Many of you have been asking where I’ve gone (I’m looking at you, Aussie filmmaker). How could I dump my feelings onto Thedirtbag.org week after week only to disappear into oblivion for nearly half a year? Part of it was exhaustion. It can be humiliating to admit to all of your faults, fears, and fantasies in such a public place. Another part was filled with self-doubt. Who cares about what I’m saying, anyways? And, you know, it was also 2020.
The mixture of circumstances caused me to tuck my heart into a dark cavern, keeping it from all of you.
But after cutting myself off from thedirtbag.org, I, oddly, began dirtbagging again. My Colorado lease ended while the Summer months were dwindling. The place that had become my home was smoke-choked and uninhabitable. And it was also haunted with memories of a relationship I wanted to forget. So, I filled a storage unit full of a handful of things that weren’t really worth keeping. And then I hit the road.
Dirtbagging in Arkansas
Before I wove my way across the Ozark mountains, a handful of hikertrash friends warned me that Arkansas is not a friendly place in the summer. They said that the damned chiggers and ticks would eat me alive if I attempted to explore the mountains. But I was making my way to North Carolina, and I didn’t want to make the drive in a single shot. So, I ignored their warnings, thinking that it couldn’t possibly be as bad as they claimed, right?
On the second day of exploration, I took a word of advice from North Face athlete, Coree Woltering, and placed duct-tape inside out at the top of my socks. This system was supposed to keep the little ticks at bay. He’d discovered this trick while attempting an FKT earlier in the season, and it had been enough to keep him from quitting. So, I covered myself in duct tape, I bathed in Deet, and I hit the trail.
It wasn’t long before I saw a real LIVE armadillo — even if it was just his ass running into the distance (those little buggers can move). Up until that point, I’d only seen armadillo roadkill, and seeing a living one was a dreamy experience. The mountains were relatively tame. But they were covered in long grass, which seemed foreboding. So, I decided to turn around earlier than expected.
Upon my return, I examined my body for creepy crawlies. My buddy, Samaritan had previously told me that it’s ESSENTIAL to conduct two exams per day (he says everything with the most enthusiasm imaginable). Most of my body appeared to be fine. But then I peeled the tape from the top of my socks. And underneath the wool fabric were hundreds of moving creatures. They were so small that I couldn’t determine what they were, exactly. I just assumed that I’d wandered into the land of ticks, so that must be what they were.
Panic pumped in my chest. I scraped my skin, wiped them away with tissues, and even attempted to light them on fire. Nearly an hour after digging my car key into my flesh repeatedly, I felt confident that I’d removed the little assholes from my flesh. Either that, or I’d already gotten Lymes disease and there was nothing I could do anyways.
But one thing was certain: I was leaving Arkansas immediately.
The Murfreesboro Serial Killer Motel
Being eaten alive by armies of ticks has a way of making you feel like you need to shed your skin. Even after you carefully pluck them from your flesh, you can’t help but wonder if you missed one. What if they crawled where the sun don’t shine? Could they be on my scalp? I’ve seen enough hikers with Lymes disease to want to avoid the debacle at every cost.
I’m generally comfortable pulling into a walmart parking lot, looking for the darkest corner, and sleeping next to the grocery store. But after my tick encounter, I needed a shower. I wanted to wash the images of ticks from my mind. And it wasn’t long before I was pulling into the Murfreesboro Knights Inn.
As hikertrash, I’ve stayed in a lot of sketchy motels. The carpets are often covered with cigarette burns, smelling like year-old leftovers. But I’m not sure that I was prepared for what I encountered in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I pulled into the parking lot after my journey from Arkansas, stepped out of the car, and then I felt eyes on me.
After a brief encounter with the inn manager, I pulled everything of value out of my car, sprinted up the stairs and slammed the motel door shut behind me. I couldn’t help but feel like something was lurking in the dark. And I didn’t really want to stay, but I did need a shower. Like hikers do, I plugged all of my electronics into the wall, washed the recent events off of my body, and checked the corners of the bed for hints of bed bugs.
I didn’t discover bed bugs, but I did discover someone else’s hair and a series of stains on my bed sheets. I contemplated leaving the inn to find a more comfortable stay at a nearby walmart. Instead I sent my sister a series of explosive texts.
“If you don’t hear from me in the morning, I was murdered at the Murfreesboro Knight’s Inn.” I hit send, lighting up the screen.
“Ummmmmm don’t die. What’s wrong?” She was inquisitive like always.
“Worst motel I’ve ever stayed at. Dirty. Smelly. Creepy neighbors. They look like they want to eat me for breakfast.” I quip.
“If you don’t feel safe, you can always leave. But maybe we can find good things about the area.” I loved her for trying to comfort me from afar.
“Look,” she messaged me again. “Murfreesboro is known for its donuts. So, when you live through the night, you need to go get coffee and donuts.” A smile lit up my face. Okay. How could the town with the best donuts also be the serial killer town? I thought. Within minutes, I was fast asleep, dreaming about a glazed donut.
For More Inspiration:
