I saw an article about Jack Nicholson, living out his retirement, and I remembered hitchhiking my way through Colorado. I may expand on that story some more in the future, but not now, as it all feels like pieces of me rather than a singular story. It was not just me, though—Realeo was with me, and we got picked up by a guy whose name escapes me. It may be written on my massive hiking pack that I purchased immediately before the trip, as we asked each person to marker their name and anything else they wanted to. Most people wrote something. I’ll have to take a look.
This was my first long-distance journey, and so I thought getting the largest pack made the most sense. Dear reader, it did not, and I paid dearly. I remember the pain being only compounded by the mixture of items the internet assured me we would need for our journey: metal spoons, gallons of water, a tent, two sleeping bags, one of the fancy water containers every single nurse owns, cans (yes, cans!) of food, and much more. We even gave away items as we traveled. That all being said, I wouldn’t take it back and still look back fondly on the journey. I’ll just say that if you’re ever going far and carrying it all, consider the value of plastic spoons and bottles over fancy, unnecessary items. Less is often better.
Anyway, along the journey we had people we met sign the hiking pack. This guy apparently had worked in construction on a home in Aspen belonging to Jack Nicholson. Nicholson wanted a complete remodel of the kitchen, and the guy described it as a million-dollar job. When the job was done, the guy said Nicholson took one look at how it turned out and then paid again to redo it in a completely different style.
So that is it. That is my Jack Nicholson story that I was not even there for. I just found it interesting—that level of opulence. It was especially interesting, as I pondered the items I shed along the journey. Now, in retrospect, I realize that I was having the best time while having had the least I’ve owned.