Right off I must apologize to those how ever few might have looked forward to my regular post as I cycled the Trail of Tears and sought connection with my ancestry, "things just didn't work out as I expected".  There was the shift in reality, the bicycling and what it requires, the total imersion in the moment and one's body and oneness with the bike and road or else, well, what is the most unpleasant thing can happen in this reality, power surge?, pizza delevery late? condom out of date? Found I just could not do it, secure the ride and visit a library or cyber cafe, of which I found many fine and good and will mention them in more detail in latter post, sit down at a screen and try and report on an experience is still forming in my mind. I can write fluently, or at least passing well, in the midst of battle and caos, but that is easy, familiar.

    And then there were the breaks in the journey to return to this torn and bleeding land I love and it's many peoples, the fun of helping secure a colleagues freedom, the trek to the first national park, includes the area where once were the massive carvings of the bodis - - kinda reminded me of my favorite of Trail of Tears signage --"where now there is a ____, lake, shoping mall, ugly sprawling trashy housing selling for 300 gs - - once thrived for more thousands of years than any can say a great civilization, so good they did not need a written language till they saw the writing on the wall, the whites for whom "everything is dead" and yes Grandmother, they are insane.

    Here and now, high and dry pleasant to recall( and I made notes )those days wet and warm and I will post on the ride, walk, drive, experience, the Trail of Tears and tourism and paranoia and Poverty in Amerika, like that. And though I did not bother put in my two cents worth on defeating the insurgency will and must be on the record some places, if nothing else honours my dead friend who loved journalist and poetry. The current invaders and fruitcakes, ie: the TallAlbinos, ElQuackos and those commanded of god to explode themselves, do not respect the tradition that it is the end of the fighting season, but in the high mountains of what some call the tribal areas PEACE comes on the wings of winter and the silence and beauty fly into you on the frezzing air and  feel like to cleft your heart in twain. I will warm my fingers over a candle and clack away and share some even my dreams, maybe.