The passage to ‘The Choker’ is a narrow one, to start. And it’s not like they want you to find it, they being the Rangers who maintain and supervise Washington’s Greater Cave System which, until recently, was closed to the public due to all the deaths. Now re-opened (because those Rangers were blind sighted by an argument that those people weren’t just endlessly wandering in the caves, very much alive), accessing ‘The Choker’ has become a little easier and, passing by, it’s finally made sense for me to cross it off the list before an appeal on the dead vs. missing decision inevitably comes through. 

Still, ‘The Choker’ is only accessed via a branch of the caverns that is deemed ‘unstable’ and it takes the better part of three hours just to reach and find the little crevasse that opens wide enough to take a body but isn’t one of the similar but much more dangerous crevasses that just become tighter and tighter or drop travelers into seemingly endless pits. A small, spraypainted ‘X’ inside ‘The Choker’s’ passage confirms I’ve got the right one, which is only so comforting.

It’s still a tight squeeze.

‘‘The Choker’ is observed, not visited- a massive crystalline geode with a relatively tiny hole in the bottom where, if one chooses, they might painstakingly shove their head through to get a view of the sparkling panorama. It’s recommended that travelers bring radiant light sources, again, small enough to fit through a melon-sized hole, and it’s recommended that a form of lubricant is used at the penetration point. Heads go in a lot easier than they come out, and ‘The Choker’ is littered with the blood and skin of panicked visitors.’

The entry makes me think that the entrance to ‘The Choker’ is going to be this scene of old violence, brown with blood or something like that. It’s not- I almost miss it, actually, and could have spent another half hour crawling through the narrow approach passage which is said to end abruptly some ways ahead. As it is, I happen to glance up in time for my headlight to catch something glimmering in the shadows above and, to the left, I find another small ‘X’ indicating that I’ve reached my destination. 

My research allows me to avoid two common pitfalls, here. One is the utter destruction of my headlight while attempting to shove it, and my head, through the hole at the same time. The other is getting my head through without considering that I won’t have room to pass a light source in after. Several blogs I’ve read suggested candlelight is the way to enjoy ‘The Choker’ but I do carry some semblance of Leave No Trace in my philosophy and so have opted for a small, collapsible lantern. I pass it through the hole and start the unpleasant process of lubing up my head. For this I’ve chosen a water-based based lube that’s graphic design and instructions indicate it was meant for something a great deal more enjoyable than this. 

And it’s cold. 

Generously lubricated, I start to squeeze my head up into the chamber, rotating, a little, so that my nose and chin can pass through small divots in the stone. Through, finally, I try to enjoy the crystals and I try to wonder at the mysterious beauty of nature and consider that I’m probably one of only a handful to have seen this and so on and so forth but the rock around my neck is oppressive and the prospect of now pulling my head back down daunting and when I do a small test to see if I can alleviate some of the anxiety I find, to my deep concern, that I can lift my legs from the ground below me and be stably, if not comfortably, supported by my neck alone. 

It takes a great deal of mental effort to not immediately start shoving myself back down with my arms and, instead, remember a suggestion that I instead try to lift my shoulders and rely on that more subtle, and thus more gentle, leverage so that when I emerge I will still have most of the skin of my face. Another panicked minute ticks by as I search for just the right angle and then suddenly my chin scrapes below the edge of ‘The Choker’ and, slowly but surely, the rest of my head follows. 

It must be frustrating for the Rangers to see people, like myself, emerge from the cave with the facial scrapings and dirty lube-matted heads indicative of visiting ‘The Choker’ and to have little-to-no recourse. I don’t dwell on it for long, though. There are certain Wayside destinations that make me happy to be free and alive, by comparison, and ‘The Choker’ proves to be among them. I rinse my head with a bucket outside the camper and smile as the afternoon air stings the little pink wounds about my head.

-traveler

‘Google Maps has made watching ‘The Zombie Mall’ so easy and safe that it’s difficult to conceptualize the danger it represents. ‘The Mall’ originates from the outskirts of Bedford, Nebraska and was called ‘Eagle Mall,’ in a vague nod to patriotism. ‘Eagle Mall’ remains the core of what it has become now: a sprawling and useless structure, still suckling electricity from the grid despite several attempts to disconnect it. The meta-parasitic denizens have established elaborate redundancies the ensure the mall has at least the bare minimum required to support itself and, thus, them. They welcome visitors who follow their ‘laws’ and maintain a fairly healthy trade of organically produced vegetables, marijuana, and ultraviolet koi fish. Those who defy them are offered a choice: banishment to the outside world or some form of restorative justice, approved by a council of trained therapists. 

All right, so ‘The Zombie Mall’ might be something like a living utopia and further research suggests the undead connotation may have been the result of a smear campaign championed by local governments. ‘The Zombie Mall’ is certainly and illegally encroaching upon the lands of those governments but it seems to be improving them. Crime rates in ‘The Mall’ are low, at least, and poverty is unheard of. 

As a tendril of ‘The Zombie Mall’ approaches the outskirts of the capitol, residents of Lincoln are divided. Some believe ‘The Mall’ is a threat, the other believes it is a savior, and both sides believe the opposition represents a sort of death cult mentality. Crime in the city is up as people come to blows over the issue. Families are building mall-proof bunkers which, realistically, will provide residential spaces for mall citizens when it inevitably rolls over the land.

Until that day, it’s recommended that travelers avoid the outskirts of Lincoln, where everyone seems determined to prove the tired zombie trope that humans are the real monsters. 

Do visit ‘The Zombie Mall,’ though. It may be the safest place in the world.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

I am unabashed at the urinal- one of my prouder attributes. While some men need a second or two to get going, I am pissing right out of the gate. While some men’s streams falter when they find themselves with a neighbor, I find the company strengthens my resolve. When a line is growing behind me I easily find it within myself to power through a quick pee and make room. I once stopped to pee while being hunted by another human being. I’ve pissed myself on several occasions and would dare anyone to have faced the things I have without doing the same. 

Peeing is not a problem, for me. 

But there is something about ‘The Great Outdoor Urinal’ that gives me stage fright. The lead-up, maybe. The dark. Maybe it’s the smell- not like a bathroom but not quite like a forest, either. Like an old wax museum. Like a cellar. 

Maybe also it’s the bear, which must be tense with inaction somewhere in the room. ‘The Great Outdoor Urinal’ sits in a massive room, but it’s tightened by the presence of that bear. 

‘Some things meant to be fun and folksy become terrifying with age. These are your worn-down statues. Your elderly clowns. Your debatably-safe country zip-line tours. Your rickety bridges. Most communes.

‘The Great Outdoors Urinal’ seems like that same sort of thing but it was built that way in 2023, crafted with careful details to make it terrifying from the start. So, where many animatronic shows use darkness to conceal the unforgiving machinery that puppets their mascots, ‘The Great Outdoors Urinal’ is just a little more dark than necessary. And it’s secluded- the owners have purchased all the land off the shoulder of the interstate but ‘The Urinal’ is a full hour away from the nearest exit with nothing inbetween. 

More than anything else, thought, ‘The Great Outdoors Urinal’ is strangely exacting. Its shell is made of cement and steel. Its faux forest is carefully arranged and always clean. And it only except urine as an activation method. Attempting to pour water or lemonade into the urinal shuts off the lights and upsets the bear. So much as spitting in the urinal before peeing will often result in the same sudden anger. It is reported that bringing a container of someone else’s urine will do, but that animal urine is out, and that ‘The Great Outdoors Urinal’ can differentiate in the blink of an eye.

Come with a full bladder, traveler, and expect a show.’

The bear has only been pictured twice, at least as far as the internet is concerned. Both are frantic and blurry- the bear only approaches when someone has attempted to trick ‘The Urinal’ into accepting something other than urine. In one, a hulking figure is just visible between two false trees and on the edge of a beam of light. In the other, the bear’s face is caught by sunlight from the open exit- unapologetically fierce and mechanical in contrast to the contrived peace of the overall display. Neither picture indicates that the bear is bound by cords or tracks. Nobody that has ventured off the trail to the urinal has found the bear or discovered a hatch from where it might emerge. The somewhere-presence of the bear makes this whole thing very uncomfortable. 

So I think that’s why I falter, at first. Why I struggle to find my stride. It’s the same feeling of guilt I sometimes get when I leave a store without buying anything- afraid that some manager thinks I’m stealing or that somehow, something has appeared in my pockets that will set off the alarm at the door.

I’ve had enough water to need to go. I haven’t had so much that it will be watered down and unrecognizable. The chances of my releasing anything but urine have got to be near-zero. 

But still, I stand dick-out and afraid. 

-traveler

‘Much of the Wayside will appear, to the traveler, prematurely aged. This is mostly due to lack of maintenance (which, in turn, is due to the lack of capital for passion projects). A rare few cases, however, mark the result of failed experiments and these are aged appropriately, though prototypical materials may wear poorly. A traveler will rarely see these experiments in their early days due to confidentiality protocols and a tendency for them to go wrong quickly and so disastrously as to leave no survivors. 

Some suggest this is by design.

‘The Anti-Sleeping Bench’ system in Broadbank, RI has managed to be just durable enough, and just harmless enough, to remain a valid destination since its installation in 2016. More than that, these benches have proven to be something of a seasonal attraction due to their changeable nature.

The pitch is something like this:

Imagine a bench meant to be as inhospitable as possible whilst still performing the minimum duties required for being a bench. Now, imagine all the simple hacks someone might employ to make this bench comfortable enough to sleep on: cushions, stacked boxes, twisted sleeping postures and so on and so forth. NOW, imagine a bench that can alter its design to combat these so-call ‘hacks.’ Imagine a bench system that’s shape can be changed from a central hub accessible only by the local government- a bench that hacks back, if you will (though not literally in this case). 

That is ‘The Anti-Sleeping Bench’ of Broadbank, though it functions a little differently than intended. Broadbank’s political climate is tumultuous and the warring parties have very different feelings about people who need to sleep on park benches. When the liberal party is at the controls, the benches become subdued but still quite uncomfortable. While the conservative party is in power, the benches blossom into wild and everchanging forms to ward off even the loitering sitters. 

The unfortunate truth is that the wealthy in both parties resent the unhomed equally and are only at odds about how massively to inconvenience them. It goes without saying that the voters of Broadbank are roundly depressed. 

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

Autumn by the Wayside is much like any other guidebook in that its directions are generally limited to the cardinal, which is to say, it mostly just tells you where things are before delving into the vague and sometimes outright dangerous advice is contains about actually navigating the Wayside attractions. I’ve come to appreciate the book for its consistency, at least. 

The entry for ‘A Food Oasis’ raises red flags almost right away.

‘One week before an attempt to reach ‘A Food Oasis,’ a traveler should begin to cut meals in half, or so, and be rid of snacking altogether. A day or two out, the traveler should subsist on coffee and, if they choose, water. Good and hungry, the traveler should proceed to Goose Lake, MI, where three superstores crushed the local groceries and then collapsed in on themselves, leaving the town wholly reliant on food from elsewhere. 

Unless one counts ‘The Food Oasis,’ which appears only to those who most need it (coordinates follow).’

Needless to say I do check the coordinates on a full stomach and find nothing but a rundown park and several scrawny kids who sell me a few cups of foul lemonade for the absurd price of a dollar-per. When I ask about ‘A Food Oasis’ they waggle their eyebrows and roll their eyes, neither wanting to suppress their contempt at this obvious tourist nor wanting to lose a valuable lemonade customer. I leave and begin the starvation diet. 

A week passes and I am hurting. 

When I return to Goose Lake, those same kids are there, standing outside a farmer’s market and still hawking their neon drinks. I push past them and walk up and down, waiting to see what trick ‘The Food Oasis’ has in store for the hungry traveler. When I break down and dig into my wallet to buy an apple, I hear one of the kids snickering. I look back at him and the illusion of the market dissipates- a mirage. 

From behind their lemonade stand, the kids bring a basket of grainy apples and I buy them happily.

-traveler