Idle Thoughts and Epic Adventures

Tools of the Trade

2011-12-04T19:07:00.000-07:00

Since we sold The Local, I have been using a little Acer laptop that is extremely portable… and that’s about it. I bought it because my Sony was overburdened with programs and spyware protection that clashed with virus protection. It was also bulky. I was going to go on a motorcycle trip, and I wanted something really portable. Unfortunately, from the first week I bought it, when I closed it, it would stay on and overheat, and I would have to hard quit. I remember how freaked out I was when I got on an airplane and found an hour into the trip when I reached my hand into my bag, that the computer was hot enough to fry an egg (and I was afraid a motherboard, as well). When I took it back to Fry’s, they told me it was a software problem and that they wouldn’t cove it under the warrantee. It was frustrating, but because I didn’t publish a newspaper anymore, I let it slide and just took photos figuring that someday I would have another computer that was powerful enough to run Photoshop and had a screen big enough to actually see them.

The day has finally come! I’m now the proud owner of a MacBook Pro! It is a dream come true. I can run video and photo programs without the computer crashing on a regular basis, and virus protection is a thing of the past. My skills have fallen by the wayside, unfortunately, but Mac is set up to do things for me. I must say I don’t completely trust it, and it seems cheesy, much the way that buying a pre-made Halloween costume is, but it’s so intuitive that I just go with it. I just did my first project with iMovie and garage band, and it is reopening the doors of creativity that slowly shut over the past three years.

Open the video and give it a look and a listen, if you wish. If you have been reading my blog for a while, you will recognize some of the photos, but many have just been sitting idle in a portable hard drive, and they are overjoyed to again see the light of day. The soundtrack is me playing one of the many songs that come to me when I wander, step by step into the unknown.

Enjoy!

State of Emergency

2011-02-08T17:10:00.000-07:00

Today started not much different than any other. Meditation, check email on my phone, put espresso on the stove, take a few mice that were trapped last night outside, and then turn on the radio to see what’s happening. After six days, Taos is still in a STATE OF EMERGENCY!!!

For those of you who don’t know, six days ago a Texas power outage caused 32,000 New Mexican homes and businesses to lose natural gas service. About half of those without service live in Taos and the surrounding areas where, on the day of the outage, the temperatures dropped to -42 degrees with wind-chill. Taos residents were warned only thirty minutes before the outage that would affect residents’ abilities to heat their houses and use their gas stoves. By the time I found out there was an issue, the whole town was sold out of space heaters and they were talking about a power outage that could happen during the peak use hours starting at 5pm. The powers that be informed the radio that it was only a rumor, but it didn’t stop the power from going out that evening.

I’m not one to spread conspiracy theories, but little by little pieces of information have been chipped from the adobe lined fabric of our community, and now there is a pile of mud in the center of the floor that is hard to dispute. Rather than share this here, I urge you to go to http://www.ktao.com/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=245&Itemid=220 where you can listen to a never ending stream of callers giving first person accounts of what is happening, and go to The Taos News at http://www.taosnews.com/ for breaking news.

What I will share are some of the crazy things that I have heard and seen during the past six days. First, Taos was CHOSEN by the power company to be one of the few communities to be without service, and six days later 30% still haven’t been turned back on. Local professionals who are certified to turn the gas back on were not deployed for relighting efforts because they are not union members. Residents were told not to turn their gas on themselves. The next day they were told that if they felt comfortable, they or someone they trusted could attempt to turn the gas back on. The national guard and various other entities deployed to turn peoples gas back on are driving around confused because they don’t know whose gas is turned on and whose isn’t. Two days ago people were told to leave them alone to do their work, and now they are told to flag them down because they have no idea who still needs to be shut back on. Citizens have rallied to help each other offering wood, food, places to stay and moral support. Other citizens are yelling at the people who show up to turn their gas back on and one even threatening to get his gun because they had to wait so long. One worker got bit by a dog. 16 fires have been reported since this began. The power is scheduled to go out again this evening, but only for an hour or so. Snow continues to fall.

I have not been affected directly by this state of emergency. I live in a house where a small wood stove provides heat at night or on cloudy days, and south facing windows keep it warm during the day and well into the evening. My water comes from snow and rain from the roof and a small propane canister is more than ample for cooking. I still feel for those in the community who aren’t as fortunate as I, and I have helped out where I could. On one level I think that informed finger pointing is important. I believe that however this ends up, light will be shined on the system that we trust to support us. I fear that this is going to leave us with a sense of insecurity that could, if left unaddressed, lead to more states of emergency in the future.

When disasters like this occur, I see how much is possible when a community gets together to help themselves. Ultimately, the only control we have is how we treat each other and how we live our lives. In this situation we can see that the grid and infrastructure is fragile. What would happen if we didn’t have electricity or gas for an extended period? What if phone service wasn’t available? What if the grocery stores closed down? Scary thoughts? If so, what can we do to make them only a slight inconvenience? I’m not suggesting we all go solar or bulldoze our houses and build earthships, at least not yet. What we can do is meet our neighbors and know who is who in our area. During the time I spent listening to community members talk on the radio there were leaders who stepped up selflessly to help their neighbors. It was also apparent how powerful a calm voice can be keeping a potentially volatile situation from exploding. Thanks KTAO DJ Paddy Mac and other speakers on the radio.

I didn’t move to Taos for stability, I moved to Taos because I believe that instability has tremendous potential. We have sunshine, we have wind, we have soil to grow our food, we have resources in which to build houses and we have able bodied, intelligent neighbors who can help turn these things into a sustainable community that can have plenty of abundance to share with other communities in need. Maybe they CHOSE Taos because they believed that we were a community who was capable of going without. Wouldn’t it be great if in the future we were the first to volunteer?

Last Leg of the Journey

2011-01-12T14:30:00.001-07:00

I'm safely back in Taos, New Mexico getting re-enchanted. Here are a few photos from the last few days of my nearly six month journey.

Why not write?

2010-08-12T18:58:00.000-06:00

The constantly expanding space between my last blog entry and whatever day today happens to be makes it progressively harder for me to put anything up on this blog. I do, however find writing extremely rewarding and I want to get my grammatical groove back. I’m not a fan of excuses, but in the eight or so months since my last entry I have compiled more than my share of them. I’m afraid that if I’m ever gong to write anything of substance on this blog again, I’m going to have to fess up about why I haven’t written for so long.

I have done so many cool things that If I wrote about them I wouldn’t have any time to do cool things.

The weather has been way too nice.

The weather has been too nasty.

The people would have written about really didn’t want me writing about them.

Other people I would have written about get way too much attention already and whatever I would have written about them would have been redundant, superfluous and way overdone… I mean totally.

I wasn’t proud of what I was doing.

I was so proud of what I was doing writing about it would have made me feel like I was bragging.

My computer is too slow.

I drank too much coffee.

I got sidetracked on Facebook.

I was way too happy to write.

Laziness.

All of my ideas that came up on the hiking trail went away by the time I got to a computer.

The chair wasn’t comfortable enough.

The chair was too comfortable and I fell asleep.

I got sidetracked on Facebook again.

I was out of caffeine, my writing drug of choice.

Pneumonia.

I had a date.

The phone rang and I lost my train of thought.

It was much easier to just have a beer.

I ran out of beer.

The woman next to me was wearing way too much perfume and I lost my train of thought.

The woman next to me was way too pretty and I lost my train of thought.

I had to get up and dance.

I had a friend visiting from out of town.

I was out of town visiting a friend.

I got sidetracked by Facebook again.

The news I wanted to break was already broken.

I had to clean the house.

I was milling timber.

I was making pizza at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival.

I was making fajitas at the Taos Solar Festival.

Selling ads for the Taos News left me feeling uncreative.

I forgot my camera, and who wants to read a blog post without a photo.

I had to move.

My table was ready.

I had to do yoga.

My favorite song came on.

I’m a total slacker.

Ok. I feel lighter now. I feel like if I put this up for the world to see, somehow it will be easier for me to follow it. Uh oh, I have a feeling I’m about to lose my train of thought…

I wouldn’t wish you a Miramar Christmas

2009-12-29T12:30:00.000-07:00

I spent a week in the little Caribbean village of Puerto Lindo talking to boat captains about working in return for free passage to Columbia. Going rate right now is almost $400, and though I could pay that, it hardly seems worth it. I learned a lot that week about owning a sail boat. Mainly, that they are bottomless labor and money pits. This put grease spots on the romantic vision I had about using the wind’s power to propel myself around the world for free. Besides that, having a boat anchored in the harbor makes you a target for theft. One middle aged couple had been boarded by thieves the previous night and had to chase them off with a machete. Just about the time I was ready to throw in the towel and head north, I got an offer to work on getting a wooden sailboat in working order in trade for passage to Columbia. We would be anchored in Puerto Lindo working until January 6, but first we had to go to Miramar to pick up the boat.

The captain (Captain J), the guy who was buying the boat (Guido) and I pulled up to the dock and were greeted with a cold indifference. Apparently the French guy who sold the boat was not liked by anyone in the town, because they didn’t want to let us use their power outlets or even the bathrooms, and these are Gringos I‘m talking about. We finally got them to let us use power for the welder with a promise that the quicker we got power the quicker we would be out of there. When the welding was finished Guido packed up the welder and said he’d be back in a day or two to pick us up. Captain J and I were left with a rundown boat and a marina where we weren’t welcome. When we walked into the town things got worse. We were looking for a meal, and whenever we would approach people happily chatting at various tables would stop chatting, frown and tell us that they had no food. This happened a few times and finally when we did find a place willing to take our money we were served haplessly. This was gong to be a long two days.

At the end of the second day Captain J hung up the phone with Guido, and happily informed me that we would be picked up tomorrow at 10am. “I bet you a dollar we won’t,” I replied, hating to deflate his happiness, but hoping to at least cash in a little on our misery. Today was Christmas Eve and tomorrow, Christmas. We hadn’t heard a single Christmas song . My spirits were pretty low, dampened by sweat , mold, and the oily rat dung and cockroach infested water I had been pumping and sponging up from the bilge all day. It hurt to look at my watch, because every time I did, less and less time would pass.

Our best friends in Miramar were the two narcotics police who seemed to be about as happy to be there as we were. They would start drinking at breakfast and by afternoon be happy to shoot a game of pool with us at the local open air bar. The strange thing about that town was that people had nice cars, satellite dishes on their roofs and gold capped teeth, but no one seemed to work. Captain J said this was the sign of a mafia town. We asked the owners of the dock about this and they agreed. They told us a story about this area and about a group of tourists who found a “package” that had washed up in the mangroves. Of the three of them, one went missing, one was hit by a car and the other was found with a Columbian necktie. If you’re wondering, like I was, what a Columbian necktie is, it’s when they cut your throat and pull your tongue out and down your chest. “That must take a lot of practice to do right,” Captain J mused after the description. I agreed.

On Christmas morning we didn’t even bother trying to find a place to eat. The previous day’s breakfast was humiliating. After ordering we watched about ten people show up, get served whole fish , and leave. We were the last to get served and all we got was some little fish tails and fried plantains with a single drop of tomato sauce. Instead we decided to go for a walk to the neighboring town.

The walk between the towns was beautiful. Sea to one side of the road and rolling hills with palm trees on the other. As we got closer to the next town we could see that people were gathered in the street. The closer we got the wilder the scene. The people were all drunk. It felt, as Captain J observed, like Dusk ‘til Dawn. We wanted to turn around, but at the same time we didn’t want to show fear. Fortunately, a guy ran up to us from a house at the edge of town and invited us in. It was our security guard from the dock who hadn’t shown up the night before. He was a kid in his upper teens or lower twenties, and when he got closer we saw that his normal smile was obscured by cuts and bruises. We couldn’t understand what he said had happened, but it was clear that they beat him up pretty bad. “Peligroso (danger).” was the one thing we did understand. We were thankful that it appeared that we had a reason for being there, and that we could go back the other way without losing face.

I cooked some spaghetti that I found in my pack that night. I was grateful that I had splurged for some parmesan the last time I went to the store. The generic brand parmesan cheese was the highlight of my Christmas.

Guido ended up showing up the next day with a big truck. He and Captain J took the boat back to Puerto Lindo, and I went with the truck driver. The driver stopped twice for beers during the two hour drive. When we got there I waited for the boat and then informed them that I really didn’t need a ride to Columbia anymore. During the four days over Christmas the boat began to feel more like a coffin than a seagoing vessel, and though Puerto Lindo was much nicer than Miramar, I was overtaken by the need to be free.

The experience in Miramar is disappearing from my memory much the same way you forget a zit as soon as it goes away even though while you had it, it was the only thing you saw when you looked in the mirror. I’m back in Panama City with all of the creature comforts I could ever want. It’s breakfast time. I think I’ll have eggs today.

Danger?

2009-12-29T12:23:00.000-07:00

I stayed in Luna’s Castle during my week in Panama City. Luna’s sits right at the edge of the nice part of Casco Viejo, right across from the Presidential Palace and the ruins of a hotel and swimming pool where Manuel Noriega used to hang out. I spent most of my nights there sitting on the balcony overlooking the skyscrapers of the city and talking to various travelers as they pass through. I heard some amazing stories about various parts of the world and people’s experiences. The other night I sat talking to a German guy who was studying in Venezuela. I have heard mixed things about Venezuela and how accommodating they would be to someone from the United States. The German guy told me of armed robberies on the campus of the school where he was studying and of a guy who held a whole hostel at gun point for hours until everyone coughed up every credit card, iPod and every bit cash. He told me that a few weeks ago he was on the back of one of the motorcycle cabs that you can take when you want to arrive somewhere faster when the driver turned around, apologized and pulled out a gun. He pulled up to a car where a woman was using a Blackberry, put the gun in her window and took the phone. I won’t be going to Venezuela anytime soon. He did say that gasoline was cheaper than water. He said that people used gas to wash their cars. You can fill up your car for under a buck, but sometimes water only comes out of your tap a few hours a day.

Another day I was sitting and talking to someone wondering if all of the firecrackers I had heard the past few weeks were indeed firecrackers, and how many were actual gun shots? About ten minutes later I left to go for a walk. Joe, a chupakabra hunter who is parked in front of Luna’s Castle looked like he had just seen a ghost. “Me and Tarzan were just chillin’ in the Camper when a bullet came through the roof and grazed my arm.” Joe was still in a bit of shock. He showed me the bullet hole in the roof of the camper and the burnt scratch on his arm where the bullet brushed him… six inches from his heart.

Joe and Ben are making their way from Texas to the bottom of South America dong a documentary on the fabled Chupacabra (literally, blood sucking goat). They are planning on walking across the infamous Darian Gap between Panama and Columbia, something that is said to be dangerous to the point of suicide. When I asked Joe about how he felt about the near miss he replied, “That ain’t nothing. We’re walking the Darian.” I made sure to get a photo of the Chupakabra camper before leaving Panama City. Check out their website: Benandjoe.com.

During my last world travels back in ‘97 I probably would have taken my chances and walked the Darian, but I was much crazier back then. I have a feeling Ben and Joe will do just fine.

Diablo Rojos

2009-12-27T15:36:00.000-07:00

My favorite things about Panama City are the busses known as Diablo Rojos, or “Red Devils.” Each of the busses belongs to a different person, and there seems to be a competition to see who can be the most conspicuous. As they approach, the first thing you notice is the front windshield, which has mirrored strips on the top and bottom with its destination and a name, and a narrow strip of clear glass in the middle for the driver to actually see the road, not that it really matters, because he is usually texting or dialing on his cell phone while changing the CD and honking a pretty girl outside. Next you notice the hood ornaments. It‘s not just one “Cadilac“ or “Mercedes,” symbol but up to twenty different figurines spread out like a battle of plastic army men.. Or Oscar trophies. On the hood there is a mural or maybe a face with worms crawling out of the eyes and mouth. On the roof of the bus there are sometimes shark fins and colored glass bubbles, I imagine, to help the bus out if the driver runs into the water because he wasn’t paying attention to the road. You don’t want anyone messing with your bus if you are on land, and you especially don’t want anyone messing with you if you are at sea! The sides of the bus are a collection of murals and random icons including: Crusaders with swords, Bart Simpson, Jesus Christ, the genie from Aladdin, Spiderman, Lisa Simpson, Mickey Mouse, Papa Smurf, Bob Marley, pot plants, Norse warriors and Betty Boop. Oh, and sometimes ninjas… and Muppets and the Statue of Liberty. The rear of the bus usually has two giant Harley Davidson sounding exhaust pipes that run up the left and right sides of the bus. These compete with their bumping stereo systems for attention. They are the ultimate hot rods! Between these giant “mufflers” there are typically two main pictures: On the little area where “school bus” used to be written, there is a mountain scene straight from an oil painted picture found in a 1970’s ski condo or the cover of a Field and Stream magazine. Below the rear window is typically a portrait of someone famous like Rambo, Will Smith, Shaggy, Jesus, Snoop Doggy Dog or members of the driver’s family. There’s also a bible verse or saying like, “There is no one greater than God,“ or “First God and then chicks.” The latter is usually personified by a small painting of a large breasted woman with a tiny bikini right below a much larger hapless Christ wearing a crown of thorns. And usually, Garfield or a Bart Simpson is snuck into the mix.

If you are lucky enough to actually ride one of the Diablos, you’re first greeted… or ignored by the aforementioned driver. He’s usually wearing dark glasses and lots of bling. This look is completed by dollar bills folded and sticking out from between his knuckels as if to tuck into a stripper’s g-string . Above the driver’s head are usually a row of fuzzy dice or a feather boa. If he’s lucky steering wheel will be wrapped in gold and leather and so will the pole that people grab onto when they get on the bus. On the walls, you guessed it, another bible verse or saying, an another Bob Marley smoking a joint or Che Guevara with a pot leaf painting. If you’re really lucky you have a strobe light that blinks to the beat of the bumping stereo.

The demise of the Diablo Rojos is close at hand. Apparently the profit margin is getting too small for them to spend money decorating the busses, and the new president doesn’t think they are good for Panama’s image. He wants to take them off the road by the end of 2010. This breaks my heart.

La Luna Amber

2009-12-27T15:20:00.000-07:00

The bus to Panama City departed David at midnight. As soon as my seat belt was fastened, my passage to the dream world arrived via vibration from the engine and cool breeze from the air condition. It carried me away on silken wings. I was pulled from sleep twice that night. We stopped about half way for people to get out and use the facilities. I declined. The second time I could almost feel a hand softly touching my shoulder. A woman’s sultry voice sang the most beautiful song I had ever heard, and when I peeked past my eyelids to see if the voice belonged to an angel, I saw the amber moon looking at me with a peaceful yet sad look similar to the Virgin Mary’s in old paintings and statues holding her baby somehow knowing that he would someday be sacrificed. I met her gaze until the song was finished and went back to the land of dreams until we entered the City.

Oh Panama

2009-12-09T04:50:00.000-07:00

The bus driver could see I was fidgeting, and in response he fired out a few sentences much the same way an automatic tennis ball server spits tennis balls… if it spit them out at 80 balls per minute. Fortunately, I was able to catch one, and remembered that amarillo meant “yellow.” I knew that my fidgeting had worked. The directions I had written down said: take the bus from David to Changuinola, and after about an hour you will see a toll booth. Wait about three minutes and look for a pile of yellow stones. Get off bus.” It has been a week since the bus dropped me off, and now I am sitting at the Lost and Found eco hostel trying desperately to purge some of the experiences from the past three weeks before setting off on tomorrow’s journey into the unknown.

After finishing my last blog entry I set off on a string of busses from San Jose to Puerto Viejo. Everything was going splendidly until I arrived in Puerto Limon at the exact time the last bus was leaving to Puerto Viejo. This would usually not be a problem, but the bus station at which I arrived was a fifteen minute walk from the one where the next one departed. My guide book said that this port town was similar to many: uninteresting and dangerous. The walk to the seedy hotel was much different than any I had experienced in Costa Rica. The people were mostly of African descent and there were street people and lame dogs, two things I hadn’t seen this trip. When I got to my hotel I decided to focus my attention on the tinyTV (as opposed to the stains that were the only decorations in the Spartan quarters) and enjoy my first bit of solo time in 16 days. Early the next morning I walked through the pouring rain and stopped for a breakfast of delicious and spicy Caribbean beef and instant coffee before getting on the bus to Puerto Viejo.

When the bus stopped at a random corner in Puerto Viejo, I got off and walked towards the beach. My friend Jonathan from Colorado was sitting and having a fresh juice . We greeted each other with knux (today’s most common hand shake which involves touching fists) and a nonchalant, “What’s happenin?” I had known Jonathan would be there, but I figured it would take a lot longer to find him. Jonathan had just got burned in a Costa Rican land deal, and we spent the next hour talking about it. That same hour we met two girls from Canada who ended up being our travel companions for the week. We all had a great week in Puerto Viejo taking advantage of decent surf and the abundance of down time that rainy season in the Caribbean offers. When Jonathan and the girls left I got on a bus heading to Panama. A new country awaited!

“Donde esta el bano?” I asked after getting my passport and Panamama visa back from the border officer. “Piss in bushes.” he said and pointed towards some buildings with a group of guys sitting out front. When I reached the guys they pointed to some grass between two buildings. I walked until the smell of urine hit my nose and then added my own Costa Rican’ variety. Now I was ready to face Panama!

My first impression of Panama included wood smoke, trash, and shiny clothes hanging on clotheslines in front of houses on stilts. I couldn’t help but smile. I was traveling again. Costa Rica is extremely beautiful, much the same way a national park is beautiful, but whenever I go there I feel more like I am on vacation than traveling. The bus dropped us off at a dock where we waited for the boat to take us thirty minutes to Isla de Calon, the main island in Bocas del Torro. As I waited I thought about my friend Christian, a Columbian I know from Steamboat Springs and the motorcycle trip that we had planned a year ago. If we had departed on our trip like we were supposed to we may have been here now. Christian had always reminded me of someone… Who was it? Oh yeah, it was Steve Scalfati, my best friend from the neighborhood in Seattle all those years ago. I wondered what had happened to Steve. Then one of the tourists pulled me away from my thoughts and told me that it was time to go.

The boat carried us past dugout canoes and palm covered islands. A silver fish jumped twenty feet into the air as if to say “welcome!” and once again I noticed my involuntary smile, this time splashed with warm salt water. In Costa Rica they say “pura vida.” The term seemed to cross the border into Panama. Thirty minutes later the boat dockedm and I entered the main street and to the left where I would be staying for the next week. It was almost dark, but not too dark to recognize the face of the male part of the couple passing in the opposite direction. “Steve Scalfati!” I looked him in the eyes and waited for his reply. I’ll never forget the look on his face.

Bocas is as laid back as Puerto Viejo, but in Bocas you go everywhere by small boat. Restaurants and bars are on the end of docks. One of them even had a lit shipwreck that you could actually plunge into the 88 degree water and see up close. I spent the week exploring the little islands around Bocas. Dolphins, a Thai restaurant, a chocolate farm and snorkeling with parrot fish were a few of the highlights. The best part, however, was hanging out and sharing childhood memories with Steve his girlfriend, Eli. We agreed that it is a good thing we never got caught for the stunts and pranks we used to pull. If Nietzsche is correct, that which doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger. So I guess we have that going for us. I stuck around Bocas until Steve’s sister Keri showed up, and after a long night of helping the bar owners of Bocas pay their rent and two hours of sleep, I took a bus across Panama to Boquete.

Boquete is the polar opposite of Bocas Del Toro. At roughly three thousand feet, it is cool, and unless it is their Independence Day, very quiet. It was very quiet for most of a week until bus loads of marching bands and other Panamanians from all over the country began filling up the town. Turns out it was Independence Day. It is more fair to say “Independence Day Weekend and the days surrounding it” because it lasts for about five days. I opted to stay away from the festivities until Saturday, but I had to at least check it out.

The cab driver who brought us from the hot springs to town was listening to a typical Panamanian radio station: a popular Panamanian pop song, with between one and three other popular pop songs playing over the top interrupted every six or seven seconds with a DJ saying something in a strong voice intermingled with a maniacal canned laugh, air horns and cell phone rings. I first hear the music on my bus ride from Bocas when I was delirious from sleep deprivation. I thought I was hallucinating. I wasn’t. At any rate, I wondered if this was what I would be hearing that night at the fiesta.

The cab dropped us off in the rain about three blocks from the town center. We squeezed through the crowd until we heard the beating of the drums. I felt a rush of excitement when I got to the front of the crowd. It felt more tribal than collegiate. My two Dutch friends and I exchanged “this ain’t too bad” looks. The Panamanian crowd looked way over it, but when I met their glances they would instantly rediscover their patriotism and smile and nod with pride. We were sorry when we realized that this was the last band… but not that sorry. After stopping for some pizza, we went back to the street where the scene resembled a high school football game. But the only ones left were the marching band, well, the trumpeters from the marching band, and their uniforms were disheveled, and they were drunk… and all playing different songs.

Across the river the scene was different. There were still a few marching band uniforms, but mostly hip drunk people. The crowded streets were lined with tiny cars with giant sub woofers, hot dog and hamburger stands and discos constructed with scaffolding and mesh. I was told that on the first day of the party, entrance and alcohol was free. On day three, Saturday, admission to the club we chose was five Balboas (actual U.S. Dollars {and also the name of their favorite beer}) and the drink was vodka. Each club had a different liquor. After about an hour the “real” DJ came on. It was the moment of truth, “I got a feeling,” the ubiquitous Central America club song began. Would they let it play, or would they do a Panamanian radio DJ number on it? As soon as the crowd started to get the rhythm, sure enough, the DJ stopped the music, spouted something random, and then started it again. I leaned over to Mitsy, the Panamanian girl on my right and whispered a question I had been pondering since that day in the cab, “Is Panamanian sex like Panamanian pop music?“ She looked at me for clarification. I elaborated, “Interrupted every few seconds by the telephone and the guy spouting random sentences?”

“Yeah,” she said, “it’s usually when his wife is calling.”

I beat the sunrise home that morning, though not by long. I was thankful that this was only day one of one for me and not day three of five. The Panamanian music may have started making sense.

My party night was an exception to most of the time I spent in Boquete. I spent the week taking Spanish lessons and volunteering with the monkeys at a wildlife refuge. I’m starting to think there’s a “do not enter” sign on my brain. I can still remember my seventh grade locker combination, but new Spanish words bounce off like rocks hitting a water tower. I felt at home with the monkeys.

This blog entry is starting to sound like a “What I did on my summer vacation” essay. If you’re still reading this you’re probably a family member, or you saw the word “sex” and thought there would be some. My apologies, but Don’t worry, it’s almost over…

I know I said that I was writing this from Lost and Found Eco Hostel, which is where I started it, but I’m now a day into the “unknown” in David waiting for a midnight bus to Panama City. I arrived yesterday and all night I heard what I though were gun shots. They continue as I write this. Today I was informed that it was Mother’s Day which completely brought things into perspective. After all, it is Tuesday and we all know how much mothers like firecrackers and M-80s.

I’m going to leave out the week I spent at Lost and Found , because I have a feeling I’ll be back to volunteer on my way back up to Costa Rica. I’m going to wrap this up because I hear my name being called. I think it’s coming from the fridge. It’s a Balboa, and in my pocket I have exactly enough to pay for it. One balboa. Coincidence? I think not.

Floating through the jungle

2009-11-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

Like a wave liberating stir-crazy sea creatures from an overcrowded tide pool, the bus with my group of friends and raft guides just departed the hostel for the San Jose airport. I was tempted to hop on and see them off at the terminal, but I have decided to stay here and let the profound peace of being solo penetrate my bones. It has been a fun sixteen days filled with eating , drinking, rafting some huge rivers, zip lining through the rainforest canopy and surfing and swimming at the beach. Nothing makes you feel more like an ugly American than traveling on a tour bus with a group from the States. In the past I would have been uncomfortable being part of a large group of American tourists, but this time I just embraced it and enjoyed the safety and security. I also enjoyed having someone else doing the thinking. Denielle did this masterfully, though judging by her demeanor this morning, she is at the end of her frayed rope. Fortunately for her, she and her boyfriend Peter the documentary film maker, will soon get their own vacation. I managed to avoid many of the challenges of foreign travel so far this trip, but the rivers we ran presented some of their own.

Day one of rafting was a gentle and pristine meander through the rainforest on the Pejibaye. The blue butterflies, giant spiders, and an array of tropical birds with colors so bright it looked like they were poured out of a box of Fruit Loops, made it feel like we were floating through a Walt Disney movie. When I took my turn guiding the boat the fun level greatly increased. I have noticed lately just how much us humans like to be in control. Where raft guides are concerned, I believe you can multiply this by ten. This being said, enter day two… Our little bus spent three hours corkscrewing its way up, around and down the forested spine of Costa Rican mountains looking for the guides and horses who were waiting for us at the beginning of the hike to the put-in. When we got to the trailhead, the horses were loaded with gear and we began a two and a half hour journey of hiking up and down the steep and muddy trail to the headwaters of the Rio Pacuare. The trail took us through dense forest, past waterfalls and through a homestead inhabited by local Indians. I was one of the last ones to arrive at the put-in due to the time I spent eating guava and raspberries along the trail. It had been decided that Ashley, another guide and I would R-2 (only two paddlers) “Captain America,” a tiny raft with two pontoons that looked like a catamaran. With the right duo, this style of paddling can be extremely fun. With Ashley and I, it was, well, let’s just say “extreme.” I could blame this on a number of things, but I’ll not dive into speculation. I will say that it felt like we were a dysfunctional ant couple using a breath mint to slide down a dragon’s back. It worked pretty well when we were riding up and down the giant wave trains, but when we found ourselves in the recirculating holes, the dragon’s mouth, there was no escape. The first time we managed to surf for quite a while, paddling in vein to escape, until I was thrown out and was able to push the raft with Ashley into the moving current. The second time we weren’t that lucky. We surfed and surfed until the hole swallowed us flipping the raft and sending Ashley one way and Captain America and I another. I swam for at least a half mile trying to mount the tiny raft, but the dragon smashed me into giant boulders taking my strength and my breath. Finally, thanks to the look of impending danger reflected in the safety kayaker’s eyes (the raft obscured my view of the river ahead), I mustered the strength to pull myself onto the capsized raft and made my way to an eddy. As I sat there exhausted and bruised, another raft pulled up with Ashley smiling safely inside. “I’m going to go in this raft,” she informed. Finally the rest of the rafts pulled up and asked me if I wanted to jump in a raft. “No, that’s ok,” I lied, knowing that if I chickened out now I would lose my nerve. At that point, Brian, a senior guide, said he’d join me, though it was clear that he didn’t really want to. I was relieved, but it was more the relief you would get if you were scared of heights and you were informed that they put a little padding on the handle of your parachute’s rip cord. Brian and I took our seats on the little raft and pushed strongly forward. It felt good to have a paddler with similar strength and size. Still, Brian shouting “This is fucked up, I can’t believe they gave us this shitty little raft,” didn’t do much to ease my anxiety. An hour later we pulled up to shore where we would be camping in the heavy rain. I put my tent up a few steps from food tent, stuffed as much food into my depleted body as possible, and retired with a bag of ice pressed against my bruised femur. The group partied like raft guides should that night. I laid there giving prayers of thanks for solid ground. That was the last time that trip that I set butt on Captain America. From then on I enjoyed the various rivers we ran from a seat in a regular raft. I managed to followed rule #1 the rest of the trip and stayed in the boat having a hell of a good time in the process. Now with my time traveling with a group finished, I am off to the Caribbean coast to unwind in the Rasta vibe.

Wandering toward the wormhole

2009-10-20T09:30:00.000-06:00

Five days and counting until I leave the Land of Enchantment for the rainforests of Costa Rica. For years I have watched with envy as friends went south when the first flakes began falling. My ties to the newspaper always kept me chained to the mountains where frankly, life was pretty good. They say that Eskimos have over 400 words for snow (in fact they only have about a dozen). As a ski town writer I had to come up with what felt like 400 metaphors, similes and personifications for Jack Frost’s happy little dandruff all too regularly. Eventually, when a 20 inch powder day hardly made me want to get out of bed, I knew it was time to go. Well, Winter pulled a fast one last week catching me off guard and vexing me like Pop Rocks on a chicken pock. Thankfully, the wormhole to paradise is a few short steps away.

In the meantime I have enjoyed the last days of limbo before the journey. A road trip with Dad, hot springs and beautiful hikes have kept things fulfilling.

Here are a few photos from the last week, and here is a link to the group I will be joing in Costa Rica. www.costaricacurrents.com

Getting high for boosted clarity

2009-10-08T17:00:00.000-06:00

Leadville, Colorado 10,152 feet

Riding a caffeine buzz in the corner of a Colorado Coffee shop has lead me to good things in the past. That’s where The Local was born, and as I sit here musing at the raiser sharp contrast between snow and rock on the surrounding peaks, I can’t help but feel the same sense of inspiration. This time I’m not feeling compelled to sit in one place and create, but rather head for the horizon with open heart and mind. First stop is in Costa Rica where a group of us from Los Rios, the rafting company I worked for this past summer will spend two weeks rafting different rivers around the country. Along with us raft guides will be a documentary film maker who will be telling the story of the rivers and the potential threat of dams that are being proposed. From there we’ll head to the ocean to do some surfing. The trip is 16 days, but I’m guessing I’ll call the airline and tell them that I won’t be on the return trip. I don’t know where I’m heading from there, but I’m guessing I won’t experience winter this year.

Preparing for Launch!

2009-08-18T11:04:00.000-06:00

August is always my favorite time of summer. Base tan is established, the gardens and fruit trees are producing, and all of the muscles necessary for this summer’s outdoor activities are functioning at optimum levels. Some of the past year’s activities have been backpacking, mountain biking, rock climbing, motorcycling and horseback riding. This summer’s activity happens to be whitewater rafting. I have been doing so much rafting that when I close my eyes for even a few seconds I see moving water. The river has also become the metaphor that I use for virtually every philosophical conversation. With that said, I will go ahead and say that I have been swirling around in an eddy for about seven months now. An eddy is the part of a river, either along the shore or behind a rock where water gets pushed up stream. It is a great place to either rest or travel up stream to access a standing wave. Seven months ago I caught an eddy and settled into a house with a girlfriend in a new community. Three weeks ago I moved out of the house and began a house sitting gig which finishes tomorrow freeing me up to dive back into the moving water open to all of the rapids, waterfalls and slow moving water that life will put in my path. I’m really excited about this next few months. I’ll be going to the Black Rock Desert of Nevada to attend Burning Man next week, and then at the end of October I’ll fly to Costa Rica with a bunch of raft guides and a documentary film maker to run warm rivers in the tropical rain forest. After that I’m completely open. Perhaps I’ll go to the Hawaiian Islands and find work on a sailboat, or maybe I’ll come back to Taos and go back to school? In our safety talks we tell our guests that ropes and moving water don’t mix. Although sometimes they are necessary to save someone, usually they only snag and entangle. In these strange and unpredictable times, feel safe and confident untethered in the moving water reacting to the rocks and other obstacles as they come.

It’s 11:01, just about launch time.

Fast Forward

2009-07-20T07:34:00.001-06:00

It has been a busy month. Between a family reunion in Fresno, father son time in Las Vegas, a firework-free 4th on the Chama River, a bunch of river guiding and a week of teaching yoga at Ghost Ranch, I have definitely neglected this blog. Today will be no exception, as I have to be in the raft yard getting ready for two trips down the Racecourse in 14 minutes. I did want to put something up to say that I’m still alive and that the adventure continues. Photos up in the next few days. Summer is in full force!
(The photo is me going through {or into} Saus Hole. Thanks Southern Exposure.)

Turning the Soil

2009-06-16T12:43:00.000-06:00

Six months ago I made the difficult decision to move to New Mexico to be with Cass and for a new beginning. After selling The Local I wanted to fly like a bird who was caged for twelve years, and if you have been following my blog for any amount of time, it may appear that I have done my share of running. I have indeed been enjoying and exercising my freedom, but I have also been really learning about the strength that comes from choosing to stay in one place. Maybe there was some divine intervention. I have lost both of my major means of transportation, my motorcycle and my truck in the past four months.

Now I am being faced with even more changes. Cass is leaving in ten days, and in a month I am going to move out of the house, and I have no idea where I will be living after that. This would be an easy time to exit stage left, but Taos has been providing so much growth and healing that I am planning on staying here. I have been training on the Rio Grande as a river guide which has been a blast. In the past few weeks I’ve gone down about eleven times and had a great time reconnecting with the river. Back in 1992 I took a white water rafting class in Eugene where I rafted rivers all over Oregon. There is something about spending a lot of time on the river that helps connect with the natural flow in every aspect of my life. I have also been attending Lakota sweat lodges for the past few months which has deepened my spirituality and given me an even deeper connection with the land.

The next month is going to be a major transition, but I am looking forward to sharing insights as they present themselves. Perhaps I will be sharing more idle thoughts and less epic adventures.

A long anticipated meeting with Tom Robbins

2009-05-13T10:19:00.000-06:00

“The magician’s underwear was found in a cardboard suitcase floating in a stagnant pond in the outskirts of Miami.” It was an hour before Tom Robbins was scheduled to arrive, and Christian Martin and I flung the opening line of Another Roadside Attraction back and fourth like a bandanna soaked in honey hoping that it would stick in Christian‘s mind during the interview. Thanks to a Bellingham Weekly article that Christian wrote some years back, he got the chance to interview him in front of a live audience at the Boundary Bay Brewery and I got a back stage pass. Tom Robbins is probably the person who most inspired the early legs in my journey as a writer, and subsequently, as we stood there in the parking lot waiting for him, I was beside myself. Over the past twenty years, since reading the aforementioned first line, I had acquired a whole laundry list of synchronicities around the wacky wordsmith who shares his philosophy through meandering story lines and conversations between unlikely characters such as spoons, cans of beans and dirty socks. Our job was to wrangle Robbins when he arrived, find him a parking space and bring him to the back gate for easy backstage access. As Christian and I, now joined by Christian’s friend Trail Rat, stood in front of the new Farmer’s Market parking lot admiring the beet placed in Robbins’ honor atop the building, we discussed the photo we would take when he arrived. A few minutes later we noticed that he had already arrived, sans car, and was dangerously close to the front entrance where he would undoubtedly be accosted by people wanting to talk to him, tell him about their stories he was unknowingly part of and have him sign their books. Christian yelled at Tom as I got into the car to get my book for him to sign, and my camera. I then composed myself for our walk around the building at which time I would be telling him about how I met Amanda Ziller at The Last Exit in Brooklyn back in 1992 and how Tom did the wedding for a woman I used to date who, as I understood it, introduced him to his current wife. When Christian introduced me to him, he shook my hand and then continued walking with his small entourage around the building. I walked behind unable to hear much of what was going on.

The prior evening had been an especially difficult one for Tom Robbins, but not nearly as difficult as it was for his wife. Just after bed time they heard a strange noise. His wife went outside to investigate and found a raccoon dragging their little dog under the deck. When she went to grab the dog, the raccoon bit and scratched her arm to shreds. To make matters worse, on their way home from the hospital, Tom ran out of gas. As I followed a very preoccupied and sleep deprived Tom Robbins through the gate, it was apparent that this would not be the best opportunity for a connection. When Christian grabbed my book from me and asked Tom to sign it Tom said that he would be sure to sign it after the show. Tom later warned the crowd that his signing would be extremely brief due to the circumstances

The weary man with arthritic hands who I followed into the venue perked up the moment he got on stage and kept the crowd in stitches for about an hour. There were times, I must admit, that Tom's answers to the questions seemed to go the way of a nitrous balloon escaping from a hippie’s hand, though he seemed to catch it at the last moment controlling the last bit of laughing gas as it blanketed the crowd. It is hard to tell if it was his doing or the Boundary Bay Beer's that, the audience was eagerly imbibing. I’m thankful that I have it on video for future reference. (Look for it on you tube soon.)

When the show was over, Tom Robbins sat at a table and signed books. Eventually the line got down to one person and then to me. I handed my book to his helper who asked my name and if she could open the book to the signing page. By this time, I was pretty sure that in his mind, Tom was already home with his wife. I chose to give my new copy of B is for Beer to Tom and have him sign it to my girlfriend. As I was reading “To Cass, Tom Robbins,” on the title page of the book, Tom came back to life and yelled to Christian, “Hey Christian, where’s that friend of yours, I want to sign his book.”

“It has already been taken care of, Tom. Thanks,” I replied.

The highlight of my evening was the moment of anticipation in the parking lot before the first official Tom Robbins sighting. At that moment Tom was still the young, mischievous long haired figure whose photo graced the back of Still Life with Woodpecker. He would undoubtedly greet any question I had with wit sharp enough to slice a beet in two without spilling a drop of blood. I still very much wish to have a sit down with Tom Robbins, someday. I’ll just politely ask him to keep the dog in the night before our meeting.

Time Floats

2009-05-05T16:05:00.000-06:00

The past two months has been the longest year of my life. On 3/3 I got in a motorcycle wreck and on 4/4… we were in a blizzard about a mile over the New Mexico, the cow jumped out in front of us and SMACK!!! Cass was startled awake and I was keeping the truck pointing forward as it fishtailed from side to side. Eventually we slid to a stop after the power steering was lost. “There’s blood everywhere!” Cass’ voice was panicked. I was extremely concerned for Cass, but surprisingly, I was calm. I don’t even think my heart rate increased. I was informed later that I was still in shock from the first accident.

I turned on the light to see what happened. It was not blood we felt. When we hit the cow its ass end wrapped around the truck smashing the driver’s side door and spraying the inside of the truck with manure and glass. Cass and I were OK. I wish I could say the same about the cow.

Now it has been a month since that accident and two since the one before. They haven’t stopped me from having some amazing adventures, though. When we hit the cow I was on my way home from a week of R & R in Costa Rica complete with some great surfing and what claimed to be the longest zip line in the world through the rainforest canopy (when I got home Google said otherwise). A week or so later, armed with a new pickup, I met a few friends in Canyonlands, Utah for some “backpacking.”

We planned to go backpacking, at least, until Christian and Torsten saw that I was in a 4x4 truck with good suspension and a cooler full of icy cold beer. It seemed a better idea for three 36 year old guys, two of us injured, to take the 4x4 road to a nice secluded campground and day trip from there. That is until we hit Elephant Hill. You should check out the youtube video to get a better idea of how ridiculous this “road” was. We made it. One mud flap less and one additional racing stripe, but we made it. After getting to camp, It was really great to spend three days outside of a vehicle traveling light by foot. It was also really nice to hang out with two other guys my own age. I have known Christian since high school and Torsten, though he grew up on the other coast , pulled stories from a similar memory bank with the same soundtrack. The trip did wonders for my body and my psyche. Our adventures there were seasoned by wind, snow, red dirt, some really good beer and visits by coyote and Ed Abby’s ghost.

I haven’t mentioned Taos yet this blog entry, though my experiences here have been extremely rich. Let’s just say that it is indeed living up to its title of “The Land of Enchantment.” I’ll throw in a few photos from Georgia O’keeffe’s Ghost Ranch and other parts of the region.

In two days I am flying to Seattle to see Christian interview Tom Robbins. More adventures on the horizon…

Shadowfax's Last Stand

2009-03-09T15:28:00.000-06:00

When I unburied Shadowfax and turned the key there was no pulse. I was so happy to feel the handlebars in my hands again I decided that if I coasted it down the driveway I could compression start it. It laughed with surly backfire and then skidded to a halt. I ran, coasted, popped the clutch a few more times until my Dad’s house became a small speck up the gradual hill. Defeated, I put the motorcycle in neutral, turned it around and pushed it up the hill and back into the garage.

The battery cells were bone dry so I went to the parts store to buy some battery acid, filled it up and plugged it into the wall. When I eventually got it started it would only run with the choke fully open, and even then it sounded like a laughing asthmatic with bronchitis playing with dud firecrackers. I left it to warm up and did some internet diagnosis. The posts I read said that I would probably have to pull the carbs and clean them and the jets. The garage was already full of bolts and parts from pulling the battery, and changing the oil and filters. Rather than making matters worse, I decided to buy some fuel additive and sputter the bike full choke down to the gas station and put in some high-octane fuel. It didn’t help, but I figured out how to work the clutch, choke and throttle so I could keep it running even at red lights. Even in its injured state, it was still running and I was having a really good time. I passed Dad’s driveway and continued towards Red Rocks and Calico Basin, two of my favorite hiking and climbing spots. The golden sun and warm breeze relaxed my tense muscles and when I stopped on top of a hill at a pullout, Shadowfax was purring like a kitten.

Two days later, loaded with camping gear, the motorcycle and I headed towards Phoenix via Hoover Dam and Route 66. I rode in a pack of Harleys and Victories for a while on the Arizona side of the Dam, but Shadowfax starting getting antsy.and we pulled ahead of the pack to experience the open road. When I got to Phoenix it was just about sunset and the thermometer was pushing the mid-80s. That night we celebrated my friend Melissa’s birthday with Flamenco and Fondue. The next morning the motorcycle and I were riding the twists and turns of the back roads of Arizona and New Mexico finally ending up at some private hot springs in the Gila Wilderness. It felt like I was consuming a little slice of summer in early March.

The last stretch of the journey passed through Truth or Consequences and then to Albuquerque where a huge accident closed I-25 in both directions. I was third in line at the road block, but after deciding that I may be there for hours, I cut across the dirt median, found an exit and skirted Albuquerque’s surface streets before finally finding the freeway again close to the I-40 convergence. The wind was blowing so hard from the west that I was riding in a straight line but tilting at 45 degrees. I’d had gusts on the Pacific Coast, but nothing like this. By the time I filled up in Santa Fe, the wind had died and I had resigned to the fact that I would not be home before dark.

Espanola, one of the towns between Santa Fe and Taos is known as the low rider capital of the world. Neither my motorcycle nor my truck are low riders, so the town has no draw for me. I was riding through at normal speed and minding my business when a blue BMW decided to turn suddenly in front of me from the turn lane to a parking lot to my right. Unfortunately, the car turned so close to me that it only got half way across my lane before I smacked the passenger’s door. It happened so fast that I only got a “Fff…” out before I hit the car, felt an extreme pain in my torso, flew weightlessly through the air and hit the pavement. The ground never felt so comfortable as it did after experiencing the disconcerting weightlessness that preceded. When I opened my eyes I saw stars and tried to get enough air into what I thought was my shattered torso to keep the oxygen flowing to my brain. It would have been a great photo, the huddle of strangers silhouetted against the deep purple of a sunset sky. They asked me questions and amazingly I remembered the answers. I also remembered to have them turn the gas off, but not soon enough: the smell of gasoline, of Shadowfax’s blood, oozed from my gear permiating the hospital room, and later my truck and the front room of our house. I never did get to see the damage caused to the motorcycle, I was strapped to a back board and rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. I was told it flew a long way and was totaled. I asked for photos, we’ll see when they come.

The few hours spent in the emergency were relatively uneventful. They did some x-rays and an ultra sound, but there didn’t appear to be any broken bones or bleeding organs. I’m really sorry that when the hospital called Cass to have her come pick me up, they only said that I was conscious and alive. She was pretty shaken up when she arrived. “Conscious and alive” leaves a little too much to the imagination. They let me go by 8:30 pm.

This was almost a week ago. Random pains and bruises have surfaced as my overall body pain has subsided. Since the accident many people have asked me if I would ride again. I have been hesitant to answer. I will say that if I do ride again, it will probably be on a BMW GS and I’ll definitely be using the back roads that bypass Espanola.

Encampment of Enchantment

2009-01-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

Last week I pointed the front bumper of my truck south from Steamboat Springs and by sunset, as the full moon rose, I was parked safely outside of Taos, New Mexico. Two days later, Cass and I moved into a little adobe house in San Cristobal. New Mexico is known as the “Land of Enchantment,” and there is a sign at the end of our road that reads, “Enchanted Circle.” There is magic here, and somehow, it seems we landed in the midst of it.

It goes against my better judgment to take the first place I look at, but as the landlord showed us the little cabin and told us about the property, virtually all of the things on our mental checklists got checked off. He told us we could grow our own food, keep bees and even livestock. These aren’t on the immediate horizon, but with really cheap rent, if we did grow our own food we could live for almost nothing. I must admit, the fact that D.H. Lawrence and Aldous Huxley used to live on this property didn’t hurt either.

It is well known that this region attracts artist. I’m starting to think that Taos makes artists. The land here feels like a well stocked pantry of creativity. Often I feel that I have to bring my own ingredients for creativity, but here there are so many around I just reach out my hands and toss whatever I can grab into the creative cauldron. It smells good as it simmers. I don’t know what it will taste like. It may be just be a soup stock for a future creation.

The shadows are lengthening and the coffee shop will soon close. Perhaps I’ll stop at the little hot spring bubbling out of the rocks along the Rio Grande seven miles from our house. Maybe I’ll just go home and try to decipher the Raven’s language as they shout at each other from the trees around the house. Either way, I intend to make sure that New Mexico is living up to its motto.

Cultivating Visions from the Warming Hut

2009-01-06T15:35:00.000-07:00

Ah, the first week of a new year… I consider this the lowest pressure week of the year. Whatever last year had to offer has already been received, and due to those new last two digits at the end of the date, there is nothing but a clean slate to work with. It feels much like it did in school when the teacher would give the assignment for a research paper or project. Though bound to be a lot of work, the assignment would set the wheels of creativity in motion unencumbered by a nearing deadline. This is much different than the feeling one gets on deadline week when those wheels are often forced to spin faster without the luxury and lubrication of time. This same feeling is experienced when the post office tells you that you only have one more day to post packages if you want them to arrive by Christmas.

I’m experiencing this low pressure week from Steamboat Springs Colorado. From my comfortable seat in the new wing of the Bud Werner Memorial Library, the snow is gently falling, covering up all traces of last week and last year. When I was young I thought that the if you mixed all of the colors together it would be black. After all, that’s what it looked like when I colored in a space with all the crayons in the box. Later, in photography class they told us that the color white had all of the colors in the spectrum. I have seen proof of this when the sun hit’s the snow and the individual snowflakes reflect all the colors in the rainbow. When I first moved to Steamboat 12 years ago one of my major complaints was the lack of color here during the winter. The sky was blue, the trees brown and green and sometimes when the sun would raise or set, there were some reds and oranges but in the winter the primary color was white. Today the sky is just a few shades darker than the snow and the other colors look more gray than anything. Fortunately, I can use what I learned in photography to see the snow for what it is. All of the colors in the spectrum: Pure potential.

This is a very trying time for many of us. This time of the year the weather is colder and the days are shorter. This leaves us with less energy and usually limits our daily journeys to paths that took valuable energy to clear for ourselves. At least it is this way in snowy communities. This year it feels even more oppressive due to a failing economy and increasing war around the globe. Cabin fever with messages of doom and gloom pumped over the airwaves are only making things worse for the individual and collective psyche. Seeing this makes this time of limbo feel extra important.

I’m sitting here in limbo waiting for my taxes to get finished and my damaged passport to get renewed. In the meantime I have been using the internet and magazines to see visions of beauty and hope. Darkness and light are always present and they are both contagious. I was taught in the past that it was really important to watch the news to see what was going on in the world. I rarely did. The longer I went without news the more I realized why I never wanted to watch it. Dwelling on the one percent of what was actually happening took away from experiencing the 99 percent that felt applicable to me. It made me feel powerless. Conversely, the program I was in at school aimed to empower me to empower others. Ironically this was the impetus for us to start a newspaper in Steamboat Springs. The Local empowered people to tell their own story about their perception of the world. Each of us has the potential to have a 16 hour newscast that is our own life (the other eight would be spent sleeping). That is, unless we devote our lives to the way someone else chooses to view the world.

That being said, I have been following the news and the life I am living at this moment would not be a newscast worthy of watching. I am, however, greatly enjoying this time of freedom and using it to embark on imaginary journeys, some of which will be real journeys in the near future. My practice right now is to briefly acknowledge the problems and injustices happening, but then immediately turn to a plan to create something positive. Nothing gets in the way of progress like negativity. I find it much more powerful to use what I call the law of enticement. If you don’t like the way things are, create something more enticing. Just like water always flows to a lower point, people usually flow effortlessly towards things that feel good or things that they want.

The snow is still falling. Each layer erases images from the mind’s canvas presenting a space for new creation. What entices you? I’d love to hear.

Back to Reality

2008-12-20T17:27:00.000-07:00

Beginning to write this blog entry feels like trying to extract a thimble sized sample of water by dipping a syringe into the Colorado River as it flows through the Grand Canyon.

I just looked back at my last entry and saw that I used a snow globe metaphor. Now I question that wisdom. Before reaching Montreal I had experienced a week of rain in California. A few days after reaching the ashram in Val Moran, Canada, the rain turned to snow. It snowed and it snowed. I lost track after 24 days of snow. The snow would stop for half a day in order to let Jack Frost poke his sharp nose out and smell his handywork. On an exhale he breathed his icy breath throughout the mountains bringing temperatures down to -15 Fahrenheit. Fittingly, my chores at the ashram consisted of shoveling snow and cutting firewood. Calls to my Dad in Las Vegas and Cass in California made me anticipate the sunny warmth upon my return. No dice.

When I flew into Las Vegas the Valley was covered in snow. On my way to Dad’s house I saw the palm tree I wrote about in my last entry; It had three inches of snow sitting on its mop top. I enjoyed my day in Las Vegas. We didn’t make it to the strip but even the lights in outskirts resembled a psychedelic dream. It was culture shock but the carrot at the end of my stick was my girlfriend waiting for me in the peaceful hills of Northern California.

When the wheels touched in San Francisco I made two phone calls. My Dad told me that I was lucky that I got out when I did because the snow was falling and Cass told me that she would attempt to pick me up, but due to snowy roads, she may not be able to make it down the mountain. I jumped on two different busses heading north. The first bus got me to Charles M. Schultz airport in Santa Rosa (yes, there was a huge Snoopy statue out front) and the second bus got me to Willits. Unfortunately, there were no busses heading north from there and it turned out that Cass could not make it down the mountain to pick me up. As the second bus dropped me off I took advantage of the last few minutes of daylight and stuck my thumb out hoping to get a ride. The ride didn’t come that night, but I did get a call from a local woman who had ties to Heartwood, the community where Cass lives. She asked me where I was, and a few minutes later I was sliding open the door of a green mini-van and saying hello to a smiling face. “I know you,” were the first words to come out of Krista’s mouth when I opened the door. It turned out that she lived in Steamboat Springs for a few months back in 2002 and we had a mutual friend. When we got to her house she told me that she would be staying at her boyfriend’s house and I was welcome to stay at her house in a comfortable bed. She also invited me to come to her yoga class which started in an hour. When I told her about my past month of yoga teacher’s training, we decided that it would be fun if I taught her class. An hour later I was teaching my first yoga class in the outside world. It’s amazing how fast things work.

The next morning I tried calling Krista a few times but there was no answer, so I dragged my computer bag and roller board out to the street and walked to the busiest road I could see. Luckily it was indeed HWY 101. It didn’t take long to get my first ride. Within two hours I was in Garberville at the bottom of the snowy hill that prevented Cass from picking me up. On a good day it takes between 45 minutes and an hour to drive it to Heartwood. Who knew how long it may take on this day.

Fortunately, It didn’t take too long. Three different cars picked me up. The roads were indeed hairy, but the trucks were equipped to handle the conditions. I arrived at Heartwood just in time for the lunch bell.

This was two days ago. There is still snow on the ground and it‘s currently raining, but we hope that the snow will melt in time to get us to Taos New Mexico shortly after Christmas. I never thought I would get stuck in the snow less than 20 miles from the California cost.

Montreal

2008-11-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

Canada has never felt so foreign to me. I guess I thought the same about New York when I entered its airport in the wee hours this morning. I suppose the East Coast sun had risen, but that was a secret jealously kept by the rain and lovesick clouds who were trying to have their way with the ground. All of this drama kept us on the ground for an extra hour. Our tiny plain was number 30 in line for takeoff. Until today, I have never had a pilot turn off the engine and announce that it was ok to turn your cell phones and ipods back on for at least 20 more minutes. When we landed and deplaned in Montréal, the customs agents were as reluctant to let me in as New York was to let me out. Maybe it was because I had a one way ticket to a yoga ashram, or maybe it was because my appearance was affected by the past eight hours that felt like trying to sleep on a wooden benched rollercoaster. Thinking back at the situation, it could also possible that they were toying with me. The three separate women who sent me into the depth of beaurocratic maze were all about my age, they all sent me forward with a slightly coy smirk and the third one said that it was really slow right now but I should come back later. I bet every day during their lunchtime smoke break they get together and talk about the “victim of the day” Long story short, I’m now in Café Vienne a block from the bus station waiting for a bus to take me to Val Morin.
It’s really fun to be in a foreign country again. Outside the rain is falling and two guys in electric wheel chairs with cigarettes dangling from their lips are on opposite sides of the street racing each other while pedestrians dive out of the way. Across the street is a Libanaise (that’s how it is spelled) restaurant with a neon sign that has a neon knife wielding chef cutting neon lamb slices for neon kababs. When I have worn my welcome out here I’ll probably go across the street and look for some exotic food and tea.

I have heard French people make fun of Canadian French because it offends their ears. I just offend myself when I have to order things in English because all I took in College for a foreign language was American Sign Language. Regardless, people have been very kind to me here.
It has been a strange transition this past few months. I went from full time job to long distance motorcycle riding to a retreat in the woods of Northern California and Oregon to Las Vegas complete with casinos and bars and now I am about to have a month of a strict yogic lifestyle. The whole point was to shake up the snowglobe I call my psyche. When this is all over it will be interesting to see what it looks like when the snowflakes land. I’m just kind of hoping that there will be a palm tree there.

Reconnection

2008-11-03T18:30:00.001-07:00

At 5pm on Saturday evening, I unplugged my vacuum, scooped up a handful of cleaning supplies and walked them down my stairs adding them to a random pile of stuff awaiting a new tenant. My pickup truck was already packed. After slipping a note and key through the manager’s mail slot, I chased the setting sun to the Utah border. As I laid my sleeping bag on the red dirt a few shooting stars welcomed me home to my place under the Milky Way, my Steamboat life was but a memory.

The past week has been one of my most trying ones to date. I basically sequestered myself away in my apartment and went through 7-plus years of accumulation and reduced it so it would fit comfortably into my pickup truck. That last week in Steamboat felt strange. I got to say goodbye to a small handful of friends, but for the most part, I just hid out. I didn’t even go out for Halloween. This was partly because I had so much to do, but mainly because I had no desire. The effects of spending the last eight years as a newspaper publisher are starting to become apparent. Paulie, my business partner said it best, “It’s great because people don’t kiss my ass anymore.” I have found that my interactions, though fewer, have been more real.

In the past two days I have driven about 12,000 miles to Heartwood Institute outside of Garberville California. My girlfriend Cassidy is working here for a few months and I figure it will be a perfect chance to leave my old life behind and prepare for the new. The plan is to head to Las Vegas from here and put my stuff in my Dad’s garage and then fly to Montreal Canada for a month of Yoga teacher training in an ashram. I’m not sure if I will teach yoga when I finish, but I at least want to hit “reset” and figure out what’s next.

Judging by the smell, what’s next is dinner. Happy Election Day Eve! Spooky…

Home, well, sorta...

2008-10-22T14:00:00.000-06:00

I never made it to San Diego. I was swallowed up by the LA vortex. Sometimes it’s good to dip a toe into an experience. I dove in head first. Some of my highlights were having swim races in a friend’s new pool while smoke from dozens of out of control fires blew overhead, screening a film with a producer friend in Hollywood, going to a yoga class with a few yoga teacher friends of mine, chasing a friend around the windy roads between the coast and the 101 as he tried to lose me on his motorcycle, spending two days surfing with a lifeguard friend in El Segundo and finally, spending the day with Cass watching the wildlife in Venice Beach. Two days before I was going to head back to Las Vegas and Steamboat we were staying with some friends in Santa Barbara. The husband asked me if I knew anyone who would be passing through who may want to drive his pickup back to Steamboat. I told him that if my motorcycle would fit in the back, I would be happy to drive it back. It did. The next day I reluctantly loaded Shadowfax in the bed of the pickup, said goodbye and began the journey to Steamboat via Las Vegas where Shadowfax will be spending time in my Dad’s garage. The end of our journey together took me by surprise, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to help someone and avoid having to book a flight back to Steamboat. We logged just over 4,000 miles since 9/11

The drive yesterday was gorgeous. I went between five and 10 mph under the speed limit the whole way. It was great to catch up with friends on the cell phone, something I can’t do on the motorcycle.

When I peeked the front of the truck out of Glennwood canyon, I was pummeled by sideways blowing snow, quite the opposite of the seventy-something weather on the Grand Junction side of things. The snow slowed down and stopped, but when I reached State Bridge, the truck started getting squirrely. The roads looked wet, but when I got out to check on things, it was slicker than an ice skating rink. Thank goodness the truck had four-wheel-drive.

I stopped for an hour in Oak Creek to see my friend and business partner Paulie. It was good to catch up and see how much our lives have changed in the last month and a half. Strangely, I dreaded going home. Sleeping in an apartment that I will need to vacate in the next nine days feels like pressurized limbo. Steamboat fall feels really good. It’s the time that naturally pulls one into nesting mode. This is not my path right now. In the next nine days I plan to give away most of my clothes and furniture and will bring the rest back to my Dad’s house where it will live until my restless spirit is ready to float back to Earth.

In nine days I will have paddled to the mouth of the harbor. The ocean awaits!

Lane Splitting

2008-10-10T14:04:00.000-06:00

In The Skeleton Crew by Stephen King, there is a story called Mrs. Todd’s Shortcut. I haven’t read it since just before Clinton got into the White House, but apparently the story left a deep impression. In the story, Mrs. Todd always looked for the shortest route to where she was going. She would constantly watch the clock and the odometer. Each time she would beat her previous record, until one time she managed to escape the time space continuum all together. When my Mom had Alzheimer’s I took frequent trips to Las Vegas to be with her and my Dad. Each trip I would go faster and faster. I remember holding 135 mph for what seemed like an eternity until the world started looking normal at that speed. When I would slow to 85, it felt like I was crawling. This lasted until I got the trip down to just over 10 hours. Eventually, I sold that car for a Subaru wagon which went dramatically slower. With that car, I took a different route every time and made the trip as slow as possible. I found petroglyphs, hot springs and magical canyons. Both ways gave me a great deal of satisfaction, though the latter burned less gas, was safer and reduced the chance of a speeding ticket significantly. On this journey I have also experienced both extremes. Though Shadowfax’s comfort zone doesn’t allow speeds much faster than 90 mph, I can still burn a lot of pavement in a day. I’m currently on my third back tire and my speedometer decided to quit as I was leaving San Francisco at 10,016 miles.

Driving in a car, I can daydream and take time to look around at the scenery both close and far. On the motorcycle, I have to be completely in the game. Subsequently, I have made a game out of the act of riding itself. Last week I found myself on Highway 1 feeling the urge to pass cars, even ones who were doing the speed limit. I put myself in check and asked why I didn’t just relax and enjoy the view. I realized that the view wasn’t changing much and the road was much too twisty. I changed my focus and the ride became much more enjoyable. P A S S became my mantra. I passed one car, I passed two cars, I passed on straight stretches, I passed on curvy sections. I didn’t pass to get there quicker, I just passed cars because they were there. Eventually, I dipped into the fog and couldn’t ride more than a minute without rubbing the steam off my glasses. My visor was already useless from salt and water inside and out. Just the act of riding was difficult enough.

One last phenomena of note is called lane splitting. In California, if you are on a motorcycle, you can ride between lanes of traffic. “Those guys are idiots,” I remember my Dad saying when we would visit California when I was little. It took me a good week of California riding before I became one of those idiots, but when I broke down and tried it, I experienced a rush I had never felt. It feels like skiing or snowboarding in the trees, only the trees are moving. As with any thing this intense, I will practice moderation.

My last week-plus with Cass has caused me to slow down significantly and once again I am taking time to look at the things around me. We have backpacked in the redwoods, fallen asleep to the sound of the waves and enjoyed a bluegrass festival in San Francisco. I’m enjoying both worlds, though sometimes the transitions are surprisingly noticeable to me and those around me.

Now I’m in Ventura with Cass staying at a friend’s house for a few days. Then I’m not sure where. Maybe I’ll head down to San Diego and complete my stretch from the Canadian border to the Mexico border

Rain

2008-09-25T09:11:00.000-06:00

So far the weather gods have been kind to me. Besides the first day, I only had to ride in the rain for an hour or so… until yesterday.

The day began after a “snore fest” in a hostel dorm room in an old military barracks in Fort Warden State Park in Port Townsend. I had my ear plugs in, but according to one of my temporary roommates, six guys in one room made quite a racket. I stuck around just long enough that morning to grab my ten dollar key deposit and went down to a local coffee shop where the barista was in the process of starting his own newspaper. He was also still on a high from his first Burning Man experience. Synchronicities never cease to amaze me.

When I left Port Townsend the rain gods took a deep breath which took just long enough for me to get a few miles down the road before they exhaled rain all over Shadowfax and my parade. The day kind of looked like this: Ride to the Half Way House Diner for a cod sandwich, rain. Ride a few hours with temporary construction zone stops, rain. Ride another hour feeling my boots fill up with water, rain. Stop for an Oyster Cocktail, rain. Cross the Astoria Bridge hoping not to run out of gas, rain. Fill up gas and get some smoked salmon, welcome break from rain. That’s right for about a half hour, while I took photos of sea lions and digested my salmon, the weather gods took a moment to inhale. Not to worry, the next burst of showers attacked me with a vengeance. For once I was NOT going to ride in the dark, but the skies were so dark most of the day, I couldn’t tell when day was going to become night. The extent of the rain made me have to raise the visor on my helmet to see. The only way I could handle the pounding rain was to grimace and let my teeth take the brunt of the stinging raindrops to give my weather-beaten lips a break. This added to the olfactory experience as I passed the Tillamook cheese factory and then the miles and miles of cow dung soup fields made by the cows responsible for the famous cheese. Eventually I saw a sign that pointed to an inn two miles off the road. I wanted to push on, but Shadowfax turned of her own accord and we ended up staying in Pacific City. Three wines into my wine and cheese tasting made the day almost a memory. The only reminder came from the drops of water dripping from the only pair of shoes I brought, my boots.

Today I ride down the coast to California. I have two days to get to the Hearst Castle area where I will meet Cass. There is an endless battalion of clouds waiting for me outside. We’ll see if they will spare me or if yesterday’s fate will be repeated.

A Few More Minutes of Bobbing in the Ocean

2008-09-23T15:43:00.000-06:00

I’m alive, well and picking the blackberry seeds out of my teeth in Doe Bay on Orcas Island, Washington. I’m hoping to make this quick so I can take on more soak in the hot baths here before getting on the ferry to Anacortes and Port Townsend.

Inspiration and timing have rarely coexisted this trip. My best thoughts and stories happen while riding along on my motorcycle. If I had more time right now, I would tell stories like Cass and Scotty almost freeze in Yosemite, Republican Cows, The Harvest Moon vs. The Halogen Monster, I-5 Cell Phone Impact, A Night of Junkie Counseling, the One Mile Diet, the Ill-advised Night Rider, How to Double Your Money on the Nevada Border and a whole lot more. Of course, I am choosing to go out and soak my travel weary bones one more time before jumping on Shadowfax and blazing off this island paradise. The Pacific Coast awaits…

More soon, or at least a bunch of photos.

The Journey Begins

2008-09-14T11:08:00.001-06:00

The world was out to get Shadowfax today, and I just happened to be along for the ride, but I’ll get to that in a minute. This journey begins during the last two weeks as I have been in a mad rush to wrap up eight years of business while simultaneously getting Shadowfax, my motorcycle, ready for a journey. Throw in three major events I had to organize in addition to these tasks and what you get is one hugely frazzled Scotty. No matter. When my eyes popped open in the pre-dawn hours on 9/11, I popped up, threw the remaining items into my luggage and loaded up for a one month journey around the Western United States. Was I ready? Picture a ten-year-old running for the school bus with an unzipped backpack, untied shoes and a jacket and lunch box flailing like an old-fashioned movie projector at the end of a film. When the boxes were attached to the bike and the last strapped tightened, I took a moment to just sit there on Shadowfax’s back and let the Steamboat, home and work world come to a stop before letting the world of freedom unfold. With a push of the button the engine started. I was off…

Having embarked on multi-month journeys before, I was aware that I packed too much of what I didn’t need and probably forgot a few things that I did. Fortunately the road provides. My main task on day one was to begin the process of clearing my mind.

I headed west on 40 through Milner and Craig. The skies above were gray; the skies in the direction I was heading were black! I pulled over just before Maybell to put the cover on my tank bag and liberate that first cup of coffee. When I got back on Shadowfax and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Fortunately, I was on a hill and with a compression start, we were back on the road. Moments later, the sky started crying crocodile tears. Not your typical tropical crocodile, mind you, but the ultra-rare arctic version whose tears are the size of marbles with a temperature of 33 degrees. I stayed dry until the drip began filling up my right boot. Right about the time that boot filled, the other one followed suit. The mirrored reflection of the sky off of the standing water on the road took my mind off of this and I reflected on other things.

By the time I hit Vernal, I had outrun the storm. I could have kept going, but I wanted to fill the battery with battery acid to see if that would help the problem. Just as I finished filling the last cell, the arctic crocodile storm caught me. I was already wet, though; It didn’t matter. Continuing west through Vernal, Shadowfax started handling strangely. At first I thought it was the foam on the road, but then realized that the back tire was flat. I stopped at a garage, and a tire store, neither who could help me. One guy told me of a motorcycle dealership down the street. Fortunately, they took the time to change the tire for me.

I have a spare tube and tire irons, but I have heard horror stories of grown men crying like babies after wrestling with a flat for an hour or two. I figured I would eat the cost and let the pros do it since I was in a town. I hung out in the garage with three Mexican mechanics as they tried to decide who would do the job. Of course they picked the guy least suited for it. He got lots of practice, though, having to do it twice. He overfilled and popped the tube on his first try. Have you ever wondered why people who speak different languages still choose to swear in English? Two hours later, we were back on the road. Crocodile rains got board and headed the other way.

That night I chased the sunset all the way to 15 and slept in a motel in Nephi, Utah, 351 miles from home.

Tomorrow our lives will change forever

2008-08-31T20:40:00.000-06:00

“Tomorrow our lives will change forever,” I yelled from my bedroom. Paulie was in his room in front of a movie sleeping or awake, I wasn’t sure. I was sitting at my tiny thrift store desk looking at the touch-tone phone and imagining it ringing non-stop as soon as we passed out the papers the next morning.

That first issue was designed in Andy Jehn’s (now Andy Kennnedy) apartment, and after it came off the printer, photo copies needed to be made and folded. By the end of the next day we had handed out about 250 copies of what we perceived to be the most important thing to come to the Valley since the chair lift. The phone didn’t ring off the hook that day - in fact, the phone didn’t ring at all, at least not after that first issue.

We started The Local in January 2001 because at that time there wasn’t a community forum, and in our opinion, without a place for people to share their ideas, you can’t have a healthy community. It took a while for things to take off. People in the Yampa Valley are pretty weary about new things, especially a couple of loudmouth punks with the audacity to call their paper “The Local.” (But after all, it was born here)

Those first few years were fun. Really fun - in fact, too much fun. Bloody Mary reviews, energy drink reviews, art openings; concerts, more concerts… the list goes on. About the time Paulie sold his second car to pay for his share of the printing, we decided that we should probably start selling ads. I still remember that first ad sale fondly. When Paul and Seth at Café Diva gave us that check we thanked them, shook hands and proceeded to celebrate our newly acquired profits by spending them only a few steps away at their bar.
Paulie and I changed a lot over the years. As our 20s became our 30s, the paper began to gain credibility, mostly because of the amazing people in our community who submitted articles, photos, letters and bought ads. Both of us volunteer time and energy by getting involved in groups outside of The Local. The root of both of our personal missions is building community, and I think that is why The Local has been so successful throughout the years.

Paulie likes to joke about how when people come up to talk to him, how many of their conversations begin with “I really shouldn’t be telling you this but…” I usually add that if we really wanted to make money we’d sell the photos and stories that don’t make the paper back to those involved. (Don’t worry; we don’t own a newspaper anymore.)
Different people and groups have approached us on many occasions these past eight years about buying the paper. Up until now, we have said no for a number of reasons, but mostly because we enjoy the paper and the community that the paper is a part of. For that reason, when Tom approached us a number of months ago, we were wary, but over the past four months we have watched Tom work and had numerous conversations about the direction The Local will take. We have faith that Tom has what it takes to make sure that The Local continues to serve the community. But as always, The Local only works because of community participation. Please keep submitting photos, letters, gripes, props, smidgens, writing and of course, buying ads. We want to see The Local continue to thrive long after we are old and gray.

As for me, I’m going to keep writing and taking photos, which is why I wanted to get into this business in the first place. I’m also going to go off again on more world travels. I have eight years of wander lust to satiate. You can find me on scottglackman.blogspot.com. I’ll send the occasional story in from the road, and if there’s room, maybe Tom will print them. Thank you for the opportunity to assist in putting out The Local for all these years. It has truly been a pleasure.

No News is Good News... For Me.

2008-08-23T20:50:00.001-06:00

Imagine an elephant sitting in front of you. He takes up most of your vision, except perhaps a few strips on the periphery. Now imagine not being able to talk about this elephant or even mention him for four months. That’s how these past four months have felt. WE SOLD THE LOCAL. There is lots more to say, but we have decided not to talk about it until the next issue comes out on August 28. For now, I’ll attach the article written in the Steamboat Today. http://steamboatpilot.com/news/2008/aug/22/local_takes_new_owner/

Liberation, at last!

2008-08-14T11:48:00.000-06:00

The other morning as I was lying in bed, I felt a strange lightness of being, as if I were iron filings and a magnet was brushing over me. At that point, I let my consciousness go free to research the sensation and surprisingly, it only made it as far as the bathroom cabinet.

Seven years ago I moved out of the apartment that housed Paulie, me, The Local and various in and out-of-town visitors and into a one bedroom apartment of my own. I didn’t have many possessions at the time. It didn’t take long to extract myself from one space and inject myself into the other. The move was incident free… until the crash.

I had never considered myself overly superstitious, or maybe it was just that I hadn’t overly considered superstitions, but when I slid the box of bathroom supplies onto the counter pushing the little two-sided vanity mirror off, it opened up a whole can of superstition worms I didn’t know existed.

OK, maybe I’m a little superstitious. I always knock on wood for me or anyone around me when a phrase is uttered that seems to challenge fate. When salt is spilled, I always throw a dash over my shoulder, and. I always go around a ladder rather than passing underneath. I do these things more for fun than out of fear. I consider little superstitions like this seasoning to a potentially bland life. But suffering the fate of a broken mirror, that was something I had never had to deal with. Not until that day seven years ago.

The memory comes in three phases: The mirror sliding off the counter, the explosion on impact, and then the cleaning up the shards of broken glass. Each of these comes with its own emotion: Annoyance that I didn’t move the mirror first, fear of what would happen when it hit the ground, and finally, bewilderment.

“Don’t cry over spilled milk” didn’t work for me as I brushed the shards into a pile. This was bigger than that. My rational mind came up with reasons for why this superstition started. Perhaps the fragmented reflection seen in the broken mirror sliced at the delicate psyche, taking seven years to heal. Maybe when the superstition was born mirrors were so expensive that they equaled seven years salary of the persons unlucky enough to break them? Whatever the reason, it was up to me to convince myself that it was only a superstition. I thought I was successful. The slices on my fingers healed in a matter of days, and I have felt pretty lucky over these past seven years. So what was it that left me the other morning? Was it something my subconscious was holding on to? Was it truly bad luck leaving? Does it really matter?

I don’t think it matters. They say our lives move in seven year cycles and when I look at mine, I can see this is true. I wouldn’t go back to that day and move the mirror. Whatever has happened, I’m happy for the lessons learned. That seven years of uneasiness will just make the next seven that much sweeter. Oh no, is that a black cat crossing my path.

Bug Bites and Battle Scars

2008-07-30T17:56:00.000-06:00

“Boys, it’s OK if you get the clap; at least it means you’re gettin’ some.” This tarnished pearl of wisdom seemed ridiculous when Shawny’s dad imparted it on us back in high school, but, now that I’m older, I can see that perhaps it holds a bit of truth.

The memory of this conversation is recalled as I sit at my desk with throbbing, blistered feet and a body pocked with mosquito bites resembling the waiting room at the Zit’n’Pimple acne clinic. These are a few manifested memories of this past weekend’s 24-mile backpacking adventure. Normally we think of pain and discomfort as negative things, but for those of us who sit at desks week in and week out, they can be pleasant reminders of weekend adventures. How many of you have a favorite scar? I know I do.

The balance between safety and adventure can be tricky. Society sends us mixed messages. We’re perpetually being told that the world is a dangerous place and that we need to seek refuge. Terror alerts, home alarm systems, protective padding for virtually every sport, tazers and mace are all things that we are urged to place between us and the hostile world. Yet at the same time, we are sold products such as pre-washed/pre-torn jeans, aviator jackets, tan-in-a-can, camouflaged gear, and a plethora of other products to give us the appearance that we live rugged outdoor lifestyles.

The whole thing can be darned confusing. Shawny’s dad is no longer with us, though it would be nice to call him for the occasional “should I stay or should I go” council. These days I look to what I call “my deathbed self.” I go into the future and ask the happy, shriveled figure what I should do. Ultimately, he’s the one I have to answer to anyway. On many occasions he says “stay,” but once in a while I hear, “what the hell, go for it, that’s what shots are for.”

This isn’t an article condoning unprotected sex or taking stupid risks. I don’t even know if the Clap still exists. I just know that I’ve heard more than one person this past fortnight lament that summer is almost over and they haven’t taken the time to have any fun. The truth is, we haven’t even reached our half-way point. Padding or not, get out there and enjoy.

1737Miles

2008-07-29T10:52:00.000-06:00

When Paulie hit send last deadline and our paper began its journey to the printers, I blasted out of the office like Luke and R2D2 leaving the exploding Death Star. The only casualty from last fortnight's 1737 mile adventure was the untimely demise of thousands of unsuspecting insects. Fortunately, the thrills outnumbered the carnage.

It was a glorious spring in the Yampa Valley this year. The abundance of snow this past winter has kept the hills green and the Yampa and Elk rivers flowing. Something about the ideal spring and early summer has given me the "leave the party while it's still raging" urge. Subsequently, when last issue came out on the 3rd of July, I decided to escape to the woods where traffic and fireworks wouldn't disrupt my flow. The woods I chose were in the Grand Tetons where our friends the Rainbow Family were gathering.

Coming from the south, Rock Springs was the last big town I went through before taking a right at Boulder, Wyoming and heading into the woods. Unlike two years ago, I only passed one officer, two hitchhikers and some cars before parking my motorcycle right at the front gate, trading my riding clothes for hiking attire and leaving the real world behind.

I was on assignment two years ago when the Gathering was on the front page of the local daily paper almost everyday for a month or more. This time I had the luxury to experience it at my own pace without having to take notes and photos. A kundulini yoga class nourished my body and mind while an edible and medicinal plant walk nourished my body. As in any society, I met people I would steer clear of and people from whom I learned a great deal. I can't say my experience at the gathering wasn't entirely uneventful, but due to space restrictions that info is on my blog:. Scottglackman.blogspot.com.

Trading hat and t-shirt for riding jacket and helmet, I pointed my front wheel west toward the setting sun. This time I passed more than 12 police cars, some going to the gathering and some pulled over to the side of the road. According to the Jackson Hole Tribune, once again I had left an exploding death star, this time consisting of "officers pointing weapons at children and firing rubber bullets and pepper spray balls." By dark I was well on my way to Flaming Gorge, and early the next morning made my way to Steamboat for a quick week of work. Judging by reports from friends, Steamboat's 4th of July wasn't without carnage, either.

I made it through three and a half days of work before being overcome by wanderlust again and vacating Steamboat, this time to rally with adventure riders in Silverton, deep in the jagged recesses of the San Juan Mountains. Three days of alternating roller-coaster like riding over passes and valleys broken up by slide shows from people who have ridden around the world on motorcycles similar to mine, made it almost impossible to come home. I fear I'm getting addicted to the solitary life of traveling long distances on two wheels. I can already tell that by the end of the summer my report card won't say "plays well with others." More likely, I'll be reprimanded for playing too much with myself.

Somewhere over the Rainbow

2008-07-09T21:04:00.000-06:00

“If she pukes, tip the litter to the side,” I let my wilderness first responder lapse years ago, but it didn’t matter to the woman writhing in pain, she was just happy that she would soon be at the road and on her way to medical attention. I was glad that I opted for sleep the night before and didn’t partake in the 4^th of July festivities.

A few days before when we put the current issue of The Local to bed I knew that I didn’t want to be in Steamboat for the 4^th of July. I wanted to spend the 4^th in the woods far from cars and traffic. My choices were Conundrum Hot Springs outside of Aspen or the Rainbow gathering outside of Jackson, Wyoming. I opted for the Rainbow Gathering. Conundrum will always be there and the Gathering only happens once a year. When the Rainbow Gathering happened outside of Steamboat two years ago, I hitchhiked in, stayed a night and wrote a story about it. That gathering made the front page of the Steamboat Today paper almost everyday for two months that summer. When I got there that year I had a great experience, but I was rushed because of a deadline. This time I was free from Thursday until Monday morning.

This would be my first multi-day motorcycle journey, and when I tightened the strap that lashed my pack to my bike and kicked it into gear, I was overcome with elation. It was as if the rabble of butterflies in my stomach could fly me to anywhere that had anything resembling a road.

Steamboat to Craig, Craig north to bags and I-80 and I-80 to Rock Springs where 191 led north to Boulder, WY, and the dirt roads that led to the gathering. I stopped for some gas along I-80 and was sitting outside eating a banana and listening to the guy in the car next to me spewing random Wyoming facts. “Wyoming is number two in the nation for lack of population density. 2.5 people per mile. This is an energy state. They’re offering truck drivers $1000 sign on bonus and all they do is drive gas to the rigs and back to refill, and they get paid $95,000 a year.” He went on and I watched a deer sprint down the street. When he left a Halliburton Truck took his spot. I followed the deer and sprinted to where pavement became dirt.

I learned a couple things on that stretch. First, the best way to become comfortable traveling 65 miles per hour on my motorcycle is to spend a half hour doing 85. I also found out that I get 100 less miles per tank driving that way. Eventually I took a right and crossed the sage lands following the pines and mirror ponds as they led me to the ever-growing Tetons. I only saw one police car, but only after it turned on its lights and sped around me. Eventually I got to the back gate and parked right along the fence. Leather jacket and helmet were replaced by t-shirt and felt hat, and I covered my motorcycle and walked the 2.5 miles to the first kitchen and campfire. I was cheered (and munched) on by mosquitoes every step of the way.

When I got to the Warrior’s of Light camp I walked into the woods to find a spot for my tent that wouldn’t get the early morning light. My trusty North Face Tadpole was up in minutes and I wandered down to sit around the fire.

Many kinds of people attend Rainbow Gatherings. There are lots of hippies, some punks, some who are there to hide and some who are there for freedom to express themselves spiritually and artistically. It’s amazing how many great musicians are there. That first evening I did more singing than talking, backing up guitars, drums, and various other stringed instruments. Eventually I decided to walk the dark path into the woods. After all, this was only the camp on the perimeter.

“That must be where the party is,” I wondered out loud to a dark figure passing in the woods.

“That’s the Christian camp.” He replied. The drums and chanting echoed through the forest. I kept walking past many camp fires with people singing and playing music. Eventually I started to hear a deep rumble and followed it until it led me to a giant bonfire and three levels of people around it dancing, singing and playing drums. If Dionysus was going to show up at the gathering, it was here that he would be. This is what I was looking for. The drums eventually entranced me and I danced around the fire until the metal pendent around my neck threatened to burn its image into my chest. Then I stood on the upper level until the sweat dried and went on my way back to find my tent.

I was disoriented and took many paths through the forest. I finally found one that felt right and got in step with a woman who began singing a beat. I joined in and we sang harmonizing together about her birthday which had just begun. When the song finished I wished her a happy birthday and she gave me a huge hug and said thank you and goodnight. When she walked off I looked up and a star shot across the sky.

The next morning was the 4^th of July. At the Rainbow Gathering the 4^th is a day of silence where everyone prays and meditates for peace. The silence lasts until noon when everyone gathers around the main meadow, joins hands and begins to chant OM. The OM went on for about ten minutes during which time the cloudy sky directly above us began to part and a ray of sunshine lit up the circle. Traditionally at the gathering the morning’s silence ends with the children’s parade. When the children marched in everyone cheered, hugged and drumming and dancing commenced in the center of the circle. I opted to go to Yoga Camp and spend the afternoon learning from a kundalini yoga master.

By dinner time I was thoroughly high from the yoga and really hungry. I ran into a pizza kitchen on my walk back and had some pizza made in wood fired ovens. I was glad the meat eaters’ line was short. I also stopped by Jerusalem, the kosher Jewish camp where they were celebrating Shabbat by dancing and singing prayers. The devoutness in this camp was moving but I was still in shorts from the morning sans flashlight and I had only a few minutes until it would be too dark to find my tent. I made it just in time.

My cellular phone tucked in the mesh pocket in my tent told me it was 9:45. It was the teetering point. I could either suit up for evening with some warm clothes, some musical instruments and a thirst for nighttime fun or listen to my blistered feet that had already carried me ten-plus miles. I listened to my feet, put some earplugs in and drifted with the smoke through the trees and up to dream with the stars.

Side note:

While I was sleeping, Steamboat Springs was having one of the craziest Independence days ever. There were people getting hit by cars, falling face first and needing major plastic surgery, drinking tiki oil and getting rushed off by ambulances and others getting into major fights. The fireworks show even got cut short when the explosives went off prematurely messing up the computer system and causing the people around them to have to hide behind trees for their safety. These are only a few of the stories I heard. I’m glad I wasn’t in Steamboat.

I woke up after ten hours of sleep and wandered to find some coffee. On my way I passed the medic tent and was recruited to help carry Ashley, a woman who was screaming with kidney pain. Six of us rotated carrying the litter over rocks and through mud for the 2.5 miles to the parking lot. It felt good to be doing work in a place where if I wanted to, I could do nothing but relax and find the next kitchen serving food for three weeks. We finally got her to a car who raced her to the nearest hospital about an hour and a half away. I was glad I got to drink that cup of coffee before the journey.

I still had one day left before I had to be at work. I could spend another day at the gathering or head out and have a day of camping somewhere quiet before landing back in Steamboat. I opted to take a dip in the river, pack up and make that 2.5 mile trek again where my bike was comfortably covered and waiting quietly for me. It started immediately with no choke and only one push of the starter. It wanted to get out of there.

I must have passed 24 cars on my way out. 12 were police waiting on the side of the road and 12 were driving slowly and kicking up dust. I just waved and smiled as I zoomed past them. Thank goodness for an on/off road motorcycle.

That evening I stopped for a shrimp cocktail and a margarita at a Mexican restaurant in Rock Springs and then headed south on 191 until finding a sage prairie to lay my head.

Six Antelope greeted me when I woke up and bade me a safe journey home through Flaming Gorge, Vernal, Dinosaur and back to Steamboat where the hot springs comforted my travel weary body.

The soreness in my arms from carrying the litter is going away. I only hope Ashleigh got to the hospital and is feeling better. Outside the brewery where I’m writing this, my motorcycle is waiting patiently. Tomorrow morning it goes in for new tires and by tomorrow night we will be heading to Silverton for a Horizons Unlimited meeting for adventure riders who have or plan to ride around the world. A full day of work followed by six hours of riding, tomorrow; I’m ready!

Here's a link to a recent story: http://www.jacksonh olestartrib. com/articles/ 2008/07/05/ news/wyoming/ b6f13c1e81260414 8725747d0005a3c0 .txt

...and a few more for good measure

2008-07-02T09:23:00.001-06:00

Faces of the fortnight

2008-07-02T09:02:00.000-06:00

Here are a few of my encounters in the past two weeks.

Loopy in Wyoming

2008-06-22T23:35:00.000-06:00

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Snow had made some of the closer passes impassable. So when it was time to blast off for my first big ride, I decided to go north to Wyoming on a slightly longer ride that still had dirt aspects, but also had some paved roads. The trip got off to a late, but not so uneventful start. Just before reaching Clark, I felt a sharp burning sensation on my inner thigh. The poor bee was bouncing around on my leg like bungee jumper hanging from a ceiling fan. I brushed him away and tried to remember the best method for getting a stinger out. They say if you pinch it and pull it out it shoots more venom into you. I have also heard that the more we get stung, the lower our tolerance is. After a few minutes with no anaphylactic shock, I decided that I still wasn’t allergic to bees. Thank goodness.

About thirty miles north of Steamboat, Hwy 129 splits. I was hoping to take the right fork and check out Big Red Park. I hadn’t been there since the Rainbow Gathering two years ago. Unfortunately, there was a locked gate. When I went to the other fork it said “road closed ahead!” There was no gate, though, so I decided to keep going and try my luck. I figured that I could always pull my “journalist” card and say I was reporting on the road closure. I had to laugh, Paulie, my business partner, had written an article the day before that talked about entitlement. http://www.thesteamboatlocal.com/article.php?id=604 It was a good article, and I felt like its subject. Regardless, five, ten, fifteen miles… still no sign of a closed road. Sometimes they just forget to take signs down. I stopped for a few minutes at Three Forks Ranch to take a photo of an eagle and some antelope when a fishing guide and his client stopped to say hi. I asked if the road was closed ahead and they said no. I wasn’t going to be blocked from my goal! The rest of my dirt miles felt like I had just won the golden ticket. I was getting used to the bike and feeling comfortable with a little speed. Eventually I got to a paved road that said Bags one way and Encampment the other. I opted to take a right. My Colorado Atlas and Gazetteer stopped at the border. I would have to rely on signs. Hopefully I would find one that said “Walden” at which point I would take a right.

The next 20 or so miles climbed up to over 10,000 feet. When I reached the Continental Divide there was still deep snow on both sides of the road. The views were breathtaking and the forest service had the road lined with interpretive signs. One of the signs was the site where Thomas Edison got the idea for the filament in his incandescent light bulb. I didn’t think I’d find anything up there, especially the site of a significant event in history. I was glad there was virtually no traffic on the road. I must have looked drunk weaving from one to the other side of the road reading the signs. One of the few cars that passed was full of pretty girls waving out of a sun roof. The adventure was getting better all the time! At that point I decided that I would have to stop at a bar in one of the little Wyoming towns to have a ceremonial beer and check out some of the local wildlife. Some of their older sisters, perhaps? I just had to remember the cardinal rules: Don’t talk about religion, and don’t talk about politics. It’s amazing how far talking about the weather can get you.

I cruised through Encampment, population 400-something. The bars had little windows that I couldn’t see through. It’s awkward to walk in a bar, decide you don’t want to be there after making eye contact with the very reasons you DON’T want to be there and then turn around to walk out. I kept riding.

At the end of town I saw the sign I was looking for: Walden, and took a right. There were two bars that looked full of life. I stopped at one, parked right in front and walked in. “No more talking about politics,” I heard someone say when I walked in. Another guy ordered a Guinness. I followed suit. This wasn’t such a bad place after all. Still, I decided to take my beer and sit outside where a gentleman convinced me to ride 20 miles out of my way to Saratoga where there was a free hot spring. I’d no sooner pass up a hot spring in Wyoming than I would pass up a Guinness after crossing the Great Divide. The soak felt great to my road-beaten body, but the sun’s position in the sky afterward wasn’t reassuring. Despite being the third longest day of the year, I wasn’t sure my motorcycle and I could beat the sun to the horizon. We were no match for its speed and by Walden, it was almost dark… and getting very cold! I stopped at a gas station to fill my jacket with crumpled newspapers, an old survival trick, and got back on the road. About 20 miles later I was disappointed that I didn’t stuff more newspapers in my jacket. Not nearly as disappointed, however as I was that I didn’t think to get GAS at the station. I had read that the KLR got 300 plus gallons to the tank. I was only at 216 when the engine started puttering. Fortunately, it has a reserve tank that somehow got me to the top of Rabbit Ear’s Pass. At that point, I put it in neutral where it wouldn’t use too much gas (and was quiet enough so that someone upstairs may hear my prayers). At mile 242 I coasted into the Shop ‘n Hop at the far end of town. I was frozen, I was exhausted, but I was home!

The rest of the weekend was full of excitement. Cutting beetle kill down in the National Forest, getting my motorcycle license in Craig America, going to the sheriff’s wedding reception, a few days of gondola laps on the mountain bike, but nothing could compare to the first big journey on the motorcycle.

Tomorrow I go away for four days to Life Skills Camp in Estes Park with a bunch of middle-schoolers. There’s no telling what stories will come from that adventure. I better get to sleep.

Seventh Day Adventurist

2008-06-19T10:38:00.000-06:00

Here's my latest editorial for The Local. I'm planning a nice long ride today so I should have some good photos.

Seventh Day Adventurist

“SLAP,” well, that’s the sound it made, at least, as it hit my cheek. I didn’t know what it was at first, but as soon as I felt the furry creature that was stuck in my helmet move, I pulled over and slid my brain-bucket off gingerly. The bee fell to the ground. This isn’t a story that would have happened last fortnight. A lot has changed since then.

Two Fridays ago, after we got the papers distributed, I went to Boulder for a magazine conference. Editors from some of my favorite adventure magazines were there sharing information about what the magazines are interested in and how to best pitch your ideas. It was a really interesting and informative conference, but most importantly for me, was the inspiration with which I was left. It reminded me of how fertile Steamboat Springs is for adventures and great story ideas. This should have been more apparent, just look at writers like Eugene Buchanan, Jill Murphy Long, Joe Carberry and Jennie Lay who have all been published outside of the Valley. But when the editors mentioned how foreign and adventurous our lives seem to the typical Manhattan magazine editor (not to mention all of the readers), I looked at life in the Yampa Valley in a richer, more Technicolor way. I left the conference with some great connections, some new skills and best of all, the realization that if I could up the ante on my Yampa Valley adventures, it would make my stories more interesting and possibly be my ticket to getting paid to have some adventures in far off lands. On the drive home, I decided that the next logical step in this process was to create a blog. That night when I got home, Idle Thoughts and Epic Adventures was born.

I never thought I would have a blog, but only writing one column every other week isn’t doing much for my writing, and Idle Thoughts aren’t lending themselves to enough adventure. If you put “Epic Adventures” in the title, you have to have some, right?

Blog-night-one got me thinking about adventure. By blog-night-two, the adventure had begun! This adventure personified itself in the form of a 2007 Kawasaki KLR 650, a motorcycle known to be great for cross-continent travel both on and off-road. I’ve ridden motorcycles intended for dirt before and I’ve ridden ones made for the street, but the possibilities that present themselves when you have one that can go almost anywhere are like a triple shot of espresso for a dreamers mind. I love my Toyota pickup, but when I wake up in the morning, twist the key on the KLR and push the magic button, its engine hypnotizes me. In the past week I have gotten lost on the way to the grocery store and ended up on both Rabbit Ears and Buffalo Pass, missed my turn to go home and ended up at the hot springs, and taken the long way everywhere else I’ve ridden. I haven’t needed it to get to adventure; the adventure has been in the act of getting there. I’ve also become aware of others riding the same motorcycle. I have probably seen five a day, and most of them carry saddlebags and have license plates from far away. Seeing them sends my motorcycle and me from jeep roads in the tundra to trails through the Amazon with the ease of a fly fisherman whipping his fly from eddy to eddy. It takes all my strength just to reel in the line to little jaunts around the Flattops or through Big Red Park into Wyoming. It seems these Idle Thoughts have been popped into gear and thoroughly revved. It’s time to squeeze the clutch and apply the brakes liberally.

It’s my intention to hone my writing skills as well as my riding skills while not forgetting all of the other fun adventures there are to be had in the Yampa Valley. I can hear the muffled whimpering of the other toys in my toy box, even over the rumble of the KLR’s engine.

Feel free to check out my blog at scottglackman.blogspot.com. If you read it I’ll be compelled to write in it. Let the epic adventures begin!

2008-06-17T09:59:00.000-06:00

I just remembered that I started a blog last week and haven’t added to it in five days. Tomorrow I have to write a new editorial for the paper. Here’s the last one from two weeks ago. Washington seems like a distant memory. It’s good to revisit it.

What I did on my summer vacation

The cuts on my hands from shucking oysters are almost gone and so is the sunburn on my neck. Now as I sit here on this 45 degree rainy day I feel like it’s fall and I’m writing a “what I did on my summer vacation” essay.

When I left Steamboat two weeks ago the Yampa River had already found its bed to be too small and was rudely encroaching on people’s back yards and even some roads (see last issue’s cover). At that time Mt. Werner above the Gondola had no bare spots, and to make things worse, the skies were full of snow. If it cleared up and got hot for a few days, Denver news teams would be featuring the Dream Island Yampa River Regatta. Just as soon as the last of the Locals were delivered, I high tailed it to Denver to catch a plane to Seattle. Whatever natural disasters that might have happened would have to happen without me. I had a race to run… or rather, to ski. (see Idle Thoughts issue 8.10)

Besides missing my flight by four minutes and spending an additional half hour assisting a fellow passenger and her two small children, the trip was uneventful. Before I knew it I was at a restaurant in a yuppified version of the town where I grew up. The assortment of wines and cheeses was Kirkland, Washington’s version of fast food. It was delicious but it didn’t take my mind off of the impending race. It did, however kick off my birthday festivities. Birthdays are a great time to go home because people feel obligated to hang out with you. A few hours later my friend Kirsten and I met up with some friends on a sail boat on Lake Union sipping tequila. Something about the combination of the two successfully took my mind off the race.

The next day started like any post birthday should, with a few asprin and an energy drink. Soon I was up in Bellingham meeting the members of my race team, Boogie Universal’s Electric Mayhem. We spent the evening ironing out logistics and sorting gear. Turns out my brand new boots didn’t fit my borrowed skis so I had to borrow boots too. I was glad I tested them out that night. I was the first leg of the race, and no skis would have caused our whole team to have to forfeit. I spent the next four hours sleeping the kind of sleep you would imagine sleeping if you were 35 feet up in a tree house the night before your first race.

The drive to Mt. Baker was awe-inspiring. The mountains around Steamboat look like molars. That region of the Cascades looks more like canines chipped by Gobstoppers. By 6am it was already t-shirt weather. My job when the starting gun went off was to charge the undulating four and a half mile figure eight loop and hand my timing chip to my teammate Tim, a.k.a. Santa Bunny. The race was half Alice in Wonderland, half James Bond ski chase. I managed to finish well ahead of Guy-In-Tutu and just in front of Umbrella-Hat-Wearing-Lady-In-Dress, but Man-In-Cow-Suit managed to finish just ahead of me. By 9am, Santa Bunny was charging up the mountain with snowboard on back and I was catching my breath wondering why I was so freaked out about this race and if someone had put something in my coffee. Our team finished somewhere in the middle, but due to our team spirit, Eric our road biker’s photo ended up on the cover of the Ski to Sea section of the Bellingham Herald the next day.

The rest of the Northwest portion of my summer vacation consisted of wine tasting, oyster feasts and ferry rides, but due to lack of space, I think it is best to get back to Steamboat.

Back in The ‘Boat, things had not gone as planned. The “Epic Floods of ‘08” were cancelled (or postponed) due to cold weather. Apparently, after hearing this, a suicidal raccoon decided to cause a disaster of his own by getting intimate with a piece of equipment with 12,000 volts running through it. I was sorry to have missed that. I heard Lincoln Avenue offered some brilliant star gazing opportunities.

It has only been a week since I got back to Steamboat, but thanks to long warm days, I have managed to fit in two weeks of work on the paper and a trip to the desert to roof a friend’s A-frame. The town’s spirits are high with everyone in kayaks, rafts, on bikes or lazily walking the streets. Now that I have a moment to relax and gaze out the window at this second day of rain I finally have time to look back fondly at my summer vacation. What day is it? June 4? What am I doing looking back at my summer vacation when summer doesn’t even start for two more weeks? I better wrap this up. I still have some spring to enjoy!

2008-06-11T08:22:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning to a collective, “You’ve got to be shittin' me!?!” I know, I didn’t think there was such thing either until I pried apart my blinds and saw bona fide snowflakes falling down to meet their compadres who had already set up shop on the ground. After witnessing this, I retrieved my Palm Trio for the day's inaugural email check . The first thing to come in was Michael David’s “Can you believe IT?!?!?!” email. The sentiment was indeed collective… in so many words.

I usually don’t look at weather reports unless I have a big trip planned. I like to be surprised and I can usually get a pretty good idea by looking up once and a while. Now that I feel compelled to use more two-wheeled transportation, I may be looking a little more closely at the forecast. Looks like today and tomorrow will be hovering in the 50s and the sun will be peaking his head out again on Friday.

You know how if you want it to rain you wash your car? Try buying a motorcycle and see what happens.

Beginning of a New Cycle

2008-06-10T23:08:00.000-06:00

Traveling from the Arctic Circle to the southern tip of South America by motorcycle has been a dream of mine for over a decade. It hasn’t been a constant thought, but it has definitely surfaced every year or two. Last month when a Columbian friend told me he wanted to return to Columbia by land I brought up joining him on motorcycles. He thought this would be a good idea. A week later I found out he would be leaving the country before I could go with him, but it didn’t stop me from researching what kind of motorcycle would be the best one for the journey. All of my research led to the same bike: The Kawasaki KLR 650. The KLR is cost effective, dependable, relatively light (compared to the BMW), easy to work on and also the motorcycle used by the US military. This is an on/off road motorcycle that gets between 50 and 60 miles per gallon. I have to admit it has become somewhat of an obsession for the last four weeks, even seeping into my dreams.

After my daily Craigslist and Ebay perusing, I began to get frustrated. The specific KLRs that I had been watching were gone and in there place were only a few older models from Denver, Salt Lake City and Las Vegas. Though I was ready and willing, the thought of hitchhiking for half a day to buy a motorcycle only to find the there was something wrong with it was disheartening. Wouldn’t it be great to find a KLR right here in the Yampa Valley? On my way back to the office I checked out the Wheels and Deals for the Western Slope… nothing. I had finally resigned to the fact that this was not the time or the place to buy a motorcycle when I picked up the daily paper. This paper always had a list of three motorcycles, which never included the Kawasaki KLR 650, never that is, until today.

2007 Kawasaki KLR, 1300 miles. Kept in garage. Was all it said but I couldn’t have asked for a better description. I called immediately. Message machine. I expected a call back promptly but had to wait just long enough to begin to lose hope. Who knew how long this motorcycle had been in the classifieds? He probably sold it. Just as soon as I got immersed in work, my phone spurted out the ring that means “unfamiliar caller.” It was him.

Twenty minutes later I was tooling around on a monster bike. Twenty-two minutes later I had agreed to buy it. “Will you take off $300 so I can buy a jacket and some gloves?” I asked.

“I would if another guy hadn’t called after you offering full price.”

The KLR was in beautiful condition and they are becoming harder and harder to find, especially with gas prices going up as they are.

My afternoon was the beginning of a love affair getting to know something that I knew I would spend lots of time with, for better or worse. I don’t know when I will get to go on the grand adventure from Arctic Circle to Chile, but I did take care of the first step. I now have a motorcycle and it’s the perfect one for the job.

2008-06-09T23:19:00.000-06:00

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” –Lao Tsu

I just finished writing my first blog entry which ended being a small novel. Looking up at the quote on top of this entry, I decided that if this huge journey does, indeed, start with a single step, I had better make the step really short. Besides not wanting to give myself something too huge to live up to every entry, I surely don’t want to pull a muscle. You know how dangerous it is to go too hard right out of the starting gate. So here it is: the first step. What will the journey look like? Only time will tell…