Golden Hour Wanderings

I set out on my bike this evening, new camera slung across my back, to photograph the hawks that hunt on the grass by the airport runway. I almost didn't stop to photograph this one on HWY 1, because I thought I knew what I was looking for and where I would find it. Fortunately, I did stop, because this was the last hawk I saw on my ride. 

Instead of hawks, when I got to the airport,  I saw what looked like WW2 era airplanes taking off. It was clear that these pilots were on a mission, and for the next hour or so, they would photobomb wherever I was shooting. 

The Sun spent the afternoon both on stage and in the dressing room. Often, it would pull the curtains back just enough to paint the Earth and Ocean with its beams. It's hard to say if the airplanes had a front row seat or if we did down on the ground, but it appeared there wasn't a bad one to be found! 

Next, I headed to Mavericks Beach hoping to find fun ways to capture Moon, Sun and animal reflections on the water. The Sun will continue to set farther south for another four weeks. Each day the shadows stretch in a slightly different way. 

Arriving at Mavericks was like showing up at the symphony. The seabirds sung the string parts, and the waves crashed like cymbals on the rocks. The lighting was even on point, but I didn't stick around, because  there was still too much to see before the Sun showed up for its daily date with the Ocean. 

"Yeah, I know there's a ball floating right next to me, but I'm already in the water, so why don't you throw me another?"

 It was fitting that I would come across a golden retriever on my way back to the road. If sunsets were an animal, I believe they would be golden retreivers. Sunrises, on the other hand, would be yellow labs. 

The next stop, Princeton, was  open for business. The Half Moon Bay Brewery had people sitting outside around fires, and across the street, Barbara's Fishtrap had people lined up outside waiting to order. I crossed the street to get a view of where I had just come from. Mavericks Beach on the far left side of that land mass in the distance. 

I'm not sure who was enjoying the sunset more, the kayaker or the birds? 

This wave was a bonding experience for these two surfers. 

 These two decided to part ways. 

Perfect day for a sunset surf!

Also, the perfect time to be done with a sunset surf. 

After a dazzling performance over the past hour, the Sun kept its date with the Ocean. 

Whether on two legs, four legs, wing tip or bike tires, we all made our way towards home, the long, long night not far behind. 

Tools of the Trade

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

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

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?

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

“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

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…