Can you identify this song?

Who the hell is this? It's been rattling around in my head for years now, ever since I heard it on KRUA. I tried emailing the station a long time ago, but no response. On the off chance that someone recognizes it from a few short lines, I figured I'd post here.

Here's what I know:
- mid-tempo acoustic finger/flatpicking
- male vocalist
- KRUA played it, so it's gotta be pretty indie

I will run like a boy from his dad
He's in sorrow
'cause tomorrow
[a long-ish line I've forgotten]

I will never wake up
I will never wake up
till I see you again
I'm in sorrow
'cause tomorrow
[that same long line]

Any ideas?

The Grey Dog Diaries

From my notes on the ill-fated Greyhound trip to Wyoming for my brother's wedding:

Monday, June 20, 2005
12:30 pm
I-84, Columbia Gorge

The bus left downtown at 11:45, 15 minutes behind schedule. Spent this morning taking care of odds and ends: mailing G's package, finding my shoes, washing dishes, double-checking what I've packed.
I ran into Patrick in the hallway, which put me behind schedule - I still don't know quite how to say, "Sorry, I've got to get going" without worrying for the rest of the day whether or not I've insulted someone.

The Benadryl started to kick in about 20 minutes ago, and now it's all I can do to keep from falling asleep. True to fashion, everything's been coming in slideshow, one image after another with little to connect them: crossing the Steel coming out of downtown; the Sandy River; Multnomah Falls exit on the left, then the falls themselves; osprey nests on the river markers; the dam; a pair of juvenile-plumage ospreys circling over the backwater; the child in front of me dropping his bag from the overhead bin.

The guy next to me is that usual kind of talkative 20-year-old who immediately tells me too much about himself: lives in Corvallis; going to some school in Indiana for training in electronics, which will cost him $28K for 18 months; been to Canada, slept in the bus stop; all about the seatback monitors on flights to Europe.

And all the while I'm going, mmm-hmmm, mmm-hmmm, trying to be interested because I'll be spending the next 26 hours sitting next to him, which probably won't be as bad as I imagine. Everyone's fairly quiet (with the exception of the kid in front), the AC is on, and the lady in front of me hasn't yet tilted her seat back.

(And it turns out that the lady is another young man with long hair...)

The Hood River marina is full of smallish sailboats that I think G would be interested in. After all the fighting yesterday, all I want to do is lie down next to her and listen to her sleep before I nod off too. Three weeks...


5:30 pm
Leaving La Grande, OR

It's early evening now, though it feels like it should only be mid-afternoon; another unexpected effect of the drugs.

I'd forgotten the long slow climb up out of Pendleton, and the drop back into La Grande, where I saw raptors hovering over the marshes. The western light makes me want to start looking for a place to camp, but I know that there's still slightly less than 24 hours left on this drive before I'll be able to sleep for more than a few minutes.

G called as we rolled into Pendleton, with good news about information-gathering, but I was too drugged and distracted to have much of a conversation. Most of my day has been spent flipping from chapter to chapter in Dune, largely because my attention span is too short now for more than 20 or 30 pages at a time. I wish I'd thought to bring more to distract me from the cranky passengers and perpetual do-nothing attitude of the driver.

There are antelope bedded in fields of alfalfa, and snow in the mountain valleys to the south at Wolf Creek Lane, and I remember driving out here two summers ago to catch a ferry in Bellingham. Sometimes it seems like nothing's changed but the calendar.

Two red-tailed hawks on fenceposts, watching over a freshly-cut field.

I miss the constant editing that working on a computer provides. This, it seems too forced, too conscious of its created-ness to be really authentic. But I know it's only my reaction against the promise I made myself to write this trip down. It only feels as forced as it is, and I wonder how much rewriting I'll do if and when this ever gets published - zine, blog, multi-million dollar novel? ... Hope is not what I know.

There's nothing much to mark this stretch of Interstate as any different from that north of Centennial: low hills covered in sagebrush to the left, mountains and sun on the right, and hayfields dotted with trees and houses in the middle.


8:30 pm
Ontario, OR

A 30-minute break is just enough time to wander down the gigantically-broad street here, past all the truck stops and cell phone shacks to the Taco Hell. I'd forgotten how cheap these places are... that's the reality of survival-level wages and no benefits.

The sun is getting close to setting, and this wheat-colored half-light reminds me of New Mexico so many years ago -- that Dairy Queen in the dusty farmtown.

I'm trying to relearn how to be there again.


Tuesday, June 21, 2005
7:30 am
Ontario, OR

Of course it was going too smoothly. The cranky busdriver left ten minutes early and stranded me and another passenger in Ontario. After a few hours on the phone it became clear that the next eastbound bus leaves at 9:30 this morning, so we split the cost of a room and finally fell asleep somewhere near midnight.

The Boise station failed to pull my luggage last night, so I was up again at 5:30 on the phone with Salt Lake. Someone named Manuel tells me he's pulled my luggage, but Steven can't confirm this 20 minutes later and tells me that my bags will be left in Laramie, which I really doubt given the previous actions of the driver.

So I've called ahead to have Abra meet the bus and collect my luggage in case it's not waiting in Salt Lake. And I have the sinking feeling that Fred Chang will never see his belongings again; he failed to tag his checked bags, and his carryon consistes of a "small black bag with papers" somewhere near the restroom.

So now I'm sitting in DJ's Family Restaurant waiting for the ticket counter -- which is really just a table and a chair at the truck stop -- to open at 8:00. And it's obvious I'm out of the city: most everyone is old, white, and fat in that farm-raised way. Semis loaded with tractors pass by every few minutes, and there's nothing taller than the billboards in sight.

Mr. Chang spent the better part of last night telling me about visiting the UK as a merchant marine, and I have to suppress a childish snort every time I hear him say something about being a "see-main." Still, he's been the best language-challenged strandee I could have asked for: quiet, respectful, and appreciative of the time I've spent trying to locate his (probably long-gone) luggage.

He tells me he's headed to Indiana to buy a house and get a job. He's got the RMLS sheets to prove it, and he asks me my opinion on houses, most of which were built well before Roosevelt was in office, and even the realtors' photos can't hide the fact that they're in desperate need of rennovation or demolition. It's difficult to remain hopeful for him.

But I haven't gotten angry yet. Yes, I'm annoyed that I'm stuck in this town, that I had to get a room for the night, that my travel plans will be pushed back at least 12 hours, all because some snotty driver left earlier than she'd announced. These things really don't bother me that much.

What bothers me is that it's entirely possible I'll lose my bags, which contain most of my wardrobe and all of my backpacking gear. And I'm angry that Mr. Chang will amost certainly lose his luggage and carryon, which includes the paperwork he'll need if he's going to buy a new old house and start his life over. He says that his family won't answer the phone because they have "the depression," and he hopes that this new house will let them do better. I hope he's right, for their sake and for mine.

He left me a note this morning: "I'm going to eat my friend. Fred"


8:00 am. make that 8:30...

Somehow I'm sure that John Vanderslice would have something much more compelling to say about all this: the truckdrivers, the country music, the surly waitress whose charm disappeared the moment she knew I had a free meal voucher from the hotel. But I'm just tired now, and there's a lot of legwork yet to be done by the time I arrive in Laramie. At least I managed to keep my ticket and my carryon. Without either of those I would have been nearly helpless. And the cell phone. Good god, the cell phone.

Bonnie said that this would be an interesting trip to blog about, and she's more right than she could have known. I have no doubt that I'll catch hell when my family finds out about this, but really, they didn't pay for this adventure so it's not their concern.

I really despise this commercial country crap...


9:45 am
Bus #7254

Moving again ... finally. The Greyhound rep at the ticket counter was of no help, but after no small amount of struggling we've convinced another driver to let us board without the appropriate tickets.

It seems that since I wasn't supposed to change busses at any point they'd taken all my tickets in Portland, and it remains to be seen what will happen in Salt Lake, where I'll have to attempt a transfer without tickets. Perhaps the Boise ticket counter will be able to reprint a new ticket with an updated itenerary? Mr. Chang will be able to ride this bus all the way to Denver, but after Salt Lake he's on his own, which I feel a little hesitant about, having negotiated on his behalf so much to this point.

If I'm lucky, the bags will be waiting in Salt Lake for me. If not, Abra will have to pick them up in Laramie. And if they're not there, well ... Greyhound will get a claim filed. I'll also see about putting a track on my bags when I'm in Boise/Salt Lake, but as they're not scanned, I doubt that will be very successful. If nothing else, I'll arrive in Laramie with carryon in tow.


3:45 pm
Twin Falls, ID

I should have arrived in Laramie 30 minutes ago, had all gone according to schedule. There was a 30-minute delay in Boise while everyone dis-boarded and tried to board again. The driver got lost and drove west for a while, then figured it out and apologized. Thirty minutes later he announces that he's forgotten his luggage at the station and turns around again.

He didn't apologize when he missed the exit for Twin Falls. I think he's tired of apologizing.

Here's hoping that my baggage is in Salt Lake and that I'm able to find a direct line to Laramie tonight. No cell signal, so I can't even call Abra to see her status.

I hate you, grey dog.


6:40 pm
Utah

Twenty-four miles into Utah there is an exit marked "Valley" and an arrow pointing to ... a valley.

At 4 pm I sent out a text message that read, "Still travelling. Driver got lost. No shit. Arrive SLC soon. More later." Abra responded that she checked for my bags at the stop in Laramie, but they weren't on the bus. That, at least, may have worked out. Now the trick will be getting to Salt Lake -- and finding the station once we get there. This is the driver's first trip on this route, and we've spent a few hours doubling back to find missed stops. At least everyone seems to be taking it well -- even the people who'll miss their connections in SLC as a result.

I figure that I'm already 12 hours behind schedule, so what's a few more? I'm not sure how long it's going to take to get from SLC to Laramie, but at this rate arriving before dawn seems less and less likely.

Going all day stuffed up without antiperspirant is catching up with me. My seatmate must love me.

We've been doing nothing but climbing since we left Idaho, and it's becoming more obvious now as we move into the laps of the mountains. From the look of things ahead, we might be in for a storm tonight, which would be an interesting change of pace. The fields and hills are still green here, though I wonder how much of that will change when we climb out onto the Red Desert...

G left a message that she'd spoken to mom earlier. When I've finished with business in Salt Lake, I'll give them a call to let them know my general whereabouts. It's turned out to be very relieving that Abra will be picking me up; she's promised a bath, a bed, and food. And I know there won't be any of the stuffy formalities that my family would have had. I'll see them later, but when I roll into town in the dark I want to be met by someone who won't mind that my priorities of the moment are a shower and sleep, and that the niceties will come later.

We're cutting sounth now, along the wall of mountains (Wasatch Range?) that continues all the way to SLC. It can't be much more than an hour now. Or maybe two ... I'm not sure.

People have finally broken down their stony silences and are playing cards and trading food across the aisle. It's been a long ride today.


10:15 pm
Leaving Salt Lake City, UT

They actually held my baggage in Salt Lake as requested! And rather than waiting until 7:30 for the next official bus going anywhere near Laramie, I got on one that I thought was going down through Utah and then east to Denver in the morning. It was only after I got on board and we were underway that I found out that this is the Denver bus via Laramie. Things work sometimes if you trust your instincts, especially when helpful -- and helpless -- ticket counter staff are figured in.

And now, as we twist through the canyon above Salt Lake before climbing out on top, I'm going to try for some sleep.


3:30 am
East of Arlington, WY

At 2:30 we glided through Rawlins under the light of the full moon, and I began to realize how much my sense of self is tied up in this place.

Now Elk Mountain is behind us as well, its dark shape huge and unmistakable as the moon sets behind it. In another 30 minutes we'll be arriving in Laramie -- 2 hours earlier than I'd expected. Finally.

This place is a kind of home.

I can see the flashing of the wind turbines northeast of Arlington, and I remember a late-night trip from Casper with G, and all the lights stretched out before us, winking blue-green.