‘Deep in Redwood National Park there is a trapdoor. It is wooden (and red) but not made of the redwoods (as one might suspect). Anyone who has visited an old-growth forest will tell you that the trees, there, cast shadows on the ground like hastily discarded clothes and are so haphazardly crisscrossed that the earth is practically piled in darkness, even in the daylight. In this instance, the shadows make it difficult to find ‘The Red, Wood Trapdoor.’ More difficult than one might suspect. One might suspect that the trees try to hide it.

No, GPS doesn’t work; the signal gets lost in the canopy. Radio fairs better, assuming it doesn’t have to pass through the foliage to get to where it’s going. Signs are roundly gobbled up. When they’re not, they eventually become vandalized by something that suggests it might be the trees, that seems to want a wider audience to believe the forest has learned to purchase and utilize spray paint. One commonly finds the word ‘WEED’ stenciled across the signage in the deep woods. Environmental activists or immortal middle schooler? Difficult to say.

The only reliable way of finding ‘The Red, Wood Trapdoor’ is by following a printed map, which rankles the trees. Having no conception of printers or even, really, of the written word, they’re upset to see one of their own give up the secret so easily. Younger forests understand technology in way that the redwoods likely never will.

‘The Red, Wood Trapdoor’ is known to the government. The Park Rangers have installed a deep, cement well around it and a thick, metal gate over the top. The bars are close and crisscrossed like the shadows, leaving only enough room to carve one’s initials. So many people have left their mark that the door is thinning and one must pack longer knives each year to cut even a few splinters away.

A fellow named Owen Pearl has been given special permission to study ‘The Red, Wood Trapdoor’ following years of careful observation between the bars. He carries ‘A Red, Rusted Key’ on his belt. Sometimes he opens the gate and he kneels there, on the ground, with his hands on ‘The Red, Iron Ring’ and he raises the trapdoor up an inch or so and when it sticks he kneels further to dig his nails into the exposed rim. Pearl is a thin man and the vein of his arms swell to intricate gilding as he pulls. Pearl struggles, until he doesn’t. He invariably lowers the trapdoor again, the anticipation- the fear of anticlimax- too much.

‘It itches like a scab,’ he says in an interview with the local paper, ‘Can’t heal if you keep picking at it.’

-excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘‘The Rocky Mountain Hotspot’ is among the dwindling sites that remain unrecognized by state and federal governments and, therefore, remains unmarked and difficult to find. This non-acknowledgement contributes to its quirk, which is that it’s only feasible to pinpoint ‘The Hotspot’s’ exact dimensions with sensitive infrared equipment or to arrive after a storm when it stands out in the snow. The deep volcanic warmth at the center of this mountainous field keeps it warm and relatively dry during mid-winter blizzards and veils the area in a charming mist that freezes on beards and eyelashes as soon as a visitor leaves its borders. The effect is difficult to recreate digitally and so it has become a destination for the hardier brand of travel-flavored social media influencers in Colorado’s kinder months (October and November, specifically).

Few spend the night directly over ‘The Rocky Mountain Hotspot,’ though it would be, by all accounts, a novel experience. Those who have tried claim the mist becomes claustrophobic in the dark, that it fills up tents and makes the air too thick for human lungs. Others cite the unbearable warmth of the earth below or say that the grass seems to squirm silently under the fabric of their sleeping bags. Still others recount the sighting of beasts that come in from the cold to sleep nearby- things that eye them with wide pupils, things that could kill them if provoked.

Whatever the story, ‘The Rocky Mountain Hotspot’ exudes an otherworldly sense of taboo with a dark horizon. Though there have been no reports of fatalities in the fields as of this entry, nobody will be particularly surprised at the first.’

I experience a suitable amount of regret when the last embers of sunset extinguish, though there is little choice left but to remain. The long, cold drive has exaggerated ‘The Hotspot’s’ ambient temperature and, when the wind scours the field, I realize how damp my clothes have become and how dangerous it will be to suffer the night. The storm arrived just after I did. It would be impossible to navigate the bike back down.

Another hour passes before I submit fully, laying directly on the earth to expose as much of myself to the warmth there as is humanly possible. Even now I rotate at ten minutes intervals or whenever my upward extremities start to numb. The mist is dizzying even in dim light but when I switch it off something shifts in the dark, breaking sticks and huffing like a tired mule. I close my eyes and roll circles around my electric lantern on its lowest setting, counting the seconds till morning.

-traveler

Just past the border of West Virginia, I stop at a booth in the parking lot of a department store and enjoy the best cup of coffee I have ever had. It’s barely six in the morning and the horizon is growing red with eventual daybreak. An intermittent wind cuts with autumnal edge and pushes dried leaves over the pavement. They rattle quietly under the park bench where I sit.

It’s going to be a long day- a longer day than I’ve allowed myself in a while. A storm hovers in the far west of the country and shakes its fist at the center. I’d like to make it to Colorado before the interstates close. If I don’t, I’ll waste money on liminal motel stays. If I do, I may be struck by the storm before finding a vacancy. If I wait too long, the storm will pass and ‘The Rocky Mountain Hot Spot’ will be just another patch of ground.

But it’s difficult to leave the park bench, to imagine life without another cup of coffee from the booth. Moments like these don’t last long. The store will open. The parking lot will fill with cars. The sun will rise and expose the chewed gum and trash among the leaves. The coffee will get cold. The sitting will become a concern. Fifteen minutes is long enough to enjoy a cup of coffee in a parking lot. Two cups of coffee is enough for any sober traveler. Any more and the man in the booth will start to wonder. Any more and the man will start to worry.

Much is made of the bird and the cage as metaphor. I would be happy to say that I am the untamed bird- I’ve probably suggested the same to attractive men in run-down hostels before. In reality, I’m more of a splinter, worked from the skin by the slow processes of the body. As a traveler, no place can bear me long.

I order another coffee, my last before the ride. I can spare another 15 minutes. The man’s tag reads ‘Smitty,’ a clarification to the booth’s glowing signage which, due to malfunction or age, reads ‘S itty Coffee.’ Smitty has capitalized on the ambiguity of the missing letter and has become famous for grossly exaggerated negative reviews of his booth. His is rated the worst coffee on any of the numerous mainstream travel sites. He sells mugs that read ‘I drank S*itty Coffee.’ He responds angrily to five star reviews, to anyone that doesn’t take up the joke. It’s unknown whether the online persona is a clever act or the ramblings of a man who hardly knows how to use the internet. Negativity has become his brand.

The man’s not spoken a word to me, but the silence is comfortable. He hands me my cup and steps out the back to smoke. I return to the bench but find the contentment has passed. The horizon swells with red infection and the bike’s engine clicks irritably. Time to go.

‘Of the world’s myriad poisons, none are so potent as the rancid coffee served at ‘Smitty Coffee.’ It stains a clean mug in a single use. It browns teeth. It is considered a cancer-causing agent in the state of California and may be the source of several other ailments in several other states. Purchasing the stuff as a solvent only pads the pocket of a madman. Travelers are suggested to avoid the booth at all costs.’

-traveler

‘What the temporary art scene lacks in brand recognition, it makes up for with an atmosphere that encourages flagrant experimentation, skirting the edge of style so closely that it often falls from it. Permanence taboos allow for the culling of anything too offensive but maintain a healthy system of memetic trends, ensuring artist output is predictable enough to hold the attention of outsiders and outrageous enough to be considered transgressive by those hoping to buy into the label. Breaching the taboos leads to the overabundance of health one might find in a horse’s unkempt hooves or a hamster’s unworn teeth- the familiar spirals into something monstrous, the monstrous kills the familiar.

‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ on the streets of Belgard, New Mexico is the monster that consumes it. Spawned from the annual ‘Belgard Hopscotch Festival’ in 2016 (which has previously run without incident) the small town has seen so little rain in three years that a whimsical, chalk-based obstacle course that once stretched the length of a block now curls for miles in every direction. ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ has been in place long enough that the early stages have begun to wear into the pavement. Potholes are common and considered the only legal move by those who hope to complete one of the myriad branches of the labyrinthine hopscotch system that has grown in the absence of cleansing precipitation. Traps (as crude as broken glass and as clever as hinged boards) are discouraged, but present along the routes. Obstacles that require participants to maneuver into cafes, along busy streets, and across narrow alley ways while avoiding local authorities are considered fair game.  

‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ remained in Belgard for a year as a sort-of auxiliary destination aside the previously existing art scene before it began to draw the crowds that drew it, in turn. 2017 marked the first instance of active preservation: a group of visiting artists that had already made several attempts on the infamous ‘Birch Street Pass’ (where ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ descends into a narrow drainage trench) learned of a thunderhead forming in the south. They laid down tarps to protect the core and the ‘Pass’ so they could finish what they began, inadvertently violating the spirit of the festival and setting the precedent that later teams would maintain the paths they attempted (like strange, urban mountaineers).

Two years have passed and ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ continues to disrupt day-to-day business in Belgard, filling the streets with inattentive pedestrians and sucking life from the infrastructure that sustains it. Belgard artists, who sell hopscotch-related merchandise almost exclusively, have formed a militia that simultaneously highlights the piece’s fragility and protects it with force that borders upon illegality. The roads of inner-Belgard have degraded beyond any ability to sustain traffic and the Bell Guard patrols the outskirts in shifts. The town has fallen to ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch.’

We wonder what draws humanity to monsters, why cultists flock to grim deities and why soldiers march for despots.

Monsters pay well.’

I initially underestimate Shitholes in its description of the Bell Guard Militia and attempt to enter the town, on foot, without a permit. I am escorted out- not quickly, as one might expect, but via  a route made circuitous by the protected winding of ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch.’ It turns out that my initial entry point was within a ‘sanctuary zone’ where some of the chalk lines have been eroded by wind from the desert. Only the Bell Guard and highly competitive hopscotchers are allowed there.

I’m taken to a gift shop where I pay a fine ($50) in order to pay for a day pass ($25). The permit comes with a piece of chalk and the expectation that I’ll be adding to the mess of Belgard (say what you will of the militia’s draconic preservation policies, they only add or improve routes during festival dates). My bag is searched and I’m forced to check anything that could potentially hold liquids into a locker. I’m verbally reminded of the serious consequences that would follow public urination. Several of the Guard escort me to Main Street, hopping service routes along the way but allowing me to simply step over the lines as an approved visitor.

The square at the center of town is darkened by a haphazard shelter that protects ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ core. Though more members of the militia watch over the area, I’m left to explore a three block radius of the town relatively unsupervised, its redundancies being enough to consider it non-fragile.

I didn’t enter Belgard with the intention of disturbing ‘The Unwashed Hopscotch’ but I find myself shuffling my feet through some of the lines all the same. I stop in part because some speculate the art piece is actually a complex sigil of protection- think a circle of salt on a massive scale. Mostly, though, my chafing at authority is dwarfed by my fear of it.

More embarrassing, perhaps, is that I try a few routes when I think I’m alone. My body has healed from the wounds of my early travel. I think I’m a healthier person, now, than I was when we began. I do well, well enough for an amateur anyway. I even manage a route that requires kicking off a wall and hopping up a short flight of stairs. At the end, someone has drawn the sunset in chalk with the word ‘Congratulations’ floating in the clouds and it occurs to me that this is the first thing I’ve finished in a long, long time.

-traveler

‘There is an illusion of chaos about the world and, though this writer’s experiences are isolated to a relatively thin realm, he can say for certain that very little of what happens on the ‘Wayside’ should be taken at face value, particularly in regards to patterned behavior. Having realized this independently, a woman known only by her internet handle, Rozzalind_420, managed to discover something new and, like most non-male innovators, she has been made to regret it. In publishing her discovery, the author hopes to take on a modicum of that suffering (though no man ever saved a witch by jumping on the pyre).

Rozzalind’s unspecified work involved relatively constant travel and, initially in jest, she created a blog in which she eloquently reviewed highway rest stops and rated them based on location, cleanliness, and ‘overall ambience.’ Rozzalind became a minor internet celebrity when a particularly damning review of a stop outside El Paso went viral, resulting in an investigation by the CDC and a state-issued apology.

The attention initially seemed to have almost no effect on the blog itself, which continued to churn out weekly or bi-weekly reviews. Critics suggested much of the writing was likely faked as Rozzalind seemed able to cover vast distances in relatively little time and would not describe what sort of job would have her so consistently on the road. She eventually admitted that posts were published out of order to avoid being easily followed and to keep the site active even when she was ‘working from the office.’ When these reasonable explanations failed to silence her ‘fans,’ Rozzalind disabled comments on the posts and went about business as usual.

Cut off from the world, Rozzalind’s sanity seemed to quickly decline. Her old rating system was supplemented by an increasingly complex ‘checklist’ of features that, to most, seemed relatively neutral in the grander scheme of things. At times, this checklist included things like ‘creaking door on stalls,’ ‘floor drain situated as to be viewable from toilet,’ ‘toilet paper installed to unravel in clockwise fashion (facing visitor),’ and ‘handprint on mirror.’ More to the point, the checklist was the first indication of ‘The Persistent Knocker.’

Rozzalind first noted ‘The Persistent Knocker’ in a series of posts on Mid-west toilets, describing the phenomenon of a person that enters a restroom and attempts to open a stall (normal behavior) and, finding it locked, tries at least once more (unnatural behavior, according to Rozzalind). She later began associating ‘The Knocker’ with, what many would assume, were phone numbers scrawled across (or carved into) the stalls but which she correctly deduced was a sort of cant left by ‘The Persistent Knocker’ that arrived when the stall was unoccupied.

Her audience having mostly jumped-ship, the public discovery of ‘Rozzalind Rooms’ would have remained muted if not for a sudden, panicked outcry by lurking members of several Rozzalind-adjacent forums and chatrooms hoping to find a quick means by which to contact her. Those who thought to re-visit the blog to see what all the fuss was about found the last post Rozzalind would ever publish: a short video of a masked woman (thought by most to be Rozzalind herself), slamming her body over and over into a locked stall until the door gives way, revealing a second door and, beyond that, a hidden bathroom.

‘Rozzalind Rooms’ are estimated to exist in at least 20% of American rest stops, always behind seemingly-locked stalls (built with an angled latch that slides up the door with each successive push and falls back into place under no pressure). Their historic exclusivity meant that they remained cleaner and quieter than traditional toilets, though accessing them bred the rest stop pest Rozzalind once dubbed ‘The Persistent Knocker.’ Rozzalind’s last post put a quick end to the secrecy and inspired a new generation of meddling vloggers, upsetting an ecosystem that had remained balanced for decades. Those clued in to ‘Rozzalind Rooms’ previous to the blog resent both the name and the loss of their roadside sanctuaries and Rozzalind, once well-respected for her work toward rest stop transparency, is now widely condemned for it.

The true condemnation belongs to the architect of this predator/prey duality who has instilled, in the traveler, a craving for privacy and an excuse to take it from others. Ghosts are harder to catch than witches, however, and they don’t burn nearly as bright.‘

-excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside