Meet Larry.

Checking in from Portland here, though I won't be spending time talking about our gracious hosts in this funky Southeast neighborhood, the eclectic Easter egg Victorians, the crisp first days of an Oregon autumn, the vintage stores, coffee, books or dessert bars. It's all delightful and warm and fuzzy, but the night we spent on Mount Shasta makes for a far more interesting story.

The sun was setting as we drove up the 5 on Saturday evening and as we neared our destination I insisted that Jordi take out the guidebook and select a campground. "This one's free," he said, "just exit here and follow this road to the end. It's close." Fine, I thought. Free is free and maybe it's nice. I just wanted a convenient place to camp for a quick night before we continued on to Oregon. But the road kept going, became empty, dark. It was winding slowly up the mountain. The moon, white and full, rose over the trees and glowed through the purple haze of the dim sky. Signs for 4,000 feet elevation, 5,000 feet, 6,000 feet. It got darker, we drove on.

What Jordi hadn't mentioned was that the campground, Panther Meadows, is "high on the mountain"--7,400 feet up, roughly. This mountain is the second highest volcano in the US and still considered active. When we finally found the place, there was just enough light to see the face of the only other person there, getting supplies out of the trunk of his old car. He was in his 40s, a backwoods type with a big gut and long graying curly hair. We asked him a bit about the place, it sounded fine so we unloaded and set up camp in the dark.

As we settled in, we got to talking to our lone neighbor a bit more. He was exceptionally friendly, offered us a helping hand and told us some things he knew about the mountain. He'd been camping up there for about a month so far. Though a nice guy, he was an excessive talker and seemed to disregard a certain level of social protocol. But hey, when we're eating leftover rice out of a pan with plastic spoons, who are we to judge? "Beautiful moon," I said to him as I passed, "Do you think it's full?"

"Full enough for me," he said.

So we joined him, Larry, at his fire. At first the conversation floated around topics like travel and the weather, but we all too quickly learned that Larry, dear old Larry, is a religious fanatic, racist and homophobic. A-ha! I knew there was something less than desirable about this fellow. But we were mooching off his fire atop a cold, dark mountain, and were sort of ensnared in this conversation, so we remained seated on our tree stumps.

Then, it got weird. After Larry finished warning us about gruesome death by quicksand on Oregon beaches, expressing sympathy for white supremacy, and sharing his hopes that God would send him a lonely woman to keep him warm in his tent, he said, "Now here's where I'm gonna sound crazy."

Right, because until this point he was screaming normalcy. "All my life," he went on, "I've been able to see things before they happen. See what's gonna happen to people." I closed my eyes, bracing myself, half-expecting to hear next, "And you two are gonna die tonight on this mountain, and I ain't sayin' how."

He didn't say that. But he did tell us about a telepathic encounter he had with a bear in Tahoe and about hearing the growling breath of a Yeti at the nearby Lake Siskiyou. He said Yeti attacks happen all over Mount Shasta. That they attack groups of grown men. He told us that the ghosts of Indians roam through the land, and that strange men in mysterious vans wander through campsites shining flashlights in random tents and snatching women.

"Yer gonna have bad dreams," he said.

The fire was dying and I'd heard enough. We went to bed and I lay there, stiff, unmoving and scared out of my mind. One of three things will happen tonight, I thought:

1. Larry will remain quietly in his tent and we will pass the night in peace.
2. Larry will remain quietly in his tent but we will be attacked by a Yeti, an Indian ghost, or men in unmarked vehicles scouring the area for innocent campers.
3. Larry will axe us to death in the night.

Fortunately, my imagination proved unreliable yet again, and Larry did remain quietly in his tent. Well, mostly. He was actually making loud, unnatural grunting noises all night. And I don't mean snoring or clearing a sore throat, I mean weird, unnatural, almost shouting grunts. Noises a person can't make while asleep. My fears were outlandish, but Larry was right in predicting that I would have bad dreams.

After spending most of the night in terror, either in waking or asleep, I woke up to the tiny cricks and ticks of chipmunks scrambling through the trees above us. It was morning. The sky was light. We'd survived. We emerged from the warmth of our sleeping bags into the cold, gray day. The jug of water in our tent had frozen while we slept. It was snowing. We explored the empty mountain, the still trees that seemed to greet us calmly and wisely, the frozen creek with fresh running water bubbling just below the ice.

I hated that mountain while I lay terrified in our tent, hated Jordi for having no reservations or worries about Larry, for saying he was just lonely and scared and not actually dangerous. I'm glad he was right. And I'm glad he lured me up to that mountain under false pretenses. Because it was an adventure, and it was pure and simple and beautiful.

But I probably would have rather been on that mountain with a Yeti or a ghost than with Larry.

15 tank-tops may give you peace of mind, but they won't solve your problems.

Ladies and gentlemen, the road trip is officially about to begin. We spent a weekend in Lake Tahoe with my parents, and have now given ourselves one day to assemble all necessary items for 2 months on the road before heading off to Yosemite, the first stop on the itinerary.

That one day of preparation is today, and I'm sitting here staring at the Blogger logo instead of sorting laundry, organizing camping gear, working out the budget, researching routes, buying last minute gadgets, or even taking a shower.

The thing is, I hate packing. Packing for a 3-day trip can take me up to 12 solid hours, and I've never even traveled for longer than 2 weeks at a time. I've moved across the world more than once, but going somewhere to live, somewhere with drawers and cabinets and a feeling of permanence, is an entirely different thing. Jordi has lived like a turtle with his home on his back for a number of months on several different occasions. I, however, still have the tags on my big North Face backpack.

When I moved back from Amsterdam, I had a total of 5 bags--2 suitcases, 2 duffel bags, 1 backpack--and the airline charged me an extra $100 to get them all on the plane. This was after throwing out or giving away piles and piles of stuff, and I was only there for one year. In the midst of that disaster, I decided to simplify my life and just have less crap.

This road trip is my chance to prove that I can. Jordi keeps telling me I just don't need very much, but this is coming from the guy who's wardrobe consists of 6 t-shirts and 2 hoodies. I see how stress-free his packing process is, and I try to channel some of that minimalist energy, but I know I'll never be able to match his level of freedom and flexibility when it comes to material goods.

The problem, as with most things in my overly considered world, is that I can't handle the decisions. You essentially have to see into the future, predict what scenarios might possibly befall you, and make sure you're prepared. I, however, have an overactive imagination and an inhuman ability to worry about things most people don't even think about. I imagine weirdly specific and unlikely scenarios, and then somehow decide that bringing 15 tank-tops is the best way to prepare for them. Not surprisingly, all this leaves me with is a big tangle of semi-soiled spaghetti straps and more weight than I ought to be hauling around. But I continue to bring too many of everything because I just can't stand the prospect of being unprepared.

They say you should stack up everything that you want to bring, and then bring half of it. This, I may be able to do. I just wish I could also leave behind the half of my brain that is illogical, irrational, and convinces me to pack my entire summer wardrobe for a fall trip to the Pacific Northwest.

Wish me luck.

Ladies' Home Journal and Me

As I waited this afternoon in Livermore's Piazza for Hair (fancy, eh?) while a woman called Gail coiffed Jordi's mane, I started flipping, as one does, through Ladies' Home Journal. Making my way for the interview with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams I stumbled across this article about chronic worriers. Below the title, the infinitely wise Ladies at the Home J. asked, as though speaking right to me, as though reading my mind, Hey Honey, "Spending too much time thinking about all the things that could go wrong in your life?"

Yes! I thought. I am! I always am! Maybe this magazine, this holy grail of Relaxation Techniques and Mood Boosters, was meant to find me, meant to land in my lap and, and...deliver me! Plus, when that's taken care of, I can learn "5 Moves for a Sexier Stomach" and "How to Give a Killer Massage".

It was kind of like getting a fortune cookie with your Chinese take-out that says "You will soon embark on an exciting adventure" right before leaving for a trip to the Grand Canyon with your parents. Like, "Oh my god! How did they know?!"

But in all seriousness, I do relate to much of what the article says about the tendency to worry, its pros and cons. Reading through it, I let out a deep breath, grateful for their reminder that I am not alone, that lots of people are anxiety-riddled stress magnets, that researchers at Yale actually discovered a genetic mutation that can increase the inclination to fret. I'm just gonna tell everyone my chromosomal make-up is to blame.

I was feeling better already. Then, I read this: "Eighty-five percent of the time people's worst fears never materialize." They had plucked that doozy out of the body of the text and put it in big colorful letters as one of those gems they use to suck people in. They included this seemingly impossible to prove statistic with the purpose of calming the nerves of their worrisome readers.

My immediate thought was this: that means 15% of the time people's worst fears do materialize! Fifteen percent of the time! That's a big number! Statistically speaking, that means that 15 people out of 100 will experience their worst fears before they die. Or that 15% of my worst fears will materialize before I die. Or that 15% of all dead people died from their worst fear. Or that 15% of your total time on earth is how much time you'll spend suffering your worst fears. Or that I should use 15% of my energy preventing my worst fears from happening.

Or that magazines will publish 15% of all bullshit statistics if it means selling 15% more copies.

Don't get me wrong, the article actually offers a lot of practical advice for coping with anxiety, like sharing your fears, writing it down, getting all the facts. There is one tip, though, that I just struggle to take seriously. A psychologist suggests setting up a worry-free "zone"--I picture some kind of area in the living room sectioned off with traffic cones and caution tape and a flashing light--a time of the day when you won't let yourself worry. This, I can understand. But then it says that "a related technique is to choose one specific time to worry -- from 5 to 5:30 p.m., for example." This I kind of get. It's like only allowing yourself one cookie instead of seven. But a specific time? I imagine someone telling their friends they can't go to the movies because they'd miss their daily half-hour of worrying, then sitting down, closing their eyes tight, and inventing nonsense to worry about because their psychologist told them to.

4:58...4:59... 5:00!

Ready...aaand...worry!

Here it goes: I'm worried that my cynicism and bad attitude will forever prevent me from conquering this bad habit.

Sounds like something I might find in a fortune cookie.