Robert Pirsig - Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

At Lolo Pass we see a restaurant, and pull up in front of it beside an old Harley high-miler. It has a homemade pannier on the back and thirty-six thousand on the odometer. A real cross-country man.

Inside we fill up on pizza and milk, and when finished leave right away. There’s not much sunlight left, and a search for a campsite after dark is difficult and unpleasant.

As we leave we see the cross-country man by the cycles with his wife and we say hello. He is from Missouri, and the relaxed look on his wife’s face tells me they’ve been having a good trip.

The man asks, “Were you bucking that wind up to Missoula too?”

I nod. “It must have been thirty or forty miles an hour.”

“At least”, he says.

We talk about camping for a while and they comment on how cold it is. They never dreamed in Missouri it would be this cold in the summer, even in the mountains. They’ve had to buy clothes and blankets.

“It shouldn’t be too cold tonight”, I say. “We’re only at about five thousand feet.”

Chris says, “We’re going to camp just down the road.”

“At one of the campsites?”

“No, just somewhere off the road”, I say.

They show no inclination of wanting to join us, so after a pause I press the starter button and we wave off.

On the road the shadows of the mountain trees are long now. After five or ten miles we see some logging road turnoffs and head up.

The logging road is sandy, so I keep in low gear with feet out to prevent a spill. We see side roads off the main logging road but I stay on the main one until after about a mile we come to some bulldozers. That means they’re still logging here. We turn back and head up one of the side roads. After about half a mile we come to a tree fallen across the road. That’s good. That means this road has been abandoned.

I say, “This is it” to Chris, and he gets off. We’re on a slope that allows us to see over unbroken forest for miles.

Chris is all for exploring, but I’m so tired I just want to rest. “You go by yourself”, I say.

“No, you come along.”

“I’m really tired, Chris. In the morning we’ll explore.”

I untie the packs and spread the sleeping bags out on the ground. Chris goes off. I stretch out, and the tiredness fills my arms and legs. Silent, beautiful forest.

In time Chris returns, and says he has diarrhea.

“Oh”, I say, and get up. “Do you have to change underwear?”

“Yes.” He looks sheepish.

“Well, they’re in the pack by the front of the cycle. Change and get a bar of soap from the saddlebag and we’ll go down to the stream and wash the old underwear out.” He’s embarrassed by the whole thing and now is glad to take orders.

The downward slope of the road makes our feet flop as we head toward the stream. Chris shows me some stones he’s collected while I’ve been sleeping. The pine smell of the forest is rich here. It’s turning cool and the sun is very low. The silence and the fatigue and the sinking of the sun depress me a little, but I keep it to myself.

After Chris has washed out his underwear and has it completely clean and wrung out we head back up the logging road. As we climb it I get a sudden depressed feeling I’ve been walking up this logging road all my life.

“Dad?”

“What?” A small bird rises from a tree in front of us.

“What should I be when I grow up?”

The bird disappears over a far ridge. I don’t know what to say. “Honest”, I finally say.

“I mean what kind of a job?”

“Any kind.”

“Why do you get mad when I ask that?”

“I’m not mad — I just think — I don’t know — I’m just too tired to think. It doesn’t matter what you do.”

Roads like this one get smaller and smaller and then quit.

Later I notice he’s not keeping up.

The sun is below the horizon now and twilight is on us. We walk separately back up the logging road and when we reach the cycle we climb into the sleeping bags and without a word go to sleep.

There it is at the end of the corridor: a glass door. And behind it are Chris and on one side of him his younger brother and on the other side his mother. Chris has his hand against the glass. He recognizes me and waves. I wave back and approach the door.

How silent everything is. Like watching a motion picture when the sound has failed.

Chris looks up at his mother and smiles. She smiles down at him but I see she is only covering her grief. She’s very distressed about something but she doesn’t want them to see.

And now I see what the glass door is. It is the door of a coffin… mine.

Not a coffin, a sarcophagus. I am in an enormous vault , dead, and they are paying their last respects.

It’s kind of them to come and do this. They didn’t have to do this. I feel grateful. Now Chris motions for me to open the glass door of the vault. I see he wants to talk to me. He wants me to tell him, perhaps, what death is like. I feel a desire to do this, to tell him. It was so good of him to come and wave I will tell him it’s not so bad. It’s just lonely.

I reach to push the door open but a dark figure in a shadow beside the door motions for me not to touch it. A single finger is raised to lips I cannot see. The dead aren’t permitted to speak.

But they want me to talk. I’m still needed! Doesn’t he see this? There must he some kind of mistake. Doesn’t he see that they need me? I plead with the figure that I have to speak to them. It’s not finished yet. I have to tell them things. But the figure in the shadows makes no sign he has even heard.

“CHRIS!” I shout through the door.“I’LL SEE YOU!!”

The dark figure moves toward me threateningly, but I hear Chris’s voice, “Where?” faint and distant. He heard me! And the dark figure, enraged, draws a curtain over the door.

Not the mountain, I think. The mountain is gone. “AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN!!” I shout.

And now I am standing in the deserted ruins of a city all alone. The ruins are all around me endlessly in every direction and I must walk them alone.

The sun is up.

For a while I’m not sure where I am.

We’re on a road in a forest somewhere.

Bad dream. That glass door again.

The chrome of the cycle gleams beside me and then I see the pines and then Idaho comes to mind.

The door and the shadowy figure beside it were just imaginary. We’re on a logging road, that’s right — bright day — sparkling air. Wow! — it’s beautiful. We’re headed for the ocean.

I remember the dream again and the words “I’ll see you at the bottom of the ocean” and wonder about them. But pines and sunlight are stronger than any dream and the wondering goes away. Good old reality.

I get out of the sleeping bag. It’s cold and I get dressed quickly. Chris is asleep. I walk around him, climb over a fallen treetrunk and walk up the logging road. To warm myself I speed up to a jog and move up the road briskly. Good, good, good, good, good. The word keeps time with the jogging. Some birds fly up from the shadowy hill into the sunlight and I watch them until they’re out of sight. Good, good, good, good, good. Crunchy gravel on the road. Good, good. Bright yellow sand in the sun. Good, good, good.

These roads go on for miles sometimes. Good, good, good. Eventually I reach a point where I’m really winded. The road is higher now and I can see for miles over the forest.

Good.

Still puffing, I walk back down at a brisk pace, crunching more gently now, noticing small plants and shrubs where the pines have been logged.

At the cycle again I pack gently and quickly. By now I’m so familiar with how everything goes together it’s almost done without thought. Finally I need Chris’s sleeping bag. I roll him a little, not too rough, and tell him, “Great day!”