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…

Shadowfax's Last Stand

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

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

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

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.