. Finally nearing the Pacific, 5000 miles later, on a gravel road in Washington state just north of the Columbia River Gorge, in stunning rolling farmland and miles of barbed wire fences, and in the Centerville Grocery, and a churchless cemetery with visions of Mount Adams in the distance, and we trickle slowly by on our motorcycles-- by farmhouses and watch swirls of wind talk in rhythms and waves through the deep grass and we saw burnt out timber frames of farms from early this century. And I thought once again of the stories that were told. Rolling slowly through the Klickitat Preserve down the Dalles Mountain Road with no one in sight, no traffic to swerve through and nowhere to be except here, now . . . I couldn't believe my good fortune to know that these places existed and to have met people all along the way. I wanted to not forget these things it had taken me so long to remember. And mostly I learned how simple it is-- that the difference between doing and not doing is so small sometimes. I learned of what kind of possibilities and adventure and real involvement could be fulfilled by just taking that first step and putting yourself out there. And so this beauty of wandering . . . wondering . . . .