After the first cross country journey, after South Africa, New York, Nova Scotia, after Burning Man, and my grandpa George’s funeral, (and spraining my ankle playing follow-the-leader around a closed mini-golf course) I hobbled out of the San Jose airport and onto the bus to begin the second tour.
“Can you drive with your left foot?” E asked looking down at the aircast over my right ankle.
“We have to be in Iowa in two days so I’m going to have to.”
We stopped in Oakland and picked up Sean, a ride sharer from Craig’s list, and head East on I-80 into the Sierra Nevada’s. I weaved the bus through the hills sharing the road with the Fed-Ex and Wal-Mart trucks that roam the highways by night.
E slept in the back while Sean and I traded stories. He was from just outside New 
Orleans and went to school in the city. He lost his home, car, and most everything he owned in the flood, but unlike many other Nawlins residents, Sean had insurance that actually paid. So he finished school and, now liberated from his possessions and obligations, he took his insurance money and began traveling, ending up in the Pacific Northwest. He was on his way to Denver now. We would take him as far as Cheyenne.
E and I rotated sleeping and driving, chugging east to make to our first visit of the fall tour on time. I got behind the wheel again just before dawn in the Nevada desert.
Our grease supplies running low, we searched the horizon for signs of civilization. The mining booms have left dusty clusters of buildings strewn across the desert like refugees from another era. The railroads pass on by now, and desperate billboards beg motorists to stop and play slots, shoot birds or visit their old west gift shop.
We stopped in Elko, somewhere out there between Reno and Salt Lake City, and found a Chinese restaurant with fifty gallons of grease in the dumpster. E explained the system to several curious bystanders—two truckers, a dishwasher, and a couple of veteran Burners just returned from their tenth consecutive trip to Black Rock City.
We rolled through bright white Salt flats and into Utah’s capital city, searching for a few more gallons. E searched Google maps (we now had internet on board) for Chinese restaurants and navigated through the city streets—North Temple Street, to West Temple Street, and back to South Temple street, where we discovered a rich greasy bounty.
With 70 more gallons of grease in the tank we left Salt Lake City climbed over the Rockies and into Wyoming. I tried to keep my eyes on the road ahead of me as thousands of stars emerged beyond the reaches of the city lights.
E took over, then woke me up again to drive into the last hour of dark. I happily endured the cold winds seeping into the cockpit to watch the sun rise over the misty sage plains.
Oil derricks pumped away on the hill tops, and freight trains passed below the highway, as we approached Cheyenne. Although Wyoming is the least populated 
state in the Union, we were surprised to find the bus station closed on a Monday morning, and passenger trains no longer passed through the capital city. The Union Pacific trains hauled freight to a private station, and the public train depot now served as a tourist information desk. We found Sean a ride to Denver on a private airport shuttle, then continued East across Nebraska and into Iowa, reaching Des Moines around midnight.
We stopped for the night in a Walgreen’s parking lot, and no sooner had we stepped outside then the first curious Iowan appeared.
“Vegetable Oil, huh? Now tell me about this. I think this is good,” said a man laying down his bike.We gave a familiar explanation of who we are, what we’re doing, and how this bus runs on vegetable oil.
“Well I know God wanted us to meet,” he said. “I’m an organic farmer. I grow fourty seven different types of vegetables. They call me “black farmer” here in Iowa. Someone says “black farmer” and they’re talkin’ about me. But the name’s Gary Cornelius, that’s the highest level of corn. I’ve fed Okra to the president of the United States. So where are y’all goin’ next?”
“It’s nice to meet you Gary” I said, “We’re headed up to the University of Iowa in Ames.”
“Ames! I used to work up there, see,” he showed me his university ID card.
“And my farms just outside the city. That’s where George Washington Carver did his research. I took my son to meet his last living student up in Chicago. Did you know that the peanut and the sweet potato are cousins?”
“I did not know that Gary. Can you tell me something about farming here? I’m not from Iowa but I see corn growing everywhere and I’ve read that that type of mono-culture practiced by the big agribusiness, just growing corn or soy year after year really depletes the health of the soil.”
“That’s right. These corporate farms with their huge subsidies are putting the small farmers out of business. You need to be a millionaire to get into farming these days.
And just growing corn and soybeans year in and year out without letting the land rest like the Native American’s did and as it says in the bible…that soil’s going to collapse.
“And some farmers may not want to do it that way, but the loans they take out from the government keep them growing a certain kind of crop. And the investor owned ones, they don’t know or care either way.
“You see I pay attention to the soil—I plant potatoes and leave some in the ground and think hmmm what’s going to benefit from that potassium. Every plant puts something in and takes some else out and if you pay attention, they’ll feed each other.
“And all the chemicals that these corporate farms have to use to keep growing like
that… they’re killing all the little bugs and insects.
“I pay attention to nature—from the bees, down to the ants and the worms—that’s how you know you have healthy soil, but this year there were no bees. I was ridin’ my bike around town sayin ‘where are the bees?’ And turtles, there were no turtles this year, but you know what there was, there were snakes and really big spiders.
“Right now we’re using the land to grow corn and soy to feed animals and feed cars. I like feeding people directly. Everywhere on Earth God is feeding something right now—the tiny things in the soil, the plants, down to the depths of the ocean.
“You see watch this—phoooosh! (he blows a breath toward some flowers surrounding the parking lot)—and nature breaths right back to us—phooosh! If you’re a friend to nature then nature will be a friend to you.”
Gary took a deep breath and looked up at the sky.
“We’d love to visit your farm Gary. When are you going to be up in Ames?” I asked.
“Well my wife and I have a separation arrangement right now. But if you want to get in touch with me just talk to the Minister Fallon at the church down the road. He knows where to find me. God bless you guys and keep up the good work.”
And with that, Iowa’s black farmer rode off into the night.
