"Gaaaabbbbby. Do you want to go for a ride?"
It was always a silly question but I lived for her response - never once was the answer a "no" or "maybe later." It was always "OH HELL YES LET'S DO THIS WHATEVER THIS IS BECAUSE YOU'RE COMING TOO." She would immediately jump into the passenger seat, or the driver seat, or the trunk of a stranger's car (in fact, she once went temporarily missing at a drive-in movie theater before I found her sitting in a family's hatchback; they were feeding her popcorn and she was just so happy I let her stay. I never could stand to keep her love to myself).
Three months of extremely hurried planning is what it took to pull this trip together - to build my camper home, to save up the money and to the plan the route. I thought about it every minute of every day - what it would be like, what could go wrong. I kept a travel journal during the trip itself but in the weeks leading up to my departure date, I was less meticulous in making sure that every day was represented. Many of those first dozen entries skip around with a week or two in-between but they almost all share a common theme - worries and "what ifs."
I recently started reading back through those early writings (the first is from September 23, 2017 - two months before I began the trip and almost a full year ago from the time I'm writing this). Of those entries, one in particular stands out in my mind, as if it were the only quote on the entire page. Foreshadowing an accident you didn't know would happen is a weird feeling. With a little paraphrasing for the sake of legibility, the entry reads:
"...I want to write about the fact that I'm scared of this trip and what it might bring. I'm scared of what might happen but also what I might learn about myself. All this time, for the last year or longer, I kept talking about how I might get the upper hand on my anxiety problem - to either eliminate it altogether or to at least manage it to the point where I feel like my regular, functional self again...I keep saying that I'm not ruling anything out on this trip, so that means I can't rule out the prospect of [something going wrong] - my truck could break down. Something could happen to Gabby. I could get hurt or accidentally hurt someone else. This trip isn't a vacation - I know it will be difficult and that's part of the point."
That was difficult for me to read after the fact. The thing is, I had three months to plan for this trip; Gabby didn't know it was happening until the morning we left.
Before I could truly hit the road, I had to load my truck up with the last remaining belongings that I hadn't sold. During the rush, I kind of forgot to make room for Gabby. As brave as she was - and she really was - she was deathly afraid of my vacuum cleaner. So of course the last two things to go into the truck were the vacuum and the dog, side by side. Poor Gabby was not pleased. But after a couple of days in Chattanooga getting 90% of my earthly belongings packed into a storage unit, we were off.
Gabby always loved going for rides - in the cab of the truck, in the bed, it didn't matter. I'd constructed a platform over the rear jump seats with a carpet veneer so that she'd have plenty of room to spread out comfortably. To keep her (and specifically her fur) out of the front, I'd installed a mesh screen between the two front seats. She quickly picked up the habit of patiently peering over the top or resting her head on the center console below.
(Source: the author's own)
I always found it comforting to be able to reach down and scratch her on the nose whenever the urge struck me. I'd glance down at her and wonder what was going through her mind as we traveled further and further away from the sights and smells she knew. I remember there was one day when I had stopped at a McDonalds somewhere in Savannah to sit and write for a few hours. I'd let her out to do her business, it wasn't too hot or too cold and she had a cozy blanket on which to sleep. We'd done this probably a half-dozen times already but this time, though, I returned to find that she had peed on her blanket - not to the point of ruining it but, at least in my mind, enough to say "I've finally realized we're not going home and this is my formal protest."
But in time she got the hang of it. I think she realized that she was going to spend forever with me, exploring the world together - the two things she always wanted in life. We'd sleep together in the bed of the truck, my feet down by the rear and Gabby curled up with her head resting on top of the tailgate, keeping a watchful eye.
This was our first test run of the camper set up in Land-Between-the-Lakes, Kentucky.
(Source: the author's own)
It took her a couple of weeks to adjust to our new routine - where she belonged and who she needed to growl at (no to stray cats, yes to wandering strangers in the wee hours of the morning). One evening, as I was camping next to a riverbed in rural Oklahoma, she chased a feral pig out of our campsite - an animal a good five or six times bigger than her. So Gabby never failed to earn her keep. Her top priority was to always protect me, even if that desire was sometimes a little misplaced.
The loyal guard dog in action.
(Source: The author's own)
She kept the Roombas and other weirdos at bay but, most importantly, she kept me company. She explored the wilds of twenty-six different states with me, snowy or otherwise, as well as a brief foray into Mexico. She experienced more firsts in the span of three months than most dogs (or people, for that matter) would experience in a lifetime.
Gabby doing her best to navigate ice floes from the Susquehanna River in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
(Source: the author's own)
Experiencing the Atlantic Ocean for the first time at Fort Pulaski in Savannah, Georgia. It was also the day she learned why you don't drink saltwater.
(Source: The author's own)
Questioning her decision to join me in the ruins of an abandoned coal tipple, somewhere in West Virginia (of course she finally did)
(Source: The author's own)
She always did what I did, though not necessarily with the same grace and inconspicuousness. Another journal entry about her (the context was late fall turning to winter) reads:
"[The landscape is] Still but not dead, nature is resting. Slight movements and sounds indicate that the Earth is still alive - birds rustling, things in the brush. Gabby, however, is loud as fuck."
That pretty much sums up our relationship. I always viewed her more as my ward than my pet. I made fun of her flaws but she had plenty of opportunities to get me back - namely burping in my face, or worse (use you imagination). And God forbid we spend a night in the back of the truck where I had to close the flap of the camper shell due to rain or extreme cold. She would hotbox the hell out of that space with rancid dog farts. Such was the joy of traveling with an elderly canine.
We spent many, many nights together - usually in the back of the truck but every so often we'd splurge for a hotel. Either way, Gabby never seemed to mind so long as I was there beside her.
Big Bend National Park, Texas
(Source: The author's own)
Somewhere on the border of West Virginia
(Source: The author's own)
Well, I take that back - she definitely minded this. It snowed about nine inches during the night and my truck kept getting blasted by a snowplow every few hours, which didn't make for a restful night's sleep. That was also the most snow Gabby had ever seen and the temperature was in the single digits. I had to literally drag her out because she refused to leave the semi-warmth of the truck on her own (Thomas, West Virginia).
(Source: The author's own)
Everyone loved Gabby. Everyone. Old friends, new friends, complete strangers. Kids and old folks alike. She did have a protective streak, though (it was the boxer in her). When she once started barking at a man for no reason, I apologized to him profusely. She could be plenty intimidating if she put her mind to it.
"I'm so sorry," I told the guy, "She's friendly, she's just loud."
"That's okay, so is my wife," he replied with a wink.
But even in her protective mode, she was still the biggest sweetheart. She made friends everywhere she went, from my old college buddies whom she still remembered...
Visiting with my former college roommate Ben and his husband Josh, Gabby was very excited to finally be allowed on a piece of furniture.
(Source: The author's own)
My friend Samantha has always been a long time admirer.
(Source: The author's own)
...to new friends that she met along the way.
My childhood best friend's daughter immediately fell in love with her...
(Source: The author's own)
...as did the daughter of one of the WOOFER homestay families I visited...
...as did one of my drunk friends in Baltimore...
(Source: The author's own)
...and as did these chickens.
(Source: The author's own)
While she took most of the trip in stride, there were still moments where she wasn't quite sure what to do in a given situation. But anyone who's traveled extensively knows what's like.
Sometimes you wonder how you got into a tricky situation (Susquehanna River, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania)
(Source: the author's own)
And sometimes you just have no one to blame but yourself.
(Source: The author's own)
But when it came to campfires, she was an old pro. The first time I ever took her camping was less than a month after I picked her up from a shelter back in 2009 and I knew right then and there that she was the dog for me.
(Source: the author's own)
(Source: the author's own)
(Source: the author's own)
The last night Gabby and I spent together was in the back of my friend Chris's Bronco, trying to avoid his snoring. It was very cold that night (we were in the high desert of central New Mexico) and I remember telling her soon that she'd get to swim in the Pacific Ocean - it wasn't far now.
And then, of course, Februrary 25 happened. Gabby never made it out of the Bronco alive; Chris and I very nearly didn't either. Three days after the accident when I awoke in the hospital, when I slowly started to come around and people began carefully explaining to me what had happened, bits and pieces at a time, no one mentioned Gabby. So based on their silence, I knew what had happened, I just didn't have the courage yet to ask how. As a result, I spent several sleepless nights where I couldn't stop wondering if she suffered at all.
When the subject finally came up, I learned it was quick and probably painless for her - seeing the condition of our mostly destroyed camping gear, I knew that had to be the truth. She was already gone before the paramedics arrived to carry Chris and me to the hospital in Las Cruces.
I don't remember exactly when it was - several weeks later I believe - but my mom presented me with a blue gift bag containing Gabby's collar, a generic condolence note from the crematorium and a small, ceramic urn with her ashes inside. It was a couple of months before I could even bring myself to open the bag to see what was inside.
Once I had recovered enough to continue my trip, I secured her urn to the mesh divider between the two front seats, where she used to rest her head on the console. I wanted her to see the rest of the trip that I'd promised her. I placed her pink collar around the stick shifter, so the heart-shaped tag with her name would always be within sight when I travel. When I would try hiking, even though my knee and ankle were still extremely weak and susceptible to the slightest extra weight, I brought her urn with me - I didn't want her to miss anything.
I'd promised her that she would get to experience both oceans but it took me a while to muster up the emotional fortitude to take her down to the water on the West Coast. I don't why I chose the particular beach that I did - I guess I just had her on my mind that day - but I pulled off highway 101 toward a public beach named for one Muriel O. Ponsler. A couple of guys were wind surfing out beyond the crashing waves and the handful of folks on the beach seemed captivated by their acrobatics. I was glad - that meant they probably wouldn't notice a grown man, with a walking cane in one hand and cradling an urn in the other with tears running down his face as he hobbled down to the surf. I carefully placed the urn just far enough into the water so it wouldn't be swept away. From my pocket, I pulled out a knife and cut the top off the sealed bag of ashes inside the urn. I used the cap to scoop up some water and pour it into the coarse gray powder inside. I wanted her to feel it. If she'd really been here, she'd surely try to drink the Pacific water too. Dummy.
(Source: The author's own)
As I slowly walked back across the beach with urn in hand, I noticed a woman walking with her golden retriever. His muzzle was white and he walked with the clear signs of arthritis in his hips, probably struggling in the loose sand. I watched them both for a long time, debating whether or not to go speak to her and ask if I could pet her dog. But I didn't. I couldn't. I haven't been able to bring myself to pet a dog for six months now.
This is obviously the hardest thing I've ever written. I've put it off repeatedly but considering that I'm currently going through Methadone withdrawals and haven't slept more than twelve hours in the last eight days, now seemed like as good time as any to give this post the emotional gravity that it deserves. That Gabby deserves.
The Maryland Heights trail, Maryland as it overlooks Harper's Ferry, West Virginia
(Source: The author's own)
Richmond, Virginia
(Source: The author's own)
Land-Between-the-Lakes, Kentucky
(Source: The author's own)
As far as I know, this is the last picture ever taken of Gabby. We'd spent the afternoon exploring White Sands National Park in New Mexico. In less than twenty-four hours, I would be undergoing emergency surgery to save my life and Gabby would be gone forever. But she had a really good last day.
(Source: Chris Kretzchmar)
While I was still wheelchair bound and recovering in El Paso, I received an unexpected gift one day in the mail: several of my friends had collaborated to pull together a collection of photos of Gabby, many of which were from the trip itself, and compiled them into a full color book. Again, it obviously took me a while to bring myself to open it but every photo brought to mind a story, many of which I'd long forgotten. The book will be one of my most prized possessions until the day I die. It is a testament to the outstanding character of my closest friends.
(Source: The author's own)
(Source: The author's own)
Before the accident, I had been slowly making my way through the book Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck. If you're unfamiliar with the book, it's about Steinbeck traveling around the country with a standard poodle named Charley. By the time he published the book in 1961, Steinbeck was already a household name. He had come to the realization (much in the same way I did) that in order to write about the country as it is, you need to immerse yourself in it. I like Steinbeck - I think he's a phenomenal writer, if a little verbose at times, but I especially like the way he writes about his dog, the namesake of the book. He personifies Charley in a way that makes him seem like more of a French expat than a poodle. I was halfway through the book when the accident happened, so I never finished it - the subject matter became much too raw. But I do hope to finish it...one day.
When I read a book, I like to underline notable quotes or passages that move me in some way, or make notes in the margins if something seems topical to my life at that particular moment in time. One phrase that I underlined reads as follows:
"[Charley] is a good friend and traveling companion, and would rather travel than anything he can imagine. If he occurs at length in this account, is is because he contributed much to the trip. A dog, particularly an exotic dog like Charley, is a bond between strangers."
Being the introvert that I am, I would not have met nearly as many kind and fascinating people on my journey as I did without Gabby at my side. She made me a friendlier, more patient person - hell, she even got me a date once or twice. She was one of a kind and not a minute goes by every day that I don't think of her and I would give anything in the world to have her back.
I mean, just look at that face.
(Source: The author's own)
CWO
Epilogue:
Eventually I'll have to return to North Georgia to pick up all of my things that are currently in storage. My plan is to take Gabby's ashes with me to our first camping spot in the Chattahoochee National Forest and spread them into the stream there. That way, I'll know that she's there all around me - in the ferns and the hemlocks, the maples and the mosses. She'll become a part of her favorite place. Our favorite place.