. I heard a nighthawk squeak, then a tiny unknown bird called from the sagebrush as the sun crept into view.
After packing up, we drove the bumpy road back to Highway 6, towards Ely, Nevada. It turned 5:40am as we traveled 80 mph with the daystar blinking behind the Egan Range. The morning was brisk as we drifted. We sauntered into Hotel Nevada and had a tremendous breakfast, sitting among old folks with their “Senior Games” shirts on. After breakfast, we headed towards Great Basin National Park, which we paid a brief, but sweet visit. We found the spot to be worth further investigation for a future trip. It was unique and fairly new, established in 1986. Near tree line in Great Basin, there grew bristlecone pines, which are gnarly and hardy ancient trees. The oldest living organism in the world is a bristlecone pine. One was found to be 4950 years old. Even in life, these trees seem dead, growing one branch at a time. The fight for life is difficult in the high desert. Bristlecone’s have a short growing season, get very little precipitation, face strong winds, and they get beaten with fierce sun rays.
After our driving tour of Great Basin, we found ourselves in Utah, where the speed limit dropped to 65. The trip to Delta, Utah was a drag in the mounting heat. Near Holden, we hit Interstate 15 North and at Scipio, we took Highway 50 East. At Salina, we got on the long road towards home, Interstate 70. Heather and I found Utah to be gorgeous country. The red earth, rock columns, and cliffs rising in the air were impressive. We witnessed valleys, gorges and an extraordinary arid landscape with little human inhabitation.
Eventually we took Highway 191 South towards Moab and Arches National Park. We sped past Arches, seeing idling cars, waiting to be allowed entrance. We drove into Moab to get some gasoline, food and give the car a break. Heather and I grew indecisive about what to do with our time; Moab offered plenty of distractions. We needed to save money, but tasty food and cold beer in an air conditioned pub sounded too good to pass up. Finding shade to park the Honda was nearly impossible, so we stashed the car in the sunshine, and headed into Slickrock Cafe. We partook in 22 ounces of Squatter Full Suspension Pale Ale and I had a fat hamburger, while Heather scarfed a vegetarian sandwich.
We sat around the quaint pub, and eventually took our carefree vibes to the streets. We wanted to continue our buzz, grab a sixer and head for the hills, but with all the shops and Arches National Park nearby, we suffered from a case of irresolution. We got stoned and cruised the streets of Moab. We caught word from a local about a “primo” free camping spot. This young man with shaggy hair gave us directions to a spot located up Ken’s Lake Road. He seemed to know the scoop and told us, “The mountains are my favorite spot anyway.” He said he was fed up with all the tourists, and offered us an escape route to freedom.
I felt like I fit in in Moab, shirtless and dirty in my flip flops. Heather and I smelled like wet dogs, and it was pleasant to give the unsoiled folks a taste of our free-loving, mad traveling vibes. After wasting time on the city streets, we decided to catch the sunset at Arches. We heard the gates would be closing at 7pm, so we headed to the entrance at 6:35pm and the line of cars was stacked up. We tried to get in for free, because we didn’t feel justified in paying ten bucks.
The ranger working the entrance booth sent us packing with a spank into reality, “If you are caught in the park after hours and have not paid, you can expect a fine.” We told him we didn’t have any money, and his reply was, “Okay, thanks for coming by.” We did a U-turn and got the hell out of there. We were pissed, but I guessed he was doing his job.
Heather and I had a six pack of brew, so we decided to head to the spot the local had told us about. It turned out to be a so-so scene. All we discovered was a dry creek bed and some broken bottles, but the birding was top notch. We saw pinyon jays, warbling vireos and a sage thrush. We took a jaunt up the creek bed and made love atop a massive boulder. After a while, we decided it wasn’t a great place to camp, so we hopped in the car and drove away. The ride out was a bit tricky in my car, we nearly got high-centered on a rock as we slammed through deep ruts, jarring my vehicle’s frame. We ended up traveling a curvy non-maintained road towards Ken’s Lake. An amazing sunset was burning orange and red behind a wall of crimson rock. A colossal thunderhead was moving in and the sky was visual poetry.
At Ken’s Lake, we found a suitable spot to make camp. We took in the encore of the sunset as ribbons of rich color reflected from the surface of the lake. Heather and I had a couple of beers, while I strummed songs on my guitar. We wanted to sleep out without a tent, and did for a little while, but had to move under the shelter of our tent when the rains arrived. The precipitation ceased in the night, so we threw back the rainfly, opened the tent doors and let the air flow through. The moon was something to behold.
August 5
In the morning I watched the moon set and the sun rise. At 7:30am, we broke camp and bathed in the small stream feeding Ken’s Lake. Heather and I drove into town and on the way, we noted Cassin’s kingbirds, western kingbirds, and an unidentified bird that looked like a starling crossed with a dove. A large flock of these unfamiliar birds foraged in the trees along the fencerow.
We pulled into the entrance of Arches National Park and paid the ten dollar fee to a very kind woman. We were happy to give her the money, she was informative and made us feel welcomed. The ranger from the night prior was in the background giving us stink eye as we paid. By 9am, people were swarming, but the natural arena swallowed the sounds as we cruised in the Honda, window peeping as the day unfolded.
The Arches Visitor Guide stated that the park “contains extraordinary examples of erosion in the shape of gigantic arches, natural bridges, window spires, balanced rocks and other unique sandstone forms.” Erosion, the freeze and thaw cycle and extreme temperatures all helped to form that magical place. From the road we gazed at Courthouse Towers, The Organ, Tower of Babel, the Great Wall and Petrified Dunes. We hung a right, parked and hiked to view the North Window. The Garden of Eden amazed me, as did the Turret Arch.
We witnessed Delicate Arch from afar and drove to Devil’s Garden where we hiked in to see Landscape Arch, spanning 306 feet, which is the world’s largest natural arch formation. We strolled between smooth red canyon walls, listening to the distinct call of the canyon wren. Along our jaunt, we saw a lark sparrow, a black-throated sparrow and two brilliantly colored lizards. Heather and I meandered barefoot in the soft red sand towards the Honda. Many tourists were on the trail, some smiled and responded to our hellos, others pretended we never spoke.
When we made it back to the car, it was like an oven inside. We drove out of the park, thinking of Edward Abbey and his season at Arches that he delved into in his superb book, Desert Solitaire. We hopped onto Highway 128, which tracked alongside the Colorado River towards Quebecua. The drive was impressive; towering red walls surrounded us with true beauty. Before long, we were blazing through arid mesas, then we hopped onto I-70, leaving the state of Utah and finding the state of Colorado waiting.
In Colorado, we made a pit stop at Glenwood Canyon, a gorgeous chasm surrounded by conifer stands. We ate lunch at a rest area, picking apricots from a tree outside the bathrooms. Seeing the tubers floating by, we were enticed to swim in the swift currents of the Colorado River. Heather and I got into our swimsuits, walked to the rivers edge and hopped in, being carried downstream in the cold chocolate brown water.
Pretty soon, we hit the road east and drove directly into a severe rainstorm. Hydroplaning, mixed with the Honda’s already unsound brakes made travel troubling, but Heather guided us safely through the squall as we jammed to Incubus on the car stereo. The drive over the Rockies was emotional. We both had tears in our eyes as we reminisced on NOCA. It felt dismal to be headed east. We were afraid that what we had come to know in NOCA, we may never find again.
After passing through the Eisenhower Tunnel, traffic came to a stand still. Weekend warriors were blocking our path. After a long wait, we plowed through Denver and watched the mountains fade away in our rear-view mirror. The sun finally dissolved while we were on the road in eastern Colorado, but we couldn’t stop driving, we had become possessed. We were wowed by an intense lightning storm near Kanorado. Sharp blasts of lightning struck the ground all around our vehicle. Somehow, we reached Exit 199, to Wilson Lake State Park at 4:30am.
Owls flew over the Honda as we pulled through the park entrance. Our headlights gleaned off their undersides, making the large birds seem even more supernatural. Heather and I were delirious after out long drive; we could not tell whether the owls were owls, or figments of our imagination. We stumbled to our campsite by the lake, threw down our bedrolls and sleeping bags and gazed into the immense sky overhead. The sun would rise too soon.
August 6
On the final morning of our journey from NOCA, the gentle light of an unrisen sun and the hullabaloo of caroling robins aroused us. We seemed to have awakened to the most beautiful spot in all of Kansas. Rolling and grassy knolls were stretched out across the horizon. Yucca plants, prickly pear cactus and big blue stem were all about. A wispy fog hung over Lake Wilson. As the sun ascended into view, we approached the water and noticed its unreal clarity. Without hesitating, Heather and I stripped naked and took a swim.
Our positivity soared as we pulled onto I-70 East, headed home to a place we’ve never known. Just short of Salina, Kansas, we caught I-135 South to Wichita. With the windows down, we cruised; passing a semi filled to the brim with fat pink pigs. Heather and I held our breath and watched the farm animals jostle around in the double-decker trailer. Soon enough, we circumnavigated Wichita and pulled into the small town of Clearwater, Kansas where my parents waited with a hot and home cooked meal.
THE END.
Read previous…Chapter 17. Overdose and Emotion.
If you enjoyed reading this piece, please feel free to read the entire epic series!
