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.

On The Road Again

It's been about five months since I returned from my travels last fall. Seven days ago I departed Portland once more, packing my essential belongings and supplies into my station wagon. My trip began with three days of fishing with my lifelong friend Adam. We camped for two nights at Castle Crags State Park near Dunsmuir, CA. The Sacramento river's upper portion, above Lake Shasta, flows here, and he and I learned how to fly fish here, together, fifteen years ago, when I generous Park Ranger donated ten minutes of his time and expertise to teach us "nymph" fishing. After two nights here, we relocated to the McCloud River, below McCloud Reservoir, where we spent two more nights. Our days were spent on the rivers, and our evenings around a fire eating meat and drinking beer and scotch. Adam caught some very nice fish, and I caught none, in part because I have no fishing license in California.

My first day of travel consisted of about 380 miles, from Portland to Dunsmuir. Somewhere south of Eugene, I got a flat tire. It was not entirely unexpected, as there were wires showing through the rubber. I managed to drive over 200 miles on the tiny spare, being careful not to exceed 55 mph. When we'd had our fun and Adam returned home several days later, I found a place to install a used tire for a very reasonable price in Dunsmuir.

I spent the night in an overpriced campground ($25) that night, and set off the following days to explore an area we'd passed near McCloud. Several miles down a gravel road there was a trailhead that connected to the PCT. I hiked along the creek for an hour or so. It was beautiful and I saw noone. I could have camped here, but felt too vulnerable. You never know who might show up and what their intentions might be. Instead, I found a secluded camp a short distance away. Still, it is a little bit scary to be alone in the woods. I am careful to cook during the daylight, and not leave bacon grease on the ground or anything else that might attract a bear.

The following day I traveled east on highway 89, passing through Susanville, and traveling south to Sierraville, where I now stay at Sierra Hot Springs. It is good to have a place to gather oneself. I hadn't properly organized my car since leaving Portland. I cleaned my dishes. I soaked in the hot mineral water. My legs buzzed afterward and my nearly continuous back pain subsided. I prepared some food in the kitchen and read a chapter of a novel. I got at least eight hours of sleep. Still, I don't know where I will be tomorrow. I am trying to remind myself to move slowly. There will always be someplace else to be. It is not always easy to be here now.

A Problem to Solve

Today I would like to share an experience from earlier this week for which I am grateful. Perhaps the more I recognize moments like these, the more I will find myself enjoying them. We've had an unusual snowstorm in Portland this week. For over two days it remained cold and white flakes sprinkled from above. I've been enamored with this phenomenon since I was a kid. Because we receive this type of weather so rarely in the Willamette Valley, it is a novelty that lends itself toward feeling like a holiday.

I didn't attempt to use my car once the ground became blanketed. The parameters of my world changed. It became both more limited, yet revealed a new richness. Walking ten blocks to the local market, and carrying groceries home in my backpack was an adventure to mobilize for. Later, in the afternoon, I took myself to the neighborhood bar. This was the third day of being "snowbound," and I desired to maintain some exchange of energy with other people.

I took a seat at the bar, one seat from the end. The television was set to a soccer game in front of me. On the other end of the bar, there was a second television tuned to the Winter Olympics. The bartender asked me what I wanted. She struck me as fast paced, but friendly. I asked to sample a spiced pilsner before ordering a pint of the kolsch. A gentleman of about my age, early thirties, took a seat on my side of the bar. He wore a beige winter hat with flaps that covered his ears. He asked me if I was watching soccer game closely, and whether I would mind if he asked the bartender to put something else on. I replied that it was okay with me.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday, and the bar was gradually becoming more full with people. The bartender told the man sitting adjacent to me that she didn't know how to switch the television from DirecTV to Comcast, but provided him with a remote. I became aware that he was attempting to put the Blazers basketball game on, and expressed my approval. He searched the channels, but to no avail. I commented that I was glad it was he who carried the remote; that it was a hefty responsibility. He laughed and the bartender gave affirmation to this sentiment.

Meanwhile, this fellow patron and I continued brainstorming together. I'd say, "have you tried this?" He'd try, unsuccessfully, and we'd sit for another minute or two. I soon realized that the two other TVs in the bar were also being pursued by interested customers. They wanted to watch the game too. This reinforced the worthiness of our cause. We glanced around to see if they were making any faster progress than us. From here on, I will refer to the patron to my left as my friend, for we had developed some rapport. I commented that in order to solve this problem, we might need everyone in the bar to stop ordering booze, a strike of sorts.

He mentioned that he thought the cook might be of particular help. I agreed, that likely he was the keeper of the establishment's secrets. The other two televisions showed evidence that our predicament was shared. The screens showed users attempting to access the game via DirecTV. This was not a channel that had been paid for however. We needed to switch the televisions to input data from Comcast, instead. I became convinced that there was a remote control missing from the equation. My friend approached the bartender, who was more busy than before pouring drinks. She still could not help, but now understood the importance of the situation. She summoned the cook, who retrieved the missing remote, along with a card containing written instructions.

We knew we were getting close to achieving our goal. It was now a matter of when, not if. The television boxes stood stacked atop each other in the cook's corridor, within our view. With some patience, I observed the cook attempting to resolve the situation. Seeing that he was still holding the original remote, I inquired. "Is it time for the comcast remote?" He did not take offense and explained that he was attempting to follow the instructions. By now, however, my friend had the advantage of over a half hour of trial and error, brainstorming. I saw that he was the most qualified person to complete the job. I gained the attention of the cook earnestly and explained that my friend thought he knew what needed to be done. Fortunately, this cook was not overly prideful, and provided my friend with the necessary tools. Two remotes, and one card with handwritten instructions. Several moments later, the basketball game appeared on all three screens. The hero stood and raised his arms. The bartender left her post and summoned him, "give me a hug." When he returned to his stool, I said, "that's democracy in action." I took pleasure in seeing the whole scenario unfold, in participating, and seeing my role as part of the larger puzzle.

I hadn't watched a Blazers game in over a year, and many of the players were unfamiliar. Still, I have some understanding of the game, which allows an appreciation. Their opponents were the Timberwolves, now coached by Rick Adelman, who coached the Trailblazers when I was a kid, and whose summer camp I attended at about age ten. The first quarter was nearly over, and I stayed to watch until half-time. I declined a second beer, instead requesting water. By the time I stood to leave, my friend had moved one seat further away to make room for two more folks who filled in between. I put on my hat, my large puffy Miami Dolphins jacket, and approached my friend. "Hey nice to meet you. It was a pleasure working with you," I said, half joking. He smiled, and slapped me on the chest. I stepped to the door and pressed it open, exiting into the night.

The Grass Is Always Greener...

I've arrived back in Portland after about ten weeks of traveling in California. I essentially toured the circumference of the state, from the northeast corner south to the Mohave Desert, then west to Los Angeles, then north along the coast to Crescent City before returning to Portland via Interstate 5. There were aspects of the trip that became tiring, like not being able to shower regularly, but the sense of independence and self reliance were empowering. In my small station wagon, I had everything I needed to sleep and eat comfortably. I began to think less about the trivial things that often distract me in my everyday life.

Today I would like to write about the phenomenon of choice, and its relation to happiness. We live in a culture, in the US anyway, where we are bombarded by choices. Or at least the illusion of choice. If you watch television, you are likely to have over a hundred channels to pick from. Grocery stores offer more than we could ever consume. How much of this privilege to choose is empowering, and at what point does it cease to bring us more enjoyment in our lives? What does it mean to be free?

I recently watched Dan Gilbert's TED talk about happiness. He presented evidence that choice may actually become a source of unhappiness, particularly if we are left to wonder whether we have made the "right" choice. I can relate to this. I sometimes feel unable to make a choice about what product to buy, or which party to go to. Often times, either choice is likely to be a possible avenue of enjoyment, but I find myself in limbo. One question to ask is; Where do my desires come from? Are they organically derived, as for example, true hunger or thirst? Are they the result of an idea, coming from my mind or an advertisement?

One choice, often omitted or overlooked, is the possibility to abstain. To choose to have neither a latte or mocha. To choose to turn off the television. In fact, particularly in regard to advertisements, television is often a source of stimulation that robs me of choice. The freedom to choose what to think about. The freedom to have feelings apart from the emotional responses that advertisements and programs are designed to provoke. Having an awareness of the process is some defense against the manipulation of consumerism, but not very much.

A strategy I sometimes use when eating out or having a drink, is to order the same thing as whatever my friend is having, if it sounds pretty good. Then at least I won't wind up in the situation of having "order envy." This may sound a bit neurotic, and it probably is, but I grew up in this crazy culture. This brings me back to Dan Gilbert's research. One of the ways, he says, that people happily accept the choices they make, is by focusing on the positive qualities of that choice afterwards. For example, say my friend orders an IPA, and I am unsure what I want to drink. I think I may want to try the Brown Ale, but I just don't know. So I order the IPA, and say to myself "who cares"? Whatever my initial impression of the taste, I am likely to develop an affinity for the taste as I drink it, deciding that the IPA was indeed my preference all along. It all hinges on the ability to not continue thinking about the choice after it has been made. 

Channel Islands

I spent two nights on Santa Cruz Island, part of the Channel Islands offshore from Santa Barbara. It cost about eighty dollars for a round trip boat ride through Island Packers, the only company offering service to the Channel Islands. The islands have become a national park, and host a variety of unique wildlife. Though nearly extinct twenty years ago, the Island Fox has made a resurgence on Santa Cruz Island. During my forty-eight hours on the island, I saw at least ten. They are not particularly fearful of people, and will attempt to gain food from visitors to the island.

The boat ride takes about an hour to travel the eighteen miles from Ventura to the island, and the captain made brief stops to observe dolphins and provide us with quick education on these impressive mammals. We arrived first at the southern harbor, released most of the passengers, and continued to Prisoner's Harbor further north. The park ranger boarded the vessel, and introduced himself, knowing that I was camping. I enjoyed speaking to him, and he provided me with useful information, such as the importance of keeping foxes out of the tent, for they will search your belongings and likely pee.

Most passengers were going to the island just for the day, and I felt privileged to have the freedom to call the island home for a short time. The campsite was just shy of four miles from the harbor, and the hike was difficult with my heavy gear. Photo opportunities were continuous and I took over a hundred pictures while I was there. I expected that perhaps I would see no one else after I embarked on the trail, but shared the campground with a young couple from the U.K.

As I fell asleep my first night on the island, I realized that the following day would be five years since my father had died. It seemed a very fitting commemoration, for my father had an intimate connection with boats and the ocean. In fact, I still own the small sailboat I inherited from my dad, though I have not used it since his death.

I had been tempted to stay on the island longer than two nights, but was unsure I could properly prepare and bring enough food and water. As it turned out, I brought just enough water for two days, about six quarts. During my free day I hiked pack-free and sat above Chinese Harbor, and impressive U-shaped cove. Several surfers engaged the waves, using their boat as a port.

When I arrived back at Prisoner's Harbor the third day, I felt very comfortable on the small world that is twenty-two miles long. The boat ride home was peaceful in spite of the heavier surf, compared with the glass-like water of the morning we'd left. There was a stunning sunset from the beach in Ventura when I returned to the mainland. Driving a car was slightly foreign. Though I'd be gone a relatively short time, I had re-calibrated. I spent a disconcerting amount of time trying to decide what type of beer to buy before returning to wine country in Los Olivos. The world of buying things becomes strange to the hermit.

The wind picked up as I left the coast and ascended Chumash Highway. I was glad to have a house to return to. Though the weather had been idyllic on the island, it is December and warmth and sun are no guarantee.

Chinese Harbor, Santa Cruz Island

Existential Fart

I left Portland, Oregon exactly two months ago to embark on a road trip with no exact itinerary. My motivations were partly subjective and internal, yet contained at least a thread of practicality. To be perfectly honest, I was bored. I was also spending money beyond my means. It was frightening to leave comforts behind, but I knew I had to challenge myself.

If you will indulge me, I had a feeling of being a caterpillar stuck in my cocoon, which wouldn't be so bad, if I hadn't been aware that I was supposed to be becoming something new. For all of my belief in the power of the individual, I am accepting more that environment is extremely influential as well. So as a person assuming responsibility for my life, I need to actively choose an environment that will assist in the type of growth I would like for myself.

If you will follow me further into the abstract, I am interested in becoming free of my conditioned way of being. My intention in expressing this is not to criticize myself, for certainly I possess many good qualities. However, I suspect that in order to release myself of my negativity and self-limiting patterns, I need to let go. If my life were a rug that I'd spent thirty years weaving, and I became aware of an error in it's construction, what could I do? I could simply ignore the error and pretend it was perfect. I could attempt to disassemble and repair it, perhaps investing ten, twenty, or thirty more years in doing so. Or I could hang it on the wall, admire it for the imperfect work of art it is, and embark on the construction of a new one. This may be a crude metaphor, but my goal is to demonstrate the principle that the healthy and unhealthy ways of being inside us are often interwoven.

This post may be too ethereal to be of interest for many readers, but I include it because it provides a backdrop for my recent adventures that I would like to write about.
 

Patterned clouds, Nevada County, CA