Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

by Neil Peart

  Dear Marty,

  [Recap of the winter’s activities]

  On weekends, or just for a change, I march around the woods on my snowshoes, and I’ve done a lot of good exploring around this area. I also started paying attention to the animal tracks in the snow, then studying the field guides on the subject back home in front of the fire, with Macallan in hand. Lately I’ve been carrying a tape measure with me to measure size of prints, length of stride, and width of track — all the stuff you have to know to be a “tracker.” Next year, my very own trapline . . .

  However, now comes the season of Limbo for me, and I’m not sure what will happen. Though I spend a couple of hours at my desk in the morning, I’ve only been writing letters or faxes, or taking care of necessary business; no drive to take on “serious work.” I haven’t even gotten around to typing up the notes from my journey, and if I read over stuff I was working on “before,” I just lose interest. Back in August of ’97, I had been halfway through writing a book about my adventures with Brutus on the Test For Echo tour, but now — I just don’t care.

  It has become clear to me that whatever was most central to my life before is now the most remote. That means drumming and writing, whether lyrics or “serious” prose. In the “scavenger hunt” of putting together some kind of a new life, I’ve been able to pick around the edges of former enthusiasms, and once again fit in, say, reading, motorcycling, bird-watching, and cross-country skiing, but my mind, my soul, simply shies away from any thought of drumming or writing. At this point, the lack of a “creative urge” is neither a good nor bad thing, for it is certainly a luxury anyway, and has nothing to do with my present mission of survival.

  In time, it may become clear that the “urge,” the “soul,” whatever you want to call that “central zone,” is simply closed for renovations. Someday we’ll have a grand reopening and be ready to go to work again. On the other hand, it may be that the source of these things has been battered beyond recovery.

  Either way, there’s nothing I can do about it but try to survive, for if Time is supposed to do its healing thing, it’s up to me to let it pass. As gently as possible.

  In that spirit, I have tried to stretch this ski season as far as I can, and it’s driven me into new areas of waxing. I even tried klister once, but it was a sticky, gooey nightmare. It seemed to start working just after I gave up and turned around to go back . . .

  However, I have had some great ski-days when it’s been right around 0°C [32°F] (purple wax), especially when it’s cloudy. By March the sun is so strong that it affects the snow regardless of the temperature, so that it’s hot and slippery in the sun, and cool and “grippy” in the shadows. But I’ve definitely expanded my knowledge in that area of alchemy. Why, today I actually redid the pine-tar surface on my skis, burning it in with the torch and all that manly stuff, then put on a couple of coats of glider wax — smoothed out with the electric iron.

  Just another one of my acts of defiance, as “bachelor with a vengeance.” I shall certainly never use an iron on my wardrobe, so what better use than to melt ski wax? None, I submit.

  I also like to thumb my nose at convention (and especially wimmen) with a motorcycle in the living room, wearing my cowboy hat at the dinner table while watching “Inside Nascar” on Speedvision, and leaving all my dishes on the counter until morning. (I don’t really mind doing them then, half-awake and watching the birds at the feeder, but right after dinner it seems silly not to go sit down in front of the fire and relax.)

  I had also been flying my freak flag by growing the world’s stupidest beard — a goatee which hadn’t been trimmed since last July. It finally got too stupid even for me, and once Brad and Rita arrived a few weeks back, and she got a chance to tell me “you look like a Mormon,” I knew that it had done its job as a symbol of that-which-all-women-hate, and I was able to get rid of it.

  Now I’m letting my hair grow, but only as long as it maintains the “electroshock in the morning” look. Once it gets too long, of course, girls will start to like it. That will never do.

  I hope everything is good with you and yours, my friend, and maybe we can get together sometime and do some skiing.

  Bye for now, NEP

  [Letter to Mark Riebling, a writer friend who was living in his own “rural isolation,” in upstate New York]

  CAMP ELLWOOD®

  For the Care and Feeding of Little Baby Souls™

  Apr. 5, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.

  Hail, Marcus Magnanimus,

  Your fax from the Central Market (how quaint) came over the wires awhile back, but unfortunately, given the antediluvian technology, somehow all the pages overlapped into one page, then were divided into paper-size by my machine. Thus the last paragraph of every page is missing. Man — the troubles we have in simple communication, eh?

  The Song of the Age, I guess. The zeitgeist.

  Hey — I had previously figured that I was El viajero fantomo in Spanish, and Le cavalier fantôme in French, so it occurs to me now that in the language of Goethe (and your antecedents), I am die Geist Reiter.

  It would be cool to be the Zeitgeist Rider, but I don’t think I’m up to it.

  Anyway, I wanted to let you know about that technical glitch (what we scientists call “a fuckup”), and ask if you could maybe snail-mail the hard copy to me, so I can read the rest of what seemed like a really good letter. I’m so pleased that you enjoyed the instructional video, A Jerk in Progress, and yes, I am proud of it. “That other guy” did some good work, and as you pointed out, he truly tried hard.

  Winter is giving way to spring around here, though reluctantly (so it seems to me, anyway, in a classic pathetic fallacy), for even after more than a week of above-zero temperatures, there’s still a couple of feet of snow in the woods and on the lake. With all the snow we’ve had, especially in March, this thaw is like trying to melt a glacier. Now that I think of it, the roadside snowbanks have the appropriate dirty look of glacial moraines, and the lake too is wrinkled and waved like the surface of an ancient icefield.

  And it’s sure been an epic winter for my purposes. I was cross-country skiing until the last week of March, and snowshoe season still isn’t over; I am planning to head across the road to the 100 Aker Wood later today, for it’s gloriously sunny and mild. There’s also some good downhill skiing still to be had, and I’m planning to give that a shot tomorrow (after a week-long search to locate my telemark boots).

  Overall, the same mantra continues to apply: keep moving.

  This need has caused me some anxiety as the season changes, for now comes the Season of Mud, followed closely by the Season of Blackfly, and I’ve been concerned about how I would get any outdoor action for the next month or so. Cycling might be possible, though hardly inviting, with the roads strewn with mud and leftover sand and gravel, cold spring rains, and the aforementioned flies, which tend to cluster around your head in maddening clouds, especially when you’re, say, grinding slowly uphill.

  So with this “difficult time” ahead, I’ve experienced the interesting phenomenon of observing my brain as it operates on two separate levels, and often at cross-purposes. One part of me — the conscious part — is appreciating the day-to-day life here, watching nature and the weather, and not wanting to stir anywhere at all.

  At the same time, another part of my so-called brain is busy contacting the BMW dealer in Mexico City to get the bike ready to ride, making lists of things that would need to be done before I take off, and even starting the usual pre-trip “staging area” in the bedroom. (A corner where things are assembled as they’re thought of, over the course of a week or two before leaving. It’s a good system — you have time to remember everything, and “edit out” the unworthy.)

  But the weird thing is I don’t even know what that Jungbrain, Freud-brain, Ur-brain of mine is goddam doing. Where is it taking me? When are we going? I can honestly tell you, from the mundane-brain, quotidian-brain, stupid-brain part of me, I don’t know.
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br />   Yesterday I was digging in my “Ghost Rider” box of maps, and I found myself pulling things out and setting them aside: the Lonely Planet Mexico guide, but not the Baja one; the Western States and Provinces map, but not the Eastern one — though as far as I knew I was still thinking about taking a ferry that runs from the Yucatán to Florida. See what I mean, though? There are decisions being made here of which I have no part!

  Needless to say, I’m a little bemused by this process.

  Also in the news: Lately I’ve been waging a most enjoyable war with a neighborhood squirrel (good title, no? “A Most Enjoyable War”), who keeps jumping from the wall of the house onto my bird-feeder, then hanging there impudently while he fills his rodent face with my finest sunflower seeds. First I tried chucking snowballs at him, but as a pitcher, I am hardly big-league material — even in a fantasy league. Jackie’s sister Deb, who had been visiting for a few days, suggested a squirt gun, and this ignited the proverbial animated light bulb.

  Digging in the furnace room, I found my old nerf-arrow bow, and a Super Soaker gun, and the hunt began. It’s developing into a regular Caddyshack scene, with me in the Bill Murray role, as I go spying out of windows and stalking around with my “weapons,” then cranking open the kitchen window to fire off a few rounds.

  “Ha ha, squirrel — your ass is mine!”

  The Super Soaker is the most effective counter-offensive weapon, but the nerf arrows are more fun. The other morning I laughed out loud, seeing myself as anyone else might have: a lunatic in a cowboy hat and lumberjack shirt hanging out the kitchen window and firing bright yellow nerf arrows with extreme prejudice.

  It’s good to have a mission, and it’s good to have a laugh.

  In fact, I see him out there now, patroling the trees of No Man’s Land, at 12:00, obviously on a pre-attack recon. Time to go secure the perimeter.

  God, I really do have to wonder about myself sometimes. I just peeked out the window from upstairs here and saw the squirrel hanging on my feeder, ran down three flights, grabbed the Super Soaker from the kitchen (no time to mess with nerf arrows this time), and raced out into the snow in T-shirt, jeans, and slippers, and started firing madly.

  The key word is “madly” . . .

  However, it does keep me entertained. Along with birdwatching, animal-tracking, letter-typing, and Speedvision-watching, defending the birdfeeder against squirrels is among the few pursuits that are both harmless (even to the squirrels) and diverting (possibly ditto). Diversion is good too.

  Just at sunrise this morning I was standing at the kitchen window (Dawn Patrol for Operation Squirrel), and saw a good-sized fox (one of the red-gray hybrids they call a “cross” fox) trot slowly across the edge of the woods, right across my field of vision, so that I could watch it for several long seconds. The snow was crusted by an overnight freeze, and the fox moved over it so lightly that later I couldn’t find even one of its tracks.

  That was a nice vision to start my day.

  I hadn’t heard of The Pagan Book of Days, but it sounds like a great thing to live by. If you can get me a copy, I’d love to have it. By the by, either name is fine to send stuff to up here, for anonymity is no problem in a post office box. They know me as both N.P. and John Ellwood Taylor — well, I don’t think they actually know who John Ellwood is. But then, neither do I!

  And I guess that’s about enough for today, from one Walden to another, and from one Henry David to another (you’re going to live there without running water? — ho ho!). Though I’ve always heard that Thoreau’s much-vaunted self-sufficiency used to include regular visits to Ralph Waldo’s for meals, laundry, and to “get his end away” with Mrs. E.

  Well, that sounds okay. Add a few other bucolic necessities, like single-malt whisky and herbal remedies, and I’ll stay here by the Pond. Who needs water, after all, except for rowing and swimming.

  Okay, and making ice . . .

  Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be staying by my Pond much longer. That secret-strategist inside my tiny little brain seems to have the notion that travel would “broaden” me or something, and is obviously preparing to kick me out into the cold, cruel world of strangers and their hell-bent vehicles.

  Well, what can I do? Best just do as I’m told.

  Anyway, I hope you and your work are going well, and that you’ll get one of your books finished, say, this year?

  Your friend, NEP

  [Letter to Steven, who had recently visited]

  Apr. 9, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.

  Greetings from Camp Ellwood, a four-season, full-service retreat specializing in the techniques of aerobic grief therapy pioneered by our founder, John Ellwood Taylor. We offer outdoor activities and nature-watching until you’re really, really tired, followed by delicious and nutritious meals prepared by Chef Ellwood (trained in Europe at the famous Marks & Spencer institute), and complimentary alcoholic beverages. Evening entertainment includes slide shows by your host, and whatever’s on CBC or Speedvision.

  Recent client testimonials:

  “Do we have to go snowshoeing in the rain?”

  “Is this how muskrat is supposed to taste?”

  “When are you going to get the satellite dish fixed?”

  “Can I go home now?”

  [Letter to Brutus]

  le fou au bout d’hiver

  Apr. 15, ’99 Lac St. Brutus, Que.

  Bonjour, Pierre Concassée,

  Say, there’s a good manly nom-de-plume for you, eh? I saw it on a sign in front of a local quarry and gravel pit, and thought of you right away. “Smashed-up stone,” yeah.

  Another thing made me think of you lately. It seems to me that when you last visited here (long-ago-last-summer) you brought me a hardback copy of Cold Mountain. I had been reading about that one for awhile in the newspaper reviews (why, even in Britain, I think), and had the impression it would be a book I would enjoy. But when I took off from here after that, of course I didn’t want to carry any hardcovers with me.

  So, it wasn’t until this week that I finally got around to reading it, and yes, it’s a good one, alright. Real good. The more I think about it the more impressed I am with what he accomplished in that book, on levels of history, folk wisdom, character-drawing, and — especially — painting a landscape so brilliantly.

  I’m presuming you read it before giving it to me, because in various places throughout the book were the pieces of a torn-up ticket to the movies. It’s always interesting to run across things like that in a book, old or new. Though this one was less than a year old, it still made a little “time capsule.” When pieced together, it revealed the following information: “Eglinton Theatre, July 18, ’98, 3:30, Armageddon, $6.50.”

  Tell any tales to you?

  All this winter I’ve been keeping a Post-It pad and pen beside my bed, but I hadn’t used them at all until last week, when I had to write down the word Edward Abbey used (in Black Sun; that’s a nice book too, as I think you noted) for those showers you see falling high over the desert, but which evaporate before they reach the ground: “virgas,” he called them. A lovely word for a lovely sight.

  There were a couple of passages in Cold Mountain I felt compelled to stick a note on, and I copied them out today:

  There was fact in what the dark voice said. You could become so lost in bitterness and anger that you could not find your way back. No map or guidebook for such journey. One part of Inman knew that. But he knew too that there were footsteps in the snow, and that if he awoke one more day he would follow them to wherever they led as long as he could put one foot in front of the other.

  You could grieve endlessly for the loss of time and for the damage done therein. For the dead, and for your own lost self. But what the wisdom of the ages says is that we do well not to grieve on and on. And those old ones knew a thing or two and had some truth to tell, Inman said, for you can grieve your heart out and in the end you are still where you were. All your grief hasn’t changed a thing. What you have lost wi
ll not be returned to you. It will always be lost. You’re left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on or not. But if you go on, it’s knowing you carry your scars with you.

  Yeah, well, shut up, eh? I don’t need no smarty-pants writers telling me about how life is ignorant and all. Nary a one of them knows it better than I do.

  Last night I started Jonny Bealby’s other one, For a Pagan Song, and though so far it’s a good tale well-told, the copy editor should be shot. There are so many typos in this book it’s positively alarming, starting right on the first god-damned page! As you know, such solecisms leap off the page and hit me like a smack in the face and set my brain vibrating in outrage and confusion; it’s such a disservice to any reader to have to stop and figure out what it’s supposed to say. As the egregious typos piled up, it was rattling me so much I almost sent the book flying across the room. But I’m persevering.

  I have just made a list to order some of the books you mentioned, especially the Sand County Almanac, which I keep hearing about. Just last night I was watching the Cadillac Desert video that Steven got for me, and the author, Marc Reisner, mentioned that book.

  Like you, I kept running into Barry Lopez’s name, and in that Back of Beyond bookstore in Moab they had a special section titled “Abbey and Friends,” with a bunch of his books. I bought Desert Notes/River Notes, and when I started reading it, at first I was interested, as he waxed poetic about the desert, the plants, and the animals.

  Then I realized that what he was saying was not true. I mean, literally. For poetic effect he was changing and inventing the “nature of Nature.” I’m sure he felt entitled to do this in the pursuit of some “higher purpose” — a new and important kind of “myth-making,” I’m sure his admirers would say. All full of “powerful images,” and “visions,” and “poignant poesy,” like. But it’s one of the few books in my life I have ever given up on in disgust, and I almost tossed it right in the trash.