Growing up on Long Island, I had map fever. It was more than a compulsion to cover my walls; it was a need to possess the places those maps represented, to accumulate destinations…  Above my desk hung a map of the United States, stuck full of pins, heavy with the destination voodoo of the post-Kerouac generation. On the Road was practically mythology to me; I charted Sal Paradise’s route through bop America as a scholar of ancient Greek might try to trace Odysseus’s travels.

In 1974, after two years at a local college, I set off for the West Coast at last, attempting to duplicate Kerouac’s journey and follow that “one long red line called Route 6 that led from the tip of Cape Cod clear to Ely, Nevada, and there dipped down to Los Angeles.” Needless to say, my path across the country took its own shape. It included some of the cities Sal Paradise visited, like Chicago and Denver, but for the most part I wound my way through territories unknown, an eager disciple of the Fates that steer young travelers into unexpected—but always strangely appropriate—encounters….

- from “On Maps,” Scratching the Surface

Don’t know why it took me so long, but it wasn’t until this November – after giving a talk at the 100th Anniversary celebration of Hostelling International in Boston – that I finally made the pilgrimage to Lowell, Massachusetts, to visit Jack Kerouac’s grave.

It wasn’t even my idea. The inspiration came from Tony Wheeler, the co-founder of Lonely Planet, who was also speaking at the event. Along with travel writer Rolf Potts (and his Arlington-based friend Steve, who served as our own private Dean Moriarty) we left our hotel near the Boston Common and drove the 45 minutes out to the old milling town where America’s most poetic vagabond was born, schooled, and laid to rest.

There’s nothing much to say about the house Kerouac was born in, at 9 Lupine Road. It’s a brown shingle two story (his family lived in the top flat) with a porch filled with hanging plants and kids’ toys, a black SUV and a couple of bright red trash bins parked in front, the trees nearly empty now, it being Fall, and a melancholy pre-Thanksgiving light pervading the alley like the memory of hot cider on those short afternoons after football practice at Lowell High, itself as angular and sharply-lit as a canvas by Hopper, or de Chirico, near enough to the Mills so that the boys and girls could hear their mothers at work….

These days you can walk from the Boott Cotton Mill and Museum (now, strangely, a National Historic Park) to the Kerouac Memorial: a series of marble pillars arranged as a cross and a mandala, inscribed with passages from the Beat hero’s books and poems:

—When you’ve understood this scripture, throw it away. If you can’t understand this scripture, throw it away. I insist on your freedom.

- The Scripture of the Golden Eternity, #45

Two miles south of Lowell along a road punctuated by Dunkin’ Donuts and freight car diners and gas stations without restrooms is the Edson Cemetery. We parked inside the wrought iron gate and crunched through vivid leaves, a jazzy honeyed medley of cinnamon red, candy corn yellow and burnt umber.

It was a big cemetery. There was no map. Finally – with the help of Steve’s iPhone, God bless ‘em – we found the flat stone. It was covered with a scattering of small offerings: dried flowers, cigarette packs, stones, candles, an American flag, a picture of Buddha, hand-written notes.

We stood there for a while and didn’t know what to say. Kerouac’s marker may be here — but for us his spirit still inhabits the road, anchored more in San Francisco or Denver or Mexico itself, though we know he loved his roots and family and was a popular kid in high school, athletic and smart. What I mean is that Lowell meant more to Kerouac than to us, and although his bones lay beneath our feet I realized that if I can say one thing about Jack Kerouac it is that he is not interred. He is what Melville called a “loose fish,” connected not so much to this place (or any place) but to the Sense of Place itself, having created and cultivated that beautiful abstract sensibility better than anyone: that sweet lonely balance of longing and belonging, abiding in the moment while utterly aware of mortality, sublimely grateful yet inconsolably sad.

Rolf left a dollar bill he’d been carrying for six years, since he got it as change at the Golden Gate Bridge tool booth in 2003. Tony left a $10 trillion note that he’d picked up in Zimbabwe.

I dropped three coins onto the stone. They fell heads, heads, tails. The I Ching value of eight: a broken highway line. “The dark, yielding, receptive power of yin.”

Thank you, Jack Kerouac, I whispered to the bare trees in the leaf-littered November Lowell cemetery. We’re here by your invitation.

I recently returned from a trip to Tasmania, my second visit to the Australian island state in 16 months. This is a funny thing about being a freelance journalist; one becomes semi-expert on subjects that, a week or a month or a year ago, one knew nothing about. Like the rest of the world (with the exception of a few people on the island itself), my entire idea of what a Tassie Devil looked like was based on the Looney Tunes character, Taz.

In reality, devils are snarling, toothy, adorable creatures about the size of big raccoons, with translucent pink ears and white bands across their chests. They feed mainly on carrion (i.e., road kill) and small mammals. And they are in serious trouble. A deadly and contagious (!) cancer called Devil Facial Tumor Disease is sweeping over the island, and has already wiped out about 2/3 of the devil population since it appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in 1996. Unless this mysterious disease is stopped, devils could be extinct by 2025.

A few days after I returned home to Oakland, I  took a walk in the Berkeley hills to enjoy the wildflowers. Along the trail I ran into my old friend Arlene Blum. Though Arlene is best known for her role on the 1984 all-women’s expedition to Mt. Annapurna (and as the author of Annapurna: A Woman’s Place), she’s also a PhD in chemistry. The minute I mentioned Tasmania, Arlene informed me about a recent study. Amazingly, autopsies on Tasmanian Devils are showing very high levels of chemical fire retardants called PBDEs: highly toxic chemicals commonly found in computers, carpets, and furniture. How did these chemicals get into the environment of this remote island, which is said to have the cleanest air is the world? And are these PBDEs — which affect the immune system, and “have been linked to reproductive problems and cancers in animals and human” ( The Australian, 2/22/2008) — the cause of Devil Facial Tumor Disease? If nothing else, these remarkable and alarming finds show that this planet’s biosphere is linked in ways we can barely perceive, with results we are only beginning to anticipate.

On a more playful note…

Is it wrong to blog about a blog about me? I think not. A few days ago, my Google ego-alert turned up a blog on DeepGlamour.net referencing a quotation from my 1999 book Future Perfect: How Star Trek Conquered Planet Earth. The ping was timely for two reasons. First, because the new Star Trek movie is scheduled to open on May 8th ( can you believe it’s actually called “Star Trek”?). Secondly, because I have come to realize that what most appeals to me about Barack Obama is his Spock-like quality.

Anyway, here is the blog from the erudite Virginia Postrel,entitled “The Glamour of Star Trek.”

Earthrise from Apollo 8

Whenever I see this photograph – taken on Christmas Eve, 1968,  by Apollo 8 astronaut Bill Anders – I think about the now-classic sci-fi film Men in Black. Planet Earth, suspended in space, reminds me of “Orion’s bell:” the bauble around the neck of an alien’s cat, containing an entire miniature galaxy. There it is: the home planet, shrunk to the size of a Christmas ornament.

As many times as we’ve seen this iconic image, how often do we really get it? Do we understand, viscerally, that everything that has ever happened to humanity – to every living thing ever known – has occurred on that glossy blue-and-white marble?

In the Hindu and Buddhist traditions, much is made of a phenomenon called satori: the moment of illumination, or awakening, that makes the delusional nature of life melt away like a sno-cone in the Sahara. Satori can be evoked by a simple phrase, feeling, or gesture. The emaciated Buddha attained realization when served a bowl of rice milk; the teacher Byron Katie awoke in a halfway house to the sensation of a cockroach creeping across her foot. For others, illumination comes with the contemplation of a koan: a mystifying paradox which short-circuits our rational thought process.

It seems to me that this astonishing photo – disarmingly simple, yet impossible to fully comprehend – might serve as the collective koan for every human being alive on this world. It is a portrait in which we are invisible, yet fully contained;  a point of view that portrays reality in an absolutely unadorned, yet utterly radiant, state. It is a vision available to non-visionaries; a miracle that requires no faith.

It is a view of our dizzying isolation, and proof of our total interdependence. And whether our Earth is just one of a billion populated worlds in this spiral galaxy, or a trinket around the neck of some alien’s cat (or both), it’s pretty frakkin’ gorgeous.

Here’s wishing all of you a wonderful New Year - on a planet that seems just a little more wonderful than it did last year.

*  *  *

p.s. – A marvelous essay about this famous image, by Nature editor Oliver Morton, appeared 12/24/08 in the New York Times.

I didn’t know if I could do it again. I’m in my 50’s now — fit enough for sea level, but cashing in on my genetic inheritance: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and a hardwired risk of heart failure. This year, in fact, I outlived my father, who passed away in September 1984 – less than a year after my first Everest trek, and mere days after his 54th birthday.

There are no guarantees in the mountains. I would not have been the first “healthy” trekker to collapse in the thin, cold air, struggling up flagstone trails that climb as much as 2,500’ a day, into an atmosphere that holds only 50% of the oxygen at sea level. And if that had happened – had I died on the trek, surrounded by impassive yaks and single-minded lichen – it would have been all right. By the time the Dakini and I began the long, slow climb up Kala Patthar, we had seen visions of such breathtaking beauty that it might seem almost selfish to wish for more.

You know the ending of this story. I didn’t die. We stood atop Kala Patthar just after noon, the sky high angstrom blue, the sun a bleached yellow star of halogen brightness. My ears beat in the wind. Crows hovered alongside our perch, hoping for power bar crumbs. The shifting Earth, with its myriad expressions of DNA, lay all around.

We tied a string of multi-colored prayer-flags at the summit. I dedicated their blessings to the memory of my father, and his good heart.

On a recent Friday afternoon, the city’s Newari population was gathering for the climax of the beloved festival. I parked my rented scooter, strolled past the saffron merchants and copper smiths, and took my place with the celebrants flowing into broad Basanthapur. The square soon filled up in anticipation of the evening’s traditional dances and rituals. Hundreds of women, dressed in brilliant saris, covered the temple steps like spilled confetti. Men milled around three worn wooden chariots, lifting their children for a better view. Soon, the ancient vehicles — festooned with flowers and fitted with thrones for Bhairav, Ganesh, and Kumari, the Living Goddess – would be pulled through the streets. Here, the old Newari spirit of Kathmandu was very alive — though the old palace square is now surrounded by cement high-rises.

Every year during the climax of Indra Jatra, dozens are water buffalo are sacrificed in a ritual to honor Kumari, the Living Goddess: a pre-pubescent girl who serves as Kathmandu’s protector deity. This year, though, the recently elected Maoist leadership decreed – at the height of the ceremony — that this year would be different. The secular government, citing extreme financial pressure, claimed they would not allocate government funds to buy sacrificial animals.

The reaction morphed instantly from disbelief to violence. Riots erupted. Police posts and tourist ticket booths were burned, and tires set on fire. The usually jubilant festival turned into a melee. The first wave was led by the kusain, the traditional butcher sub-cast. The yearly festivals of Indra Jatra and Dasain (a bigger and far bloodier event, starting October 4th) are their Thanksgiving and Christmas, providing most of the year’s revenue. By Sunday, though, a large part of the Valley’s indigenous Newari community had joined in.

Eventually, the government capitulated – but it was too little, too late. For the first time in living memory, the festival ended prematurely. There was no blessing from the Kumari to the nation’s new President; no procession of god-bearing chariots through the crowded streets.

What fascinated me most about this debacle was that it ignited a passionate debate about ritual sacrifice. This occurred last Dasain, as well, though on a much smaller scale. During the past week, emboldened or inflamed by government’s decision, Op-Eds and articles have filled the local dailies, addressing both sides of the argument. Is the ancient tradition of sacrifice – during which the heads of goats and buffalos are severed with a mighty stroke of a long-bladed kukri — an essential expression of Nepalese identity, or a primitive and barbaric display of animal cruelty?

The discussions that followed Indra Jatra (and that will no doubt greet Dasain) were diverse, but all paid homage to the obvious: ancient customs die hard. Even those adamantly opposed to animal cruelty were careful to hedge their views – admitting that such festivals are an indelible part of life in what was, at least until last April, “The World’s Only Hindu Kingdom.”

Even after 30 years of visiting Nepal, sacrificial rituals make me queasy. But I have to be fair: the meat is brought home for supper, or distributed, and the feasts that follow are a much-anticipated event. Yes, the animals are decapitated in a fearsome, bloodthirsty ceremony. But “barbarity” is a subjective term, and the Nepali method of slaughter (even on a day-to-day basis) is no worse than what you’ll find in… well, many Western abattoirs. One might even argue that if you are going to kill an animal for consumption, ritual sacrifice – where there is first-person awareness of the act, and a spiritual motive – is preferable to mindless butchery.

Someday, such large-scale animal sacrifices will likely end, and symbolic gestures will take their place (in Sri Lanka, for example, coconuts are smashed at the foot of holy shrines). But the transition will not occur overnight. For now, Nepal may be the only country in the world where Cybercafés and animal sacrifice share the public square, and angry Nepalese text message each other to report that the chariot of the Living Goddess has been stalled by protests.

The Nepalese may be enchanted by iPods, cell phone cameras, and other modern gadgets. But they cling savagely to tradition. Gods and goddesses will long remain central characters in the life of Kathmandu – and they like their meat raw.

Since then, I’ve abandoned all pretense of shame and generally fill a suitcase with items that would have to thrown out, or replaced, in America. Among the personal possessions rehabilitated on this journey: a $65 ThermaRest pad, leaking at the seams (repaired at a bicycle tire mender for 15 rupees, about 20 cents); my Timberland expedition hiking shoes, which, though incredibly comfortable, are separating at the soles (20 rupees), my carry-on computer case, in need of a new leather carrying handle (60 rupees), and my $125 Sennheiser collapsible noise-canceling headphones, with amazing electronics but wires so cheap they’re worn down to a few copper threads. The minimum repair charge for these babies on the Sennheiser site is $55, plus postage. I paid my friendly Gairidhara electrician (who fixes everything from toasters to laser printers) 50 rupees, no bargaining involved.

All of which brings me back to my long-held conviction that millions of dollars could be saved if the United States government got a clue, and started a variation of what the British did with the Gurkhas in the 19th century. The most ingenious and efficient Nepali street repairmen should be found, and recruited – not as soldiers, but as astronauts. Launched into orbit, they could repair absolutely anything — from faulty space station toilets to the Hubble Space Telescope – using needle nose pliers and few paper clips, for a cost of about six bucks a pop.

Granted, the bikes are small – my 150cc Bajaj Pulsar is about average – but that’s okay, because you can’t really go faster than 40 mph anyway (and that’s when the city streets are clear, at about 3 a.m.). During the day navigation is a surgical skill, accomplished with precision along narrow lanes, many of which were not made for anything wider than a cow. That’s about the width of my scooter; but I’m also sharing the streets with vagrant dogs, taxicabs, the occasional SUV, and a chaotic mix of kids, women in saris, rolling fruit, rickshaws, ice cream carts, balloon sellers, schoolgirls, buses, baskets of onions, and many other (far more aggressive) motorcyclists. All of the above move in what amounts to Brownian motion. The concentration required compares to the most austere Zen practice. There’s no room for error; if I show the slightest bit of indecision, other vehicles roar past me within a hair’s breadth, weaving like drunken bees. If I go down, I won’t be getting up again – one reason why a friend referred to the enterprise as “meditation at gunpoint.”

Twenty-five years ago, in 1983, I arrived in Kathmandu for my first extended stay, and wrote Mr. Raja’s Neighborhood. In October of that same year, I trekked to the Khumbu, the Everest region. A lean, mean 29, I carried a huge pack and spent weeks above 15,000’. This year, I’ll be returning to the Khumbu—this time with adventure travel pioneer Leo Le Bon, who founded Mountain Travel and helped open the area to trekking 40 years ago.

This year is also the 20th anniversary of Shopping for Buddhas – a story based on my search for the “perfect” statue, set here in 1988 against the backdrop of fast-changing Kathmandu. Now, 20 years later, I’m on a mission to write a story about how the past two decades have affected my relationship with Nepal.

I have to say right off: there have been countless changes here, and very few of them have been for the better. “Modern” Kathmandu seems to be the result of fifty years of bad choices, one on the heels of another. Somehow, though, I still love the place, and the crippled sister it has become. As the days pass, I’ll post some vignettes from the Valley. And I’ll try to do some shopping – if I can think of a deity that might be appropriate for this time and place.

Still amazing, that in a total of 27 hours I was able to transport myself from door to door: from my Oakland, California abode to this Bangkok oasis, the much-loved “Wooden House” that has sheltered so many kindred nomads.

During last year’s visit to Asia, I returned to Kathmandu for the first time in five years – and vowed to make Nepal a regular part of my life once again. I’m keeping my word. After a long weekend with my great friends Jock and Annie – and a road trip to Chaloem Rattanakosin National Park, with its famous cave-dwelling barking toads– I’ll be flying on to Kathmandu. From which point, for some reason, writing this blog seems so much more… essential.

One final note. Just before leaving the Bay Area, a friend took me to see one of the most inspiring and unforgettable films I’ve ever seen. Man on Wire instantly took a place in my all-time Top 20 Films. Beautiful, audacious, maddening and jaw-dropping, this documentary says just about everything there is to say about risking everything for one’s art. Don’t miss it.

And hey… while composing this entry, I came across this cool website, definitely worth a look: “Walking as Art.”

 I don’t know about all that. The Dakini I’ve recently connected with is seldom wrathful, only occasionally naked, and certainly not predisposed to hanging out with gods. But she’s a pretty good writer (check out her Flying Hobo Girl blog) and, sure enough, she flies. Someday, I hope, she’ll teach me – but until I’m ready to sign up for paragliding lessons, we have to content ourselves with high-altitude hikes in the Sierra and quasi-weightless dips into mountain hot springs and alpine lakes.

I like her July 22nd entry a lot; I was, after all, the friend who came up with the  Constructivist wilderness  moniker. So in a way, hers is sort of a proxy blog for me, in light of the fact that I’ve lately been too busy — or lazy — to produce one myself. I’m not sure that’s what dakinis are supposed to be provide, but hey… I’m  grateful all the same.