Well, I s'pose I'm gettin' by...

Late June finds me on the north California coast. I'm writing from Gualala, near the Sonoma and Mendecino county line. Last weekend I attended a regional Burning Man event near San Jose. I had some hesitancy since I have fewer friends in the Bay Area than in Oregon where I attend SOAK, a festival in the forest of the coastal mountains. I'm so glad I went. There were a bunch of great people who had a great time being great people together. I picked up my friend Alex from the train station in San Jose beforehand, and another friend joined from the Petaluma area.

After the festival I dropped Alex at his apartment in SF, and drove about 100 miles up the coast where a friend has an acre property, at almost exactly 1000 feet above sea level. I am currently squatting there (with permission) while I take a few days rest and evaluate where I will be able to replace a tire. The used tire I bought about a year ago has worn through. That's forty bucks well spent. Though I have the privilege to use this wonderful piece of land to camp on, it is a challenge for some reason to accept how easy and good life can sometimes be. Though I have a mild car problem to solve, there is no particular hurry, and I am in a beautiful place, only minutes from the ocean.

Last night I read a short story my father wrote in 1988, when I was five. It is called Sandpiper Coyote Man, and I am one of the primary characters. There are only four characters; me, my mom, my dad, and Coyote, who is a Vietnam veteran on the beach. My father and I approach him to give him some change, but we stay to hear how his leg was lost, and I get to feel the stump that remains. My dad had told me about the story before. I think it is one that he was proud of. I am glad to have the experience of reading this story today, as it is part of my history in this world. I am able to read it today and appreciate my father sharing his experience and perspective, in spite of a bias in the story against my mother. That there is a negative attitude toward my mother does not surprise me. My dad had issues with women. While I can accept his "story," I do so while keeping in mind that all of our stories and colored by our individual biases and limitations. So, I do not defend of pretend to admire the parts of his story that indulge in self-pity and hate. I have some of that same darkness inside me. Most of us do. We are allowed to be angry some of the time. Besides, were it prohibited, it would do no good. So, I accept you, dad, for how you were. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And if you were here now, we would experience the spectrum together. And when you got shitty, I would listen a little bit, and if I was feeling saintly enough I would smile and give you all of the love that I had. I then I would say, "Please stop. Discipline yourself. Train your mind on something that brings you joy."

I'll close this post by sharing the lyrics to my most recent song:

To be on the open road, is a dream my friends say
Well I'm livin' it today, and I s'pose I'm gettin' by

I ain't bathed in a week, and my car is full of junk
But I'm free, 'cept for the highway patrol

And the park rangers, who all want their cut
For the privilege to sleep in this land

Don't got no license to drive or to fish
To use my camp stove, to park in the snow

So I must lay low, know when to say hello
And when to look, down, into my book

I'd ditch my blue car, if it weren't, for my guitar
My possessions are weighing me down

I'd eat me some drugs, and hike into the woods
I'll keep running 'til I find my peace 

Well maybe it's a job, that'll move me along
And show me a pace to the day

A good lay, from the waitress who's thin
And who's apron always holds an extra corkscrew

Or maybe it's a gathering, at the end of the rainbow
That will blow my mind once and for all

And once I've found wisdom, then what will I do
The serpent can only eat it's tail twice

Take respite, my friend, this is not the end
Your wagon won't be the last to break down

To be on the open road, is a dream my friends say
Well I'm livin' it today, and I s'pose I'm gettin' by

Life in the Mountains

It's been a month and a half since I left Portland. Since my last entry I spent about three weeks in Yuba County, where my father lived before his death five years ago. My sister and I still own the property, but neither of us live there. I caught up with some friends and invested some time in the perpetually needed yard work required to minimize fire danger. I stayed longer than intended, partly a matter of inertia, and partly because my car broke down near Truckee when I left after two weeks. AAA took me back to Yuba City, and my friend Rene was gracious enough to pick me up and let me stay at his place until my car was repaired six days later. During my time in the foothills, I recorded two original songs; not exactly prolific, but at least some creative productivity.

Upon leaving, I ascended into the Sierra Nevada mountains, above the old mining town of Downieville. I explored this area two summers ago, after a Burning Man that left me feeling raw. I returned to some of my old haunts, little nooks and crannies that one finds when time is plentiful and the thirst for solitude is strong. The area along the Gold Lakes Highway is where I've focused, and it is so rich in it's beauty and geography. In spite of being a popular area, it is not difficult to escape the masses. This year I spent eight nights camping in DIY sites, two nights at hike-in sites away from my vehicle. My competence in backpacking is much less than car camping. So I tested my skills, with less than perfect results, but learning from the knife of experience.

I decided to set up my tent on a platform opposite the lodge of an unnamed lake. It is only a twenty minute hike in, so a good trial for me to test my aptitudes with a different set of gear and circumstances. I fished that night and caught a small rainbow trout that escaped before I could land it. I cooked some curried vegetables and rice on my stove shortly after dark. Nothing was going smoothly for me. I tried to cook inside my tent because the mosquitoes were really bad. I immediately filled my tent with smoke. I was using a different pot to cook with and it burns more easily. Exiting my tent I spilled my beer, but saved most of it. I felt unwise to be cooking after dark in unknown territory. There could be bears in this area. I finished cooking and eating outside my tent, then returned inside. This time I succeeded in spilling the remainder of my beer completely. A lot of it, perhaps ten ounces. It pooled in my tent, opposite the previous spill. Fuck, man. I have never drank beer off the floor before but there is a first for everything. I slurped as much of it as I could from the bottom of my tent. Perhaps I am a drunk but it benefited me not to sleep in a puddle too. On my last day in the vicinity of the Sierra Buttes, I climbed to the glaciers and collected water which I drank untreated, a first for me. I don't take the risks of this lightly, but I could literally see the source, and there is virtually no animal life on these rocky slopes. In spite of humans being perhaps the most vulnerable to the elements of all life, with technology and intelligence we are able to visit some of the harshest environments on Earth.

I returned to the hot springs in need of a recharge, and offered my labor in exchange for my stay. Upon greeting the older gentleman who manages the garden, he eyed me warily, silent. I told him I wanted to work for my stay. He said I could start right then, and I did. He wanted my help removing a particular weed that spreads and takes over. It is a curly fuzzy weed with tiny yellow flowers. I've searched the web to determine its name, but without success. Once he remembered who I was and that I could provide real help, we had a nice time chatting about gardening and life. I asked him how long he'd been at the hot springs. "Most of the day, but I left for a little while," he responded. It's a joke he's developed to answer the most frequently asked question. Actually he'd been there nine years, the longest he'd been anywhere in his life. He was originally from Connecticut, the same state as my father. He told me about the difficulties growing vegetables at high elevation in the Sierra Valley, due to the short growing season and possibility of frost almost any time of year. I like this about staying at the hot springs. I stay there alone, but have the opportunity to chat briefly with folks of various backgrounds from various places. I may speak to them once and never see them again, but learn about a new subject like bike touring, or share some intimate detail of my life.

Now I am in San Luis Obispo for a family celebration. I took a circuitous route, state highway 4, through the mountains back into California's central valley, a place where agriculture may thrive, but little else it seems. Ebbet's Pass rises to nearly nine thousand feet, and the road through it has no median for quite a ways. I wish I'd had more than an afternoon to descend back into civilization, for I'm sure I could lose myself in this area for a while, provided I had enough food and water. That's all for now. I'll return to share some photos when I have the opportunity.