A Photo Essay
I was seeking a hiking partner, someone to accompany me onto the lava flow at the bottom of the Chain of Craters road, Volcanoes National Park, Big Island, Hawai’i. Just outside the Visitor Center main doors, I noted a fit man intensely studying the maps posted on the wall. His fingers traced a path to the current position of the surface flows. I asked if he intended to go there, Jeroen responded, and within a half hour we were off on our adventure.

This is my third time to the Big Island, and my fifth or sixth time onto the active lava flows. It is an experience I recommend for all who desire to witness the birth of stone, but only for those who have the capacity to walk for several miles over some of the most challenging and potentially deadly terrain on Earth. Even a minor fall, a surface abrasion will bleed for hours for the solidified lava is in all respects a form of glass. Jeroen and I are strong hikers, moving at a fast clip, but by the end of our journey we were exhausted, almost stumbling. When we finally returned to our truck, an estimated twelve or fourteen miles later, we laughed at the sensation of pavement beneath our feet again.

Bring 2-3 liters water, food, flashlight with extra batteries, and first aide kit (we depleted Jeroen of his bandages). At night, under a storming sky, you cannot differentiate black rock from black sky from black sea and will need a compass to find your way back again if the beacons are not visible.

Our first effort was to hike to the base of the pali where we could see an obvious plume of white. We arrived at dusk. The sulfur in the air and waves of heat beneath our feet were confirmed as signs of a recent flow when the sun set and we noted a red glow in the cracks all around us.

We headed back toward the Forest Service beacons but a mile in retreat noticed a much larger surface flow over our shoulder, a mile down hill, toward the ocean. Jeroen encouraged us to turn back, and I am pleased we did, for what we discovered was incredible.

While I have been here before, both alone and with friends, I have never experienced the intimacy with the lava that transpired last night. I am not claiming a spiritual experience nor divine intervention, rather, a sort of trance, a call of the heat which drew me in.

In the science fiction film “Sunshine” a space station orbits close to the sun, to observe and to predict. In the station is a viewing port where crew members may dial-in the computer controlled filter of the sun’s intensity. One character experiments with the intensity of the heat, increasing it beyond the recommendation which causes him to gasp for his breath. But he returns for more, increasing the intensity each time. He is more than addicted for he experiences some form of communication which ultimately leads to the film’s (typical Hollywood–disappointing) conclusion.

Last night, I felt something like this. Not a voice of intent, nor an intelligent communication, rather, a challenge, a request to come close, to reach out and touch that which is giving birth to the Earth itself.

In 1991 and again in 2006, I recall the incredible sound made by pressing a stick into the flow, into the belly of the dragon. Once pierced, it hissed and breathed fire and my stick was consumed. Last night, without a stick, I knelt on the ground with my camera just in front of me. I recorded the molten rock which had already traveled miles to arrive where I stood, less than a mile, should gravity give permission, to the edge of the ocean.

As the cooler shell of the lava tore open, it ripped, exposing a red, silver, and black scar which gave way to red, yellow, and white inside. Of its own volition, it moved steadily toward my feet. At twenty feet the heat was that of Phoenix in the summer. At ten feet it was difficult to maintain eye contact. At six feet I had to look down in order that the rim of my hat would shield my face. At three feet my whole body was consumed for I felt I was nearly on fire.

Even now, as I write, I am moved to tears for I do not know now to describe the sensation. I did not want to move. I wanted to stay there and wait for the lava to come to me, to roll over me and envelop my whole body. I wanted to join it on its journey, to move slowly, crackling, tearing, ripping, enveloping everything in its path. I was intoxicated.

When I replay the video I recorded, I hear myself saying, “Oh my god! This is incredible. But it’s so hot … my pants are melting… my legs are burning–oh! My face, it hurts. But just a little closer … just a little more … I can wait, it’s so close now.” And then, out of concern for my camera more than my skin or clothes, I stood, turned, and took a few steps back.

I did this again and again. I could not get enough. I pressed my feet onto the thick skin of the flow, causing it to bulge momentarily, but by no means distracted from its intended course. Only when the camera’s battery died was I awaken from my spell. Jeroen and I needed to start back, our journey far slower by night compounded by the availability of just one headlamp to share, his bulb burnt-out just a few minutes earlier.

How do I explain this? I don’t know. I do not desire to. It is the birthplace of stone and in that place, I desired to be consumed and then reborn.

(video footage of the flowing lava is showcased in A Study in Motion)

Prescott National Forest
Saturday evening, just after sunset

I found a quaint little spot up a steep, deeply rutted road. The tires spun to get me here, but on the second go they held. Huge fire pit and ample wood, but crawled in the back of my Subaru instead. In the back of my car, wrapped in a fleece blanket. It feels so much better here, like a fort when I was a kid. The safety of a small, well defined, familiar space.

A cool soft breeze blows across the interior of my car, from the open hatch to the driver side rear window. Children yelling in play at another campsite, just down the road. Gun shots ripple in quick succession from what I hope is some distance. (Later, at half past midnight someone unloaded an automatic gun for what I am guessing was a few dozen rounds.) The echo resounds from the canyon walls, eventually diminishing to a hushed roar. The smell of wood smoke mixes with roasted meat and sulfur.

The national forest was designed and designated for these function: people doing what they please, where they will, with no immediate supervision. Sometimes it scares me, but it is what I cherish most about the American southwest, the sensation of open space even within the confines of well mapped and over used territory.

I love going for hours, even days without hearing my own voice.

It is so grounding for me to walk at dusk or dawn in search of boulders to climb, a block of cheese in hand, carving off pieces to mix with bites of an apple. Apples always taste cool even when they have been in the sun. I never tire of the sound of pine needles beneath my feet. Lately, I walk barefoot even on the trails, my feet growing accustomed to their natural state.

If someone were to tell me I could never again use the Internet, I would smile. If someone were to tell me I would never again venture into a city, hear the sound of a car, eat from a restaurant or enter a crowded bar, I would feel relief. if someone were to tell me I could never write again, I would be horribly sad but take up singing, painting, and playing guitar.

If, however, someone were to tell me I could never again sleep on the ground, under the open sky, I would prefer to die.

Six months ago, I ran away from home after thirteen years in Loveland, Colorado. This was a reaction more than a decision as I needed to climb up and out of a dark, scary place. An exercise in self-awareness and self-control, I learned to let go.

I landed in Squamish, B.C. where I lived in a tent, climbed, and worked from local cafes. I attended the Supercomputing trade show in Seattle and worked as a volunteer staff member at the isolated Holden Village in the Washington Cascades. Since the beginning of 2012, I have lived every other few weeks in Phoenix, Arizona and Boise, Idaho with family and with friends. I met amazing people and experienced a challenging mix of pleasure and pain through new friendships. I rediscovered total, full mind and body peace at Joshua Tree and wonderful isolation in the Superstition Wilderness yet wrestle with anxiety still.

The contrasts are intense but the experience rich. Where I once saw my journey as an exercise in recovery, I now see that I learned to flow from place to place, to find “home” no matter where I set my bags. Where I am now is neither behind nor beyond where I started, but on a different path altogether.

What I learned in this process is not only a means to work through challenging times, but how one may live every day, for a lifetime. I found freedom in mobility which I will continue to employ, no matter how stationary I may someday live.

Live in the moment.
Engage the future but only a few days at a time. Intend for things to unfold but with limited attachment to outcome. If you find yourself in that place which is out of reach and full of fear, pull back, let go, and trust that it will come to you when the time is right.

Live for people, not things.
Spend less time in relationship with things and more time in relationship with people. Reduce the clutter of ownership in order to make time for you and for other people in your life. Practice minimalism every day. Become self-reliant not through the acquisition of more, but through the desire for less such that you are comfortable without concern for what you left behind.

Live in a mobile home …
Find “home” within yourself so that no matter where you go, no matter where you end up, no matter what is given to you or taken away, you will be grounded and able to give freely of yourself to others.

… and care for it too.
This is the only body you will have, in this lifetime. Treat is as the finely tuned machine it is. We have changed what we put into our bodies more in the past 40 years than in the past 40,000 (“Fast Food Nation” by Eric Schlosser). If it wasn’t available in markets just four or five decades ago, it’s not real food and should not pass between your lips. Exercise each and every day because your body is designed to walk, run, jump, and climb. As the longest distance running animals on this planet (“Born to Run” by Christopher McDougall), sitting in a chair all day will, slowly, kill you.

Give freely.
The greatest freedom we employ is not the freedom to do what we want (for that is in fact a burden in disguise) but the freedom to give of ourselves without concern for what we gain in return.

Choose your friends wisely.
Who we choose to accompany us on our journey both reflects and amplifies who we are. Welcome those who encourage your best habits, who cause you to laugh, who support you in reaching your goals.

Listen.
Trust those who ask questions more than they do speak. In return, ask questions and share only when asked for your experience or opinion. If you spend an entire day not speaking, that is a day well spent.

Do it wrong.
If everyone says you are doing it wrong, you may be doing it right. Pay attention to the context, listen carefully, and you’ll hear the difference between someone who shares their opinion out of fear and someone who expresses concern through love. In the end, however, the ones who likely have the “correct answer” are the ones who ask you what you need, and simply return your words to you.

Try … or walk away.
Work hard to achieve what you believe but do not be afraid to stop, step back, and try again from a new angle. Do not be afraid to walk away completely, for often is the case that those things we pursue without reward are the ones that come back to us when we no longer give chase.

Trust.
When fear drives you to make decisions, stop, back up, slow down —don’t jump! Instead, look at the situation from other points of view until you find a means of moving from a place of trust. Wait, it will unfold. You’ll feel the difference when you get there, you’ll just know.

Think.
Make time to just think, every day. Disconnect from the Internet. Turn off the TV. Walk away from the cell phone and just be. Close your eyes and enjoy your brain’s capacity to take you to places your body may never go. Inside the nucleus of an atom or to the distant reaches of a binary star. You may find reason to gasp or smile or simply breathe. Discover the joy which may be reached only through contemplation.

Never stop learning.
All research shows that the very act of learning a new language, a new activity (ie: juggling, climbing, dancing), or reading new subjects changes the wiring of your brain. Open new pathways before the old ones become frozen and resistant to change.

Make love to the setting sun.
Get outside early. Stay outside late. Feel the rays of the sun warm your entire body, not just your bare face, arms, or hands. Share yourself with someone you love as the shadows grow long.

It feels like just yesterday that I attended the SuperComputing trade show and conference in Austin, Texas, 2008. That week I met Luciano, a man without a home for whom I provided a hotel for two nights in order that he could get off the streets. I flew back to Austin two months later to capture his story on film. I spent two nights on the streets with Luciano and his friends, his life unfolding for the camera.

While walking from my hotel to the convention center yesterday afternoon, a tall (much taller than me) man approached from my left side, I assumed homeless by his tattered apparel and streetwise stride, hunched, favoring one side a little more than the other.

He shouted while coming across the street, “Hey! Hold up man.” A bit winded, he moved faster to close in, “Hey, God bless you man,” pausing while he caught up, “Man, you some kinda business guy! Look at you, you look like the mayor of Seattle!” referring to my new pleated pants, dress shoes, and Puma jacket (which passes for business casual on a good day).

I laughed, “Thank you. But no, I am not much of a business guy, at least not like that,” I responded.

“Hey, I ain’t want’n to bother you or noth’n, but it’s been a hard week and I was just wonder’n if you could help me get a bite to eat?”

“I won’t give you any money, but I will gladly buy you dinner.”

“Really? Hey, that sounds great.” He was walking along side me then.

“Where do you want to eat?”

“Hey man, I don’t want to change your plans. So, where you head’d?”

“To the convention center. You know where it’s at?”

“Oh yes sir, just up this here hill. I’ll take you there and right next door is a Subway shop.”

“Sounds great. I’ll buy you a sandwich.”

He reached out and shook my hand, “My name is Myron.”

“I am Kai.”

“Kai? What kind of name is that?”

“A short one,” I smiled.

“Man, I like you. You’re all right.”

“Thank you. I like you too.” As I said this, and we neared the business district, I could feel eyes watching, people trying to understand the relationship between this man and me. I made a point of making eye contact with him as we walked and allowing our shoulders to bump every now and again as though we were best friends. I did not want, in any way, for him to feel ashamed or unclean.

Myron pointed to his shoes and said, “You know, if I take off these shoes, my socks would just plain fall apart. There ain’t much left to even call them socks. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I had a pair of socks that were like that.”

“Well, if you can spare some change, maybe I could buy a new pair of socks.”

“Socks. Not drugs. Right?

“Yeah man, I promise. Socks.”

He refused the twenty and so I gave him ten dollars in cash. We talked about where he lived and how we moved through the world. He was polite, funny, and a great conversationalist. We arrived in front of the convention center and I remembered being there before for the 2005 or 2006 SuperComputing tradeshow.

We walked up to the Subway shop, it’s outdoor counter facing the street. Myron looked at the options and at the request of the sandwich artist, ordered a foot-long meatball sub. He asked if it was ok to get a drink, chips, and a cookie. I said he could get whatever he wanted.

While we waited for the sandwich to be made, interrupted by the usual questions for type of bread, cheese, veggies, and sauce, the conversation unfolded something like this.

“Ain’t you gonna get something Kai?”

“No, there will be food at the trade show in just about an hour.”

“You want a bite of mine?”

“Thanks man, but I am vegetarian. For twenty three years.”

“Twenty three– What? Twenty three years without eat’n meat!? Maaaan, you is crazy. No one can live like that! I am SO sorry for YOU!”

I laughed out loud, the woman at the counter turning to smile at us both, “Well, I seem to be do’n ok.”

“No man, that just ain’t healthy.”

“I ran forty two miles last week and do one hundred sit-ups every day!”

Myron just shook his head, looked at his worn, cracked fingers and long nails. Under his breath, “Twenty three years … you know what, I bet when you let one go,” and at that he bent forward to make it clear what he was referring to, “I bet it don’t stink at all!”

I laughed so hard I nearly fell over. He bent over and stood up a few times, just to get the most of the humor. Then he took a step forward and leaned on the counter, “Fellas. See this guy over here,” pointing at me, “he ain’t eat’n no meat for twenty three years! You think that’s ok? And when he farts, man, it don’t smell!”

The younger of the two said, “Yeah man, it’s ok.” The other just laughed.

Myron turned back to me, just as the sandwich was nearly done, “Kai. You mind if I say a prayer for you?”

“No, not at all.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and bowed his head, his shoulders still resting at a height taller than all of me combined. “Lord, thank you for bringing me to this man. I know now I’m gonna make it one more day. Amen.”

We exchanged a few hand-jive maneuvers, something I love about my many encounters with the homeless in so many cities. Each has a special ending, a flutter, a set of wings, a wiggle, or an explosion of fingers, some just ending in fist bumps. We walked back down the street along the front of the convention center. Dozens of geeks, some I recognized from over a decade of attending this family reunion walked past and through the glass doors.

“I don’t live too far away, just down there on First and Cedar.”

“First and Cedar,” I repeated.

“Yeah. So, you know, keep an eye out for me, ok? My place ain’t so fancy. It’s low income housing.”

“But you have a place of your own. That’s doing ok. You’re better off than some.” He nodded. I continued, “You know, I’ve been living out of my car and a tent for over a month.” I looked up to see what he might say.

He stopped walking. I thought he might be offended, “You put’n me on?!”

“No. I’m being honest. I left my home in Colorado two months ago and have been living a pretty simple life since. Like you said, low income housing. Now, I am a carpenter in a mountain village not far from here. I’m not say’n my life is like yours, but you know, we share something in common. A simple life.”

Myron smiled.

“I’ll look for you Myron. Maybe we can have lunch together later this week.”

“Yeah. Yea man, that’d be nice. See ya around.”

“I hope so. First and Cedar, right?”

He nodded and waved, opening the Subway shop bag.

I turned to enter the convention center.

The first person I saw, at the top of the three step landing was Steve Poole, the infamous “bomb boy” from Los Alamos who once invoked a perfectly timed, one finger salute from a Sr. Manager of Business Development for Motorola for interrupting a PowerPoint presentation with an accusatory question. “Is that– is that an Intel laptop you are using!?”

But he was more commonly known for his introduction to his work when one visited the Los Alamos booth at SuperComputing, “Bombs. We make bombs. Better bombs. Bigger bombs … F-r-i-e-n-d-l-i-e-r bombs,” his crazy white hair giving him the appearance of a modern day Einstein. He’s likely just as smart.

“Steve! How are you?” extending my hand.

Grinning, “Kai, it’s been a few years.”

“Yeah, needed a vacation from this place. Hey, I emailed you a few weeks ago, but it bounced. You still at Oak Ridge?”

“Yeah, that email doesn’t always work. You know, I just work here and there now.”

“You got a new email?”

“Yes.”

“Uh. Mind if I have it?”

“Yes,” smiling as only Steve can.

“Got it. Never mind. I’ll look for you on the show floor,” smiling back.

Two hours later, I got a call from Luciano, the man in Austin whose story I captured on film two years ago. He was returning my call to his sister a few days earlier. He is doing well. He is in rehab, has a girlfriend, email, and even a Facebook account. He sounded really good and asked when I was coming back to Austin to visit. I told him I hoped it would be soon.

The transition from Holden to Seattle, from stoking fires at midnight to SuperComputing 2011 was a stark contrast, but the unfolding of this day was exactly what I had asked for.

I was home, even in the big city, for at least a few days.

One.
My first attempt at running away from home was in my mid-teens. I had just acquired my first backpack, camp stove, and sleeping bag, second-hand for sixty dollars from a man in Columbus, Nebraska where my family then lived.

The very first time I put it on I remember the sensation of autonomy, of having everything I needed to live resting on my back. It was as freeing and invigorating as taking my first road trip to Prescott and Flagstaff a number of years later, once we had moved to Phoenix.

I do not recall if I was upset with my parents (or if they were upset with me), but I do recall putting everything I needed for a few days into my Coleman external frame pack. I believe I wore camouflage sweatpants, a large red hoodie, and hi-top shoes.

My intent was just to walk north, out of town and into the country side, returning in a few days … or never. I walked from downtown Columbus a few blocks past the high school, zig-zagging north and west through residential neighborhoods, north and west until I hit the road which passed the man-made lake whose bottom was thick with brown algae ooze that squeezed between swimmer’s toes. The Columbus High track team called the loop bounded by this road on the west and one that ran along the hill top to the north the “Big Beer Can”, some half dozen or eight miles in all, if I recall correctly.

I walked along the road into the afternoon. Cars passed in both directions, passenger faces pressed to the windows wondering who I was and where I was going. Nebraska was simply not the place where a teenage boy was likely to be seen walking with a backpack, bound for farmers’ fields. It was likely to cause a stir. I recall the weight of the stares, part of me wanting to turn back for fear I would be recognized and my parents called by a concerned neighbor. But inside, a confidence grew which set me in motion a lifetime of exploration of the world, more often than not, alone.

I didn’t even stay overnight, let alone vanish for a few days, my upbringing invoking too much guilt for sleeping on private land, the fear not of being caught but of bringing shame on the same family which I had left just hours earlier. I walked back home that same day. It didn’t matter that I didn’t leave for good for I had not failed. Instead I gained confidence that I would be ok no matter where I went, no matter how I traveled. A backpack was all I needed and everything would be ok. I began to dream of traveling to places I had never been.

Two.
The second time I ran away from home was in 2004. I had worked for two years straight, never a day in which I did not check email or log on to the Internet. I had nearly died inside, the joy of entrepreneurship gone. I had no option but to leave or I was likely to lose all of me. I asked my office manager and friend Amanda if I could just be gone for a while. She encouraged me. I drove to Mexico where I spent two weeks with a friend and then flew to Cuba without cell phone, laptop, or credit card. I lived with a host family who provided food, friendship, and a sharp machete which I used to cut trails to the caves and cliffs. It was one of the most memorable times in my life, to just be a climber, each day shared with other climbers who owned next to nothing but made time to smile, sing, and dance. I made life-long friends whom I missed so dearly that I returned a month later for another two weeks. That was an incredible, rejuvenating journey which will some day invoke a full telling … but again, I came home.

Three.
A little more than two weeks ago I ran away from home again. This time for good. My house is on the market, thirteen years of love, labor, and vision for how a one hundred year old house could be made energy efficient now a gift to the next owner.

In seventeen years the longest I remained in Colorado was, I believe, no more than ninety days. Now that I am free I think of nothing but finding a place to settle down, a safe space to just stop for a while and be. Despite my car packed to the roof with books, clothing, camera, climbing, biking and camping gear, the backpack is nearly empty, the intangibles all but let go. It was the breath of ghosts which blew me away, north and west again, this time across state and country lines.

One thousand five hundred miles later I arrived in Squamish at 10:30 am on a Sunday morning. Beneath the campground sign was another written in marker on cardboard, “FREE 6 MAN TENT. WET BUT IN GOOD CONDITION!” I set it up and moved in, my nylon condominium in the forest of British Columbia. As with the first time I drove through Canada en route to Denali National Park for a ten day solo back packing trip in the early nineties, I have been met by sincerely warm, genuine smiles and desire to know how I am doing.

This town of just fifteen thousand offers the diversity of a city with ten or twenty times its population. Sixty percent of its residents are under the age of forty, a completely new Squamish than two decades ago when the saw and pulp mills provided the majority of the jobs. I see the same people two, sometimes three times a day: yoga class in the morning, the cafe in the afternoon, and the brewery at night.

I have yet to go a day without hearing three or four languages spoken or met people from any one of a dozen countries. I have climbed with visitors from Norway, Mexico, Czech Republic, Alaska (which truly should be a country of its own), and enjoyed breakfast and dinner at the camp ground with people from all over Canada. This morning I spoke with a man in his late seventies who could trace his family heritage 350 years to some of the first Dutch settlers in South Africa, his sense of pride conveyed in his proud stand and hazel eyes–not of the travesty of conflict his people inflicted, but of the steadfast heritage in one place that he does represent.

I met the Vice Commodore of the marina and gained from the experience of the Squamish Yacht Club, my interest expressed in purchasing a boat on which to live, to sail the world. A little more than fifteen thousand people and yet there are three yoga studios, a weekly farmers’ market and community organic farm; a music school, Indian, Chinese, and Japanese restaurants in addition to the usual McDonalds and Wendys. The Home Depot, Walmart, five-plex movie theater, several sporting goods stores, and three large groceries cater to the home of the 2010 Winter Olympics Whistler just up the hill.

An ocean harbor, estuary hikes, world class mountain biking, bouldering, massive multi-pitch granite routes, and water sports within a walk of downtown. Snow capped peaks are visible from the community rec center hot tub, the indoor pool offering a diving board, ladder swing, climbing contraption suspended from the ceiling, and an arsenal of foam boats for kids to wrestle with and overtake. What more could you ask for? It feels like it could be home, some day.

For now, I am both running away from and at the same time seeking home.
But this time the place I seek is a space inside of me.