Well, this is it. My luggage is packed. My visa is in order. I have a plane ticket. Tomorrow at 2:30PM I board a sky blue Korean Air Boeing 777 bound for Seoul. My emotional response is a cool mix of excitement and fears amplified by my rather active imagination. In all truth, this is the happiest I have been in months.


I arrived safely in San Francisco in the first hour of Monday morning. The 737 landed with a bump and the cabin lights flickered to life. The sleeping passengers groaned and grumped as they awoke from their slumber. I, being in the middle seat and having no friendly shoulder upon which to rest my head, had fallen asleep bolt upright. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and stared out the window. It had been a long flight.

After a long cab ride I arrived at my cousin's house in Berkeley and her boyfriend let me in. He introduced me to their couch and I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

I had not intended to fly to San Francisco. I had intended to drive with my friend Wes from Silver Gate, Montana in the beat up plumbers' van he bought from his dad for $720. The van had performed splindidly throughout Wesley's 2000 mile roadtrip, including the 200 or so miles he and I drove together through Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks. However, the van had not been pushed much beyond 50 miles per hour the whole trip in the cool mountain roads of Montana. The drive to San Francisco would be a grueling twenty hour march across the hot, arid landscapes of Utah, Nevada and California. The last thing I wanted was to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with my thumb in the air. So I bought an airline ticket.

Sunday afternoon Wes and his friend Amy escorted me and my 100 pounds of luggage to Billings, Montana, for the flight first to Las Vegas, and then on to San Francisco. We drove throught beautiful Asorka wilderness on the Cheif Joseph Highway. It was the most scenic stretch of American road I have ever traveled. A deep canyon marked where the Clark's Fork of The Yellowstone River cut through the 10,000 foot high mountains towering high above. I spent the better part of the trip with my face pressed against the window, mouth agape, staring in wonder at the natural splindor dwarfing the tiny white van.

Wes dropped me off at Billings International. The dreaded SSSS showed up on my ticket and I watched helplessly as friendly TSA officials took everything out of my carefully packed luggage and ran various tests on all of it. I too, was scanned from head to toe for the second time in a week. This is what I get for buying one-way tickets.

On the flight to Las Vegas I met a nice young woman from Minnesota who worked part-time for the Mayo Clinic and spent much of her spare time doing mission work for her church around the world. The oldest of ten children, she had lots to say about traveling abroad and teaching. I hung out with her until she caught her plane home in Las Vegas.

Once in San Francisco, I made haste to get my visa processed. The Korean consulate is in Presidio Heights, though I hardly knew that. All I had was an address: 3500 Clay Street. I looked on a map at the train station and began walking up Powell Street. It was a beautiful day. The sky was a deep blue and the air was cool. Still, I worked up a monstrous sweat as I climbed the incredibly steep street. A streetcar passed me by and the people on board looked at me as if they were thinking, "God, I'm glad I'm not that guy." After a few blocks of this futile travel and a bite to eat, I caught a cab to the consulate.

A bureaucrat at the Korean consulate, a plain white building on the top of a hill in the affluent Presidio Heights neighborhood, gladly accepted my documents and $45 dollars cash and told me to return at 4:45. I thanked him and walked into the cool breeze. Far down the hill I watched a small fleet of tiny sailboats glide under the Golden Gate Bridge. I set course for the Golden Gate Park and went on my way.

A few hours, a nap and a newspaper and I walked back to the consulate. I got my visa just as promised.

When I got back to Berkeley my cousin and her boyfriend took me out to dinner. The next day my computer died and I had to take it to the Apple store to be repaired. They accompanied me on that excursion and we extended it to include a tour of China Town and Pier 41 where I got a much better view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

It's been a wild week, but I have finally made it here, my jumping-off point. I liken this leg of the journey to the first time I jumped off of the high-dive at the swimming pool as a child. There you are at the top, twenty feet off the pool deck, a long line of kids extending down the ladder, cutting off any hope of turning back. You have to jump.

--Stephen

PS-As I said before, my computer's video card died today and the Apple people told me it would be 7 to 10 days before they would have it repaired and shipped to my folks in Atlanta. So with shipping to Korea it will be a solid month before I have my computer back in my hands. Don't worry, the blog will continue, but alas probably without photos.

Here are a few more frames from Yellowstone National Park. --Notes

My family dropped me off at Hartsfield-Jackson International airport on the afternoon of the 25th. My parents were visibly upset and their fears manifested themselves in the fiercely possessive hugs I received from both. My sister was very excited for me and not quite as worried. They are a source of strength and guidance in my life and I will miss them the most this year.

My family waved goodbye to me as I walked into the security area. Fate elected me to be thoroughly searched from head to toe as my belongings were probed by the x-ray machine. As I was searched I watched people put on shoes and organize belongings while my laptop, wallet and other personal items sat unguarded in front of them. It was a little unnerving.

The first leg of my trip took me to Denver, Colorado and their beautiful airport. An hour layover later I jumped onto a two-engine DeHavilland Dash-8 turboprop and watched as the rugged landscape of Colorado and Wyoming slowly passed beneath the sky-blue wings of the small aircraft. Mountains and rivers bunched, pinched and shaped the landscape ino dramatic relief. The face of the planet itself appeared to me like the thick, weathered hide of some fierce beast.

After circling the small town of Cody, Wyoming, the airplane landed. I met my old friend Wes in the parking lot after claiming my luggage. He poked his head out the window of a beat-up white GMC van and said hi. i threw my belongs in the back as a light rain began to fall.

Our vehicle would be an ideal candidate for the Pimp My Ride television show. It was just that ugly. The exterior was a dented, faded white and rusted. Time and ultraviolet light had permanently burned the name of the van’s former employer - a plumbing company owned by Wes’ dad - into the windowless exterior. A long crack ran from one side of the windshield almost to the other like a fault line. Part of one headlight was missing. Within the van the power adapter for a GPS system blinked. When asked why a plumber would need a GPS system, Wes responded, nonplussed: “To make sure they aren’t fishing on the job.”

The van’s low-geared V8 grumbled to life and we were rolling. A stop at Wal-Mart to pick up a propane stove and we were off down highway 14/16 towards Yellowstone. I let my mind wander to the mountains rising in the west as we left town.

Now let me say right now that I have never been out west. My knowledge of the American landscape is restricted to the eastern seaboard and Missouri. The tallest mountain I had ever seen before today was Clingman’s Dome in North Carolina, rising a paltry 6,441 feet.

My mind was primed to be astounded, and mother nature did not disappoint. We passed over, around and even through mountains towering far past 6,441 feet. Wes pointed out how young this range was in geologic time. Most of the mountains were still pure rock jutting bare and naked towards the sun. A few had a smattering of trees and sage. It was like looking back at time. The Appalachians had once been like this millions of years ago.

Everywhere was the hand of man in evidence. A deep gorge abruptly became a shimmering lake. Houses dotted the tops of hills in the piedmont south of the highway. Blast cores like pinstripes covered a wall of rock rising hundreds of feet above the pavement where a crew had sheared the mountain in two to make room for the road. I marveled at the scale of these works as I reviled their incongruous position within the natural order.

“Welcome to Yellowstone,” Wes said as we climbed ever higher into the mountain range. Construction crews held up traffic from time to time, allowing the visitors to get out of their cars and take in the scenery. For hours we drove along massive Yellowstone Lake. It was so large that waves lapped against the shore and whitecaps dotted the horizon. Magnificent views of the surrounding mountains were numerous and we stopped often.

The van trundled over the length of Yellowstone and we crossed into the Grand Tetons National Park. Wes pulled the van over at Lizard Creek campsite. Wes had outfitted the van with a futon and shelves for food, but we decided to sleep in a tent because it was a clear night. Above our heads the Milky Way cut the glorious field of stars in two. I gazed up at them as Wes and I ate dinner. After dinner I passed out in the tent, so exhausted from my journey I could barely move.

The next morning we drank our instant coffee by the edge of Jackson Lake. The Tetons lined the horizon like sentries watching over the crystal-clear waters. Ducks, geese and magpies flew overhead. A motorcyclist named Kevin told us about an encounter with a wolf the night before. He and Wes talked motorcycles while I watched a Cessna fly low and fast over the lake.

After breakfast we drove south towards Jackson Hole. The road was easy and wooded and I had almost forgotten about the mountains when suddenly a view opened up and the Tetons dominated the western horizon, so close I could see where the snow clung stubbornly to the north-facing culs and valleys. It was awe-inspiring.

After a stop by the Jackson Lake damn to make some photos, we got a second breakfast and turned back towards Yellowstone. Wes was anxious to get back to Silver Gate where his girlfriend would be waiting for him. We turned towards Old Faithful and headed northwest through the geothermal basins.

We stopped at Old Faithful. Crowds of people swarmed the geyser, cameras and video camcorders at the ready. The geyser bided its time, patiently simmering in the cool dry air. Suddenly, it sputtered to life and blasted a jet of boiling water and steam high into the blue sky. Heads and cameras pointed up in unison, dumbstruck by the magnificent display of nature’s power. The geyser erupted long enough for a family of asian tourists to take turns standing in front of it for photos. I watched as they smiled and traded the camera back and forth. I listened to their language, straining to find out if it was Korean or Japanese.

Wes, who graduated from Auburn with a degree in architecture, walked down to the Old Faithful Inn to marvel at it’s beautiful hand-hewn timbers and turn-of-the-century construction. No two pieces of the lodge were the same. Columns made from the trunks of trees still bore the marking of insects and bark not to mention the rough axe strokes of some long-dead craftsman. The massive pendulum of a giant steel clock slowly counted off the seconds next to where we sat on the second floor.

We stopped at a couple more of the geothermal sites, including the Grand Prismatic Spring and the Terraces above the village of Mammoth. The scenery changed dramatically as we moved into the Lamar Valley running east to west along the North side of the park. Buffalo dotted the vast plains surrounding the Lamar River where fly fishermen plied their patient trade. Wes remarked that this was some of the best fishing in the area. On our left the mountains of the Asorka wilderness stood watch over the pristine valley.

Wes pulled the van over at an innocuous turnout identified as the trailhead for Trout Lake.

“Come on, you gotta see this,” Wes said as we started out for the lake.

The trail was steep and well-worn. Wes told me about how the trout in the lake run up the stream every year to spawn. The lake itself was amazing, resembling the kettle ponds I came across while walking the Appalachian trail in Maine. A few fishermen waved to us as we walked up the hill behind the lake, coming to a magnificent view of the valley we had just passed through. For minutes we simply stared in awe as tiny cars drove down the black ribbon of asphalt along the valley floor. The mountains glowed red in the afternoon sunlight.

It had been a good couple of days, I remarked, and Wes agreed. We ran back down to the van and rumbled off towards Silver Gate, just over the Montana border a few miles down the road.

As these are the last few days I have in Atlanta, I've been spending a lot of time with my friends and family. I've been wandering in and out of their lives for a few years now, and it's always interesting to compare where I left off to where I returned. I get this feeling like I suddenly "get it" about why my family has it's minor dysfunctions. And then I realize it doesn't really matter.

So I went on a hike with my mom, dad and sister up in North Georgia. We walked along the South Carolina side of the Chattooga River, setting for the terrifying 1972 movie Deliverance. I have never seen that movie and never will. It maligns a place and a river I treasure. I have been hiking, whitewater kayaking and exploring the rolling hills in North Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee since I was a boy and I have never encountered anything like what the characters come across in Deliverance.

My parents, who where teachers in Atlanta, spent their summer breaks canoing, camping and hiking with friends in the mountains of North Georgia. Much of my family mythology was forged in the class-three and class-four rapids that tumble down the Chattooga. My mother paddled that river up until she was three months pregnant with me.

The photo is of my parents standing on the bridge at Burrell's Ford on section one of the Chattooga. It is a powerful image for me. My parents met at Emory University in midtown where they were studying for their teaching certificates. Much of their early passion for one another grew in this place, within the safe, lush hills rolling away from Atlanta. And by the power of their bond came my sister and I. In a way, I view the mountains of North Georgia as my true birthplace. When I was a baby, I rode on my father's back in a snuggly as he hiked with my mother, and as soon as I learned to walk I was going on day trips with my family to Blood Mountain, Jack's River and other rugged destinations in the Southern Appalachians. It was only a few miles southwest of the Chattooga at Springer Mountain in 2003 that I began the 2176-mile Appalachian Trail, walking for six months to its terminus in Maine. The mountains are my spiritual center, my one true home.

So it was with great satisfaction that I paid a visit this last weekend in Georgia. There are mountains in South Korea, and I look forward to climbing them and exploring their crags, views and gaps. However, I will never love a place like I love the North Georgia mountains.

Tonight is my last one for a while in Atlanta. Once again I will drift out of the lives of my mother, father and sister to pursue some new adventure. I will miss them. My parents choke up when my long absence is mentioned. My sister takes it pretty well. It hurts to let them go. But this is my path, and they know that and are happy for me. I leave for Montana to visit my friend Wes tomorrow. I will update from either there or San Francisco on Monday.

I have one more day in Atlanta before I catch the first of three aircraft that will eventually deposit me in Seoul, South Korea. Seoul, with a population of just over 11 million people, is a metropolis to rival any in the world. A friend remarked to me last night that tonight would probably be the last time I'd ever hear the crickets chirping for a while. I disagreed. Every place I have ever been has had it's own unique style of crickets. You just have to listen for them. This drew something like criticism.

So I'm a bit nervous. I'm a bit excited. And there is something else that I can't quite explain or grasp. I think I will call it adventure, but that is a little presumtuous...I could get my ass handed to me out there! Hey, whatever. The story is about to begin. So sit back, put up yer kicks and grab a cold one cause' the trays are in they're full upright and locked position.

WWDD

Hey, who is that handsome guy? Oh hey, that's me! Fancy that. I thought I'd try out the photo upload feature of my blog. That's the self-portrait I took for the academy in Pusan, South Korea, who hired me. From what I gather from friends who have lived in South Korea, Koreans put a lot of emphasis on outward appearence. So one of the deciding factors of whether or not I got the job was if I was reasonably easy on the eyes. As a photojournalist in Southern Mississippi, the dress code never got more severe than a pair of cargo shorts and a t-shirt. So I dug a collared shirt out of my closet, set up my camera and "guerilla" light kit, and hung a blue bedsheet on the wall with push-pins. With the camera on self-timer, I made five frames, and this was the last one. I guess the Koreans thought my appearence satisfactory. They hired me two days later.

Well, I had intentions of writing my first blog entry today. However, I am tired and sloth-like and I have a bitchin' case of writer's block. So I'll just say a few things and leave the real preachin' for later. Within the space of a couple of months, my life has made a ninety-degree turn. My career as a newspaper photographer - which I spent the last seven years of my life piecing together - has been set down indefinently. I am striking out for South Korea for one year to teach English and sort some things out. I intend on using the tools of my former life: My camera, my recorder and my laptop, to document the first year of the rest of my life. This blog will be the gathering place for those images, sounds and thoughts as they unfold in the coming months.