2.13.2010 Tucson, AZ

Under construction... here's a few pictures though!

2.2.2010 San Diego, CA

Made it to San Diego!  Here's a few photos from the leg of the trip from San Francisco to L.A.

Also, you can now post comments directly on this web page if you scroll down to the bottom.  Also, my email is at the top of the page.  Look forward to hearing from you!

1.21.2010 Atascadero, CA

In our journey down the coast of Southern California there came a day when we were passed by the Walker.  That’s when we knew that somehow our journey was simply not meant to progress any faster than walking pace.

“On September 20, 2009, I, George Throop, began a nine-month pilgrimage of inspiration... Taking countless steps across America, I hope to inspire you to take positive steps towards personal growth in your own lives...” begins the Walker’s bio somewhat grandiloquently at www.enjoythewalk.org.  I know of his website only because when he strode in to Ragged Point, California where Rose and I sat at a picnic table having lunch, he donned neon posterboard signs- front and back- over his torso that read, “Walking Across America,” and then the website.  He was traveling so light as to seem implausible, a half-filled green military surplus canvas slung uncomfortably over one shoulder, nothing else.  Now there’s a guy even crazier than me, I thought to myself. Being fellow long distance travelers ourselves, we were compelled to chat for a bit. 

Apparently the Walker began his odyssey in Seattle and came down the same coastal route as myself, and is eventually headed East towards Washington D.C.  His mission is to raise awareness about the importance of daily exercise in people’s lives- such as walking at least twenty minutes a day.  He had left San Francisco approximately the same time as us… walking. 

After our chat, he headed out on down the road, effectively passing us… walking!  Granted, when we took off the same direction on bikes a few minutes later we passed him again easily.  Yet it was an epiphany to realize that we’d been passed by a walker.

How did we end up being passed by a walker?  Our trip since leaving the Bay Area had been delayed by a variety of setbacks resembling the Ten Deadly Plagues.  We haven’t received all of them yet, but I ought to look the rest of them up so I know what to be prepared for.  There are always little challenges to deal with along the way in an expedition such as this one, but sometimes they can all add up to slow things to crawl.  But that’s OK when you’re on vacation rather than on a mission.

A few highlights from up until we met the Walker include- me projectile vomiting in the middle of the night on to the living room wall of a generous person who hosted us through www.warmshowers.org, being pulled over by highway patrol cop who told us over sixty people had called about two bicyclists illegally riding (for a total of ten minutes) on the freeway, spending a day doing repair work  at the UCSC bike co-op, spending three days recuperating from sicknesses at Rose’s uncle’s in Monterrey (and fending off any remaining unwelcome intestinal bacteria with liberal doses of ethanol), spectacular views and camping under bridges along the Big Sur area, and having our tents ripped to shreds by the wind and all our gear soaked (or blown away in to the ocean) in a midnight storm.

Through the window of a small café, we watched the Walker disappear in to the distance over steaming cups of coffee.  As the rain drizzled down the window I noticed text running across the bottom of the screen on a TV: “Severe storm warning for Central California.”  Good to know, just a little late.  The barista was a kind soul and must have thought we looked like the cold, wet vagrants we were- she tells us she’ll give us her shift’s meal and asks us what we want off the menu.  Such kindnesses can never be fully repaid.

Here in Atascadero we are staying with the Denkers, friends of my family’s formerly of Alaska now retired down to this southern clime.  We’ve been taking a few days to sit out the worst of the storm, repair holes in our tents, and rest our legs.  When you’ve traveled as long as we have, it’s impossible to take for granted the luxury of having a warm, secure place to simply sit and rest.  From here we’ll be continuing South mostly on Highway 1.  I’m looking forward to seeing what kind of wackiness Southern California has to offer…

1.8.2010 Berkeley, CA

Somewhere around a month ago, my bike trip got derailed (pun intended) and put on temporary hold as I made time to go visit friends and relatives in the Midwest.  As I sit down to write for the first time in a while, I’m seeking to find an engaging way to describe my recent travels.  If my previous month had a soundtrack it would be, “I’ve been everywhere” (Johnny Cash).  If you have the song on your computer, go ahead and crank it up for a more interactive experience.

In the last month I’ve traveled by train, plane, and automobile rather than bicycle.  I’ve found my version of hell at Circus Circus casino in Reno (and made $1.50 at slots), been on a cattle round-up with my cousin in southwest Kansas, went snowshoeing through the San Juan mountains in Colorado, spent Christmas eve in a hotel room near the Missouri border as a car-stopping blizzard raged outside, toured a bourbon distillery in Kentucky, fawned over exhibits at the country music hall of fame in Nashville, and attended a full-regalia Southern wedding in Dothan, Alabama.  I spent at least two full days crammed in to a VW Jetta with three other people and two large huskies on my lap (the dogs, that is).  I’ve been even more transient than usual.

What has inspired my spurt of cross-country travel?  The opportunity to keep in touch with friends and family, I suppose. I like seeing how people change yet stay the same over the years.  To keep in touch is to maintain a tenuous thread through time, to grab a hold of its passage and slow it from slipping away.  It’s a heartwarming experience to reconnect with loved ones, no matter how distant.  I try to make time for it.   I feel privileged to have the friends and family that I do.

I had the intention of sharing a more thorough version of my recent travels, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to do a quality job of it before I pass out this evening.  Some other time.

So, tomorrow it’s back to being on the road on two wheels.  I’m privileged to have an old friend join me for the rest of my bike travels this spring, Rose.  She’s had more long-distance bike touring than I by far, and I’m grateful to have the company and wisdom of another seasoned traveler.  Tonight we are staying in the apartment of a mutual friend of ours from high school, Ivy- now a graduate student at Berkley.  None of us have crossed paths for many years, so it feels like a mini reunion as we all catch up on who’s up to what these days.

Tomorrow we’ll be continuing South via Highway 1 towards San Diego.  Currently the plan is to head East from there with New Orleans as an approximate final destination before we both have to back up in Alaska for work by mid-march.

I’ll make sure and take some good pictures of all of it to share with you.  Thank you for all the nice compliments I have received from all of you who have enjoyed reading this and following my somewhat unpredictably frequent writings.  More to come soon.

12.8.2009 San Francisco, CA

Since I last left off, a good two weeks or so I spent in Reno twiddling my thumbs while awaiting some much-needed bike parts to arrive in the mail.  It was somewhat frustrating to spend a bunch of time waiting and money on mechanic labor after I had just recently learned how to do the work myself, but wheel-building was a task which required specialized tools that most people don’t have just lying around.  It was an experience which indicated to me the virtues of planning ahead a little bit.  Had I thought to order the parts ahead of time and find a bike co-op where I could get my hands on some tools, I’d have been able to avoid much of it.  Now I know.

I was grateful to have Cheryl, Micah, and Nolan (old neighbors from Wasilla) and Cheryl’s partner Dave as my generous hosts there.  Several mornings I got in some good long runs with Cheryl, for whom a leisurely jaunt is a ten mile loop up the steep sides of Washoe valley.  I can’t say that I find Reno an endearing city, but much like my hometown Wasilla I can forgive the city itself for the spectacular geography in which it happens to be located.  I spent a few days wandering aimlessly among the desert scrub hills and plateaus around town and saw not a single other soul, up where herds of wild horses roam and the air is a little cooler.

I even got in a little early-season skiing at Mt. Rose, Micah’s stomping grounds just outside of town.  I haven’t seen Micah for years, but I liked seeing that he (with whom I spent many a Saturday afternoon making volcanoes in the sandbox and melting GI Joes over backyard campfires in our younger days) is still brimming with the same fast-talking energy and wit I remember from long ago.  He’s one who could walk in to a trading floor in Chicago or a village market in Haiti- not to mention a ski resort- and meet a dozen friends.  At the resort’s gear shop, hand-shakes and hugs all around- everyone knows Micah, even strangers do.  On the chairlift he passes out a couple of warm PBRs hidden away in his jacket as we ride up.  It’s 10:00 a.m. and they taste like 7-Up.  He catches me up on his plans- he’s signed a several year contract with the ambulance company he works for, and in exchange they’re footing the bill for paramedic school.  He’s still hoping to be a firefighter in the long run, but it’s a competitive gig and paramedic experience should help.

Once my bike was back in one piece I was anxious to get back on the road again.  Biking out of Reno wasn’t really an option as all the surrounding passes were snowed in.  As a veteran of bicycle commuting in Fairbanks winters, it wasn’t so much that I’d be afraid of riding in cold conditions.  Weather I can be prepared for, but I can’t say that most drivers around here would be prepared to swerve around some nut-ball like me pedaling along a snowy shoulder on narrow curve this time of year. 

I was fortunate to have my friend Will relatively close by, a graduate student in English at UC Davis who was desperate for an excuse to make a trip up in to the mountains.  Will showed up early one morning fresh-faced and excited to be outdoors after a two month house arrest studying for a graduate practical exam he’d had the day before.  “I didn’t think it was possible to write an eighteen page essay in five hours, but it is,” he explains of his previous day’s task.  He was still spouting off a bit about post-modernism and fragmentation in American literature as we went for a short hike through the snowy firs and pines on the way out of town.  He misses Alaska dearly.  He tells me of standing in front of open freezer doors at the grocery store just to feel the air, imagining the doors a teleport back home.  I stayed with him and his girlfriend Jessica at their house in Sacramento for a few days, time I mostly spent puking my guts out from some gratefully short-lived sickness.

Finally I was able to hop back in the saddle and pedal away towards San Francisco, a one or two day ride at most.  Heading West, I made my way through Davis, which must be one of the only cities in America to have several bicycle-only roundabouts, and continued through endless groves of almonds, figs, plums, and oranges gone fallow for the winter.  As darkness approached it seemed as if I could find nowhere to camp for the night- every square foot of land was fenced off and decorated with No Trespassing signs.  Finally down a gravel side road somewhere I found a thick swath of brush down in a gulley and began ferrying my bags to a tiny mud-filled clearing at the bottom.  Just as I was climbing back up to the road for my last bag, headlights crest the hill and a truck slows to roll down its window. 

“Can I help you?” drawls a man in a crisp cowboy hat from inside the dark truck.  I humbly explain myself and prepare for a lecture about respecting private property.  Instead, they tell me there’s a better spot to camp just up ahead.  The next morning I left a note on a fencepost near where we met:

To: The couple I met on 12/9/09

From: The Bicyclist

To the couple I met last night- I thank you very much for allowing me to camp on your property.  I’ve stayed in many places in my travels, and this little clearing next to the stream was one of the nicest I’ve had.  I apologize for not asking permission beforehand.  Your forgiveness is not taken for granted and I’ll make sure to pass it on.

Sincerely, Ben Meyer (from Wasilla, Alaska)

After a short ferry ride from Vallejo the next day, I was in San Francisco. Stepping off the ferry, it’s apparent that even spandex-clad with my bike-trailer rig piled with colorful bags, I don’t stand out at all here.  It seems like every other person I pass- homeless people, that is- is pushing a wheeled contraption of some sort also piled high with bags.  A grizzled character with rotting teeth and a bad limp asks me if I have $1.80 for bus fare.  My stock response for such requests- if I have time and am feeling generous- is to say that I don’t usually just hand out money, but it’s my treat for lunch/breakfast/dinner if they want something to eat.  I tell him so, and he sneers and walks off with a disgusted look.  A year or so ago when I responded the same way to the same request in downtown Anchorage, I ended up getting an intense three-hour story over a microwaved cup of top ramen about being dishonorably discharged from the Army after a half-dozen global policing tours during the Regan administration.  Not this time.

I had directions from Russell to his house somewhere up in the hills.  Going up Market Street, there are sidewalk chess games, people talking to themselves either on hidden headset-phones or to invisible voices in their head, and everyone’s in a hurry- every stereotype that the word “city” conjures up in my mind can be found here.  I stop and eat six doughnuts for lunch.  Rumors of the notoriously steep streets here are true.   I spent several frustrating hours pushing my rig up and down hills to steep to ride searching for 307 Crestmont.  Truly the gnarliest hills in my trip so far- roads that would not be legal to build in modern times.  We finally meet under a rainy street lamp outside his house perched atop a cliff on Mt. Sutro. 

The last time I spoke to Russell was five years ago back in Alaska at the summit of another mountain, Pioneer Peak, where to my surprise he revealed he had to be back at work in Anchorage in a few hours.  He departed in a hurry, barreling down six thousand feet of elevation while the rest of our group went on to the next summit.  That was the last I’d heard of him.  I’d heard rumors he was living anywhere from Dubai to Australia, so I was glad to discover he was still around.  Russell has a real job here for a geotechnical consulting firm, working to shed some student loans before going on a few adventures and off to graduate school.  He too has decided that Alaska still feels like home, and grown to appreciate it ever more in its absence.

As we catch up, he’s impressed that I’ve kept tabs on many of our mutual friends from high school, while he has not.  “I never thought you’d be the one to try and keep track of everyone, Ben,” he comments.  “I’m the one who was Senior class president and all that jazz.  Officially that means I’m the one who’s supposed to organize class reunions.  I wonder if it’ll ever actually happen.”  I tell him I’ll help if he ever decides to do it.

A train ride tomorrow will take me all the way across the country to Denver, CO to visit relatives nearby, then meet up with friends from college for a week-long snowshoe trip in the San Juan mountains.  So, I’ll be pausing my bike trip yet again, though this time I actually planned to do so.  May all of you have a merry Christmas, happy Hanukah, rockin’ Ramadan, and a kickin’ Kwaanza.

11.23.2009 Reno, NV

I find myself in the back seat of a well-loved F250 one morning in Willits, CA.  My bike and trailer bounce along in the truck’s rear bed.  From his armrest perch up in the front seat, Squidward the rat dog glances at me suspiciously over his diminutive shoulder.  He’s pretty chill for a rat dog, but smells my strangeness.  Mike and his son Cameron are up in the front seat, taking us to McDonald’s to pick up some breakfast.  It’s been a long since my last visit to McDonald’s.  I insist on buying for my hosts.

An hour or so ago the little dog had sniffed his way over to me as I packed up my saddle bags in front of the cheap motel where I’d stayed that night.  (After riding in a freezing deluge through Northern California for five days I gave in to the temptations of a hot shower and re-runs of Real Housewives of Orange County).  I had been off to an early start at six a.m. when the little dog’s owner, stepping out from the room next to mine for smoke, started chatting me up about my travels.  I was describing my discombobulated plans when he offered me a ride South to Sacramento, his destination.  This wasn’t the first time I’d fantasized about some oversized pick-up with room to spare offering me a ride, but is so far the sole time it’s actually happened.  I told him I’d think about it while he went to wake up his son.

Up until this point, my bicycle route has been one continuous line.  I like it that way.  I like being able to trace my fingers along a map from point A to B and say that I have felt the wind on my face everywhere in between.  After a long, windy tour down the Oregon coast, then a wet week in Northern California which included hailstorms in high mountain passes, camping out among the redwoods and along lonely beaches, and meeting a few colorful locals, this would be the first break in my line.  I had a goal of being in Reno, Nevada to visit some old friends for Thanksgiving and knew I’d have to take a bus at some point over the snowy mountain pass.  

Somewhat reluctantly I decide to do it.  I’d have to catch a Greyhound sometime soon anyways.

Traveling in a vehicle after long periods of not doing so is a sensory overload.  We pass several algae-choked mountain lakes edged by slumping tourist towns on Highway 20.  The vegetation grows shorter and stockier, the rain disappears.  Our conversation is lively. My exceptionally generous hosts are very interested in Alaska and the sorts of lives people have up there.  There’s a lot of talk about fishing.  They’re very impressed by the fact that people can still use dip-nets to collect salmon.  Mike works as a commercial fisherman himself and is on his way out of Crescent City harbor for crab season in a few days.  They’re impressed with my family’s pet reindeer too.  Cam says I must lead an interesting life.  He’s in seventh grade, plays basketball, and says he wants to join the army.  He wants to protect our country and shoot some people.

“Son, it ain’t like it is in the video games,” says Dad for the hundredth time.  “I’m sure it’s a blast to play shoot em’ up on your X-Box, but it’ll be different when you’ve got real people in front of you.  How are ya going to feel if you actually had to shoot somebody?”

Cam imitates a rifle butted up against his shoulder.  “I’ll shoot ‘em.  I’ll be able to.  I know it’s not the same in real life.”  He quietly mouths rifle sounds while firing off several rounds through the windshield, dropping a few birds out of the sky.  He drops a few folks walking along the sidewalk too.  He whispers something about Iraqis.  I encourage him to join J.R.O.T.C. to learn a little bit about what he’s getting in to, and vomit a little inside.  I can tell that Dad’s already tried talking to him more than once.

The miles fly by as we descend in to the San Jauqin valley.  My hosts are on their way to drop off Cam at his mother’s for a visitation.  He and Dad live up in Klamath, CA now (which I had passed through on my bike not long ago- home to an enormous pair of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox statues) and mom lives down in Sacramento.  We pull over at a rest stop and Dad asks his Son to clear out the trash.  Cam balks the way any responsible seventh grader should.  “Why don’t you do it Dad?  Did you ever think about that?  Hmm?”  Dad gives him a look.  “I’m so gonna be able to whoop your butt when I get out of the army, Dad,” says Cam.  I make sure to remember that line to use for myself in future situations.

Dad gives him the look again.  “Son, you’re lucky we’ve got company this morning.”

Cam relents.  He’s just messing with him. “Aw, you know I’m just messing with you, Dad.  Of course I can take out the trash.”

We breeze through endless almond orchards.  Mike explains that the water has been shut off due to government rationing on the occasional fallow field we pass.  A billboard for the Family Farm Water Alliance reminds us that Farms Feed America.  Cam blasts hip-hop through the speakers.  The city sneaks up on us through the fog.

We drop Cam off at an ancient brick house in the outskirts of town to join Mom’s battalion of rat dogs tittering behind a steel gate in the front yard.  Dad writes a check, waves goodbye, and pulls a u-turn heading towards town to drop me off at the bus station.  I get the full story now.  It’s been a rough last couple of years for the family.  A drama starring alcohol, drugs, jail time, and divorce lawyers unfolds.  But things are improving now.  Cam is in a new school, mom is mostly out of the picture now apart from occasional visitations.  It’s good that he still sees her occasionally.  But the city is too full things Mike doesn’t want his son to be involved in.  It’s better that they live out in a rural place where they can stay busy enough with the great outdoors for entertainment and sustenance.

Mike takes me to a bike shop to pick up some boxes for my rig.  He takes me to the Greyhound station and warns me to not hang around downtown for too long so I don’t get in trouble.  I tell him that I don’t take his generosity for granted at all, and to look me up if he’s ever in Alaska.  I owe the world a favor.

The Greyhound ride to Reno is uneventful.  A greasy-haired guy in the seat next to me says he’d never want to live in Alaska.  He’s moving to Reno for a job at a 7-11.  He didn’t really want to move.  “That’s where the money’s at, though,” he says.  He tells me I must be a gypsy since I’m traveling the way I am.  We hit snow somewhere around five thousand feet as we climb in to the Sierras.

And now I am here in Reno among many outdoor malls and rows of stucco houses.  Micah, Nolan, and their mother Cheryl used to be my neighbors in Alaska.  Cheryl and Nolan live here along with Cheryl’s partner Dave now, and Micah is in Paramedic school.  It’s been quite a few years since we’ve last crossed paths.  I’m glad to be here among friends.  I’ll be here a little longer than I’d planned on awaiting some replacement parts for my bike to arrive.  “Hanging out” here will be a different experience than on the farm where I last stayed in Oregon, where there was always some job to be done and some way to feel like a helpful guest.  But I always say, “Only bores are ever bored.”  George Bernard Shaw said it first, but I say it a lot too.

(Just for clarification, I’ve never actually seen Real Housewives of Orange County).

11.20.2009 Willits, CA

I made it.  Against my better instincts I went for a hotel tonight.  The lady at the front desk was very suspicious of me.  I must have looked like a neon-clad swamp monster just emerged from primordial muck.

11.16.2009 Ashland, OR

In planning my travels, I made an effort to keep things as unplanned and unstructured as possible.  Not knowing exactly what’s ahead makes for the kind of adventure I’m seeking.  But something I’m learning is that it seems to take an effort for me to be a transient- it is more my natural state to settle in somewhere and take on responsibilities.  Without really trying, over the last few weeks I’ve managed to fall in to a rhythm of being busy from five in the morning until eleven at night, knee deep in a steady schedule of places to go and things to do. 

I’ve even become an early riser.  Each day begins around five a.m. with an hour or two of linebacker-style workout, dragging and pushing heavy mobile poultry pens on to a new patch of grass among rows of raspberries.   Fat turkeys and chickens vocalize their confusion.  Water lines freeze, haggard survivors of pecking parties squirm their reptilian necks between my boots, there are eggs to be collected and cleaned and sorted.  Thus goes the morning.

And then I am off to school.  An eight mile commute through the dew along Bear Creek.  How did I end up in school again? I guess it feels like school anyways, though there’s not too many other subjects I could still love as much as bikes even after 80 hours of class time.  This class, “Professional Shop Operation and Maintenance” at United Bicycle Institute was something I came across surfing the internet a year or so ago and it sounded cooler than whatever I was working on at the moment.  So now I am here.  It’s set up like a vocational school to provide a person the wherewithal to work in a bicycle shop.  Now, I understand that the common perception of the bicycle is somewhere on the low end between a scooter and a car.  But in these last few weeks I have been immersed in a culture where the bicycle is an essential manna.  Our instructors have worked as engineers, professional athletes, team mechanics, welders.  My fellow students are from all over the country and are also as nuts about bikes as I am.  Some are my age, some are retirees, one guy who is an ex-con pursuing a new career as a part of rehab.  It’s a great environment full of emphasis on seemingly obscure detail, proper use of caveman-like tools, and careful procedure of twisting, torquing, and measuring.  For each moving system of the bike- headset, drivetrain, freehubs, etc.- there is an entire philosophy and system of knowledge.  All day through the wall we hear the clanging of hammers and the hissing of arc torches in the frame construction class next door.

Bicycles may be more intuitive than cars, and it is certainly less common for someone to take a class like this one.  However, a properly-set up bicycle is among the most efficient forms of transportation ever devised on a calories-per-mile basis (if you can imagine gas in terms of calories for a moment.)  If one can get a bike to work reliably, people will want to use it.  As a mechanic, that means paying attention to all the little details that one would miss if they were to think that bikes are always simple and intuitive.  One instructor challenged us that it’s easy to set up a well-designed $2000 bike, but a truly good mechanic can resurrect an abused Wal-Mart bike in to something useable

On one of the last days we had a long discussion about how to get more people interested in bicycling.  The statistics are not always encouraging, particularly in the declining number of kids who regularly bike.  I came across a statistic that of the forty-something million people in America who said they used a bicycle at least once last year, only 5.2% regularly used them for transportation.   (The nugget of knowledge that really keeled me though was that bicycling ranked behind bowling in terms of numbers of participants…)

But I kept poring over that number, 5.2%.  Really?  Is that all?  I showed this snippet to my neighbor Amanda, a hard core bicycle-commuter from Canada, and we celebrated our status among the elite few with a fist-bump.  This number really made me pause a moment to reflect just how much I’ve worked to make the bicycle my preferred transportation, rain, hail, shine, or frozen solid.  And to ponder for a moment…that I must be different.  I guess not everyone thinks the way I do.  Not everyone enjoys this.  Not everyone is able to do this.  I guess I already knew that, but now I know it’s even less than I had thought.  I take a while to reflect on the people who have inspired me to take biking seriously.  Some I have observed carefully but spoken to only rarely- but they were out there riding around at 25 below in the dark.

I hope to take this knowledge and apply it in some constructive way.  I’m not planning to work in a bike shop at the moment, but maybe I’ll be able to actually complete a re-build project or two now that I even have clue what tools I would need.

Today I am leaving this area to continue my tour down the coast.  I am taking a shuttle bus back out to Crescent City, CA so as to avoid the terrifying twists of Highway 99.  I have enjoyed my time here on the farm a great deal and am very grateful for the hospitality and opportunity to do something constructive here.  Margaret (who own s and lives on the property here) is taking me to the bus station in just a few minutes.

And finally, I’d like to share with you a passage from the blog of another WWOOFer who stayed with me at the farm here for my first week, Sam from North Carolina  he’s a very literary fellow..  The background is ofr this passage is that he and the other Carolinean, Adam, and I all went for a short hike one day outside of town where the Pacific Crest Trail crosses the road.  It was a marshmallow of a day.  That is, it was very foggy.  We had just reached the alleged summit of our hike:

…And here we were on solemn ground, and I was complaining that I couldn’t see the metaphor that another romantic attached to this summit. Ben looks at me like a man looks at an ant, and he says. “We are here, man.”

And I realize, yes, yes I suppose we are. As the existentialists pointed out, there is no reason for any of us to be anywhere, so anytime you are anywhere it is the best and most important and most authentic experience in the whole world that we have access to…

I would just like to apologize in retrospect for any of the times I may have spoken to anyone as if they were an ant.  Though I guess I do have existentialist tendencies at times…

11.1.2009 Talent, OR “Rogue Valley Brambles”

 It is my entertainment as a traveler to imagine the lives behind walls and windows of the places I pass through.  Behind the veneer of visitor centers and chain stores every town has its dramas, its innovations, its characters.  Sometimes it can seem impenetrable though.  Travel long enough and every place starts to seem homogenous- same tired row of storefronts, same signs advertising the homecoming bash next Friday, same selection of gum in every dingy gas station.  But in those rarer moments where I can actually interact with the places I otherwise slip through like a bandit in the night it is where I find that unique, intangible thing worth knowing.  Thus far in my odyssey I’ve covered a lot of ground on two wheels, had plenty of flat tires, and have the quadriceps to show for all the hills I’ve climbed.  But I’m always seeking some compelling reason to stop for a while longer, for something to hold on to so I don’t feel so adrift.  At least until I start to get antsy again. 

Lately I have been sticking around instead of just passing through.

Anyways.  Several months ago I signed up for a two-week bicycle mechanic and construction course at United Bicycle Institute in Ashland, OR starting November 2.  I arrived here (Talent is about 5 mi. from Ashland) about a week ago and sought some constructive way to spend my time until the class started.  I recalled several friends who have used an organization called WWOOF (World Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms), which allows small farms to connect with volunteers willing to work in exchange for room and board.  I gave it a shot and contacted Ken and Susan at “Rogue Valley Brambles” here in Talent.  They operate a small poultry farm of several hundred pasture-raised chickens and turkeys, along with  a couple other enterprises including olive oil (which they grow a bit further south in California), a few cows, pigs, as well as vegetables and berries.  I’ve been working and living here for the last week and will continue until my class finishes Nov. 13.  I had been sharing the barn with two other guys from North Carolina also using the WWOOF program who have been a lot of fun, but are traveling on elsewhere today.  I’ve spent my days here so far doing everything from slaughtering chickens, digging up blackberry vines, and swinging a chainsaw.  The day is always sandwiched by the  morning and evening chores of feeding, watering, moving mobile pens, and collecting eggs.

It’s immediately apparent that Ken and Susan, a couple I’m estimating in their late twenties, have invested much both financially, personally, and philosophically in what they do here on the farm.  Large solar panels overlook an aging barn where I share a room with barrels of Spanish and Greek varieties of oil.  The kitchen sink drains in to an adjacent field and waters the apple orchard.  A composting toilet manages sewage without wasting water.  They’ve genuinely made every effort to minimize consumption and recycle material here.

They’re idealistic people.  Both are smart and highly-educated, and perhaps could have easily had a more comfortable career than farming provides- but for the moment have chosen to pursue this as their occupation.  (Susan is also a graduate student in environmental education at the university here.)  Susan’s mother Margaret also lives here on the property and has been an amazing host and cook.

This is indeed an organic farm, though I’ll confess I don’t always share an unquestioned veneration of organic agriculture, as opposed to mainstream.  The term has been bastardized by marketing wizards and at times appears to be little more than code for “high-class.”  Nor am I necessarily persuaded that fertilizers, herbicides, or GMOs are intrinsically bad as a rule.  That said, what Ken and Susan do here is still genuinely organic in the original intention of the movement.  Animals have enough space to be animals, products are sold locally.  The word sustainable doesn’t feel at all like some cliché.

Upon first arriving here, it happened that Ken and Susan were just about to leave for a meeting with other small farmers in the area at the local Ag. Extension office.  I changed out of my biking spandex and tagged along.  Once there, the inaugural meeting of “Friends of Family Farmers” oozed with the type of populist sentiment I had imagined welling up behind every booth of every farmer’s market anywhere.  The meeting’s organizers described their goals of slowing the alarming rate of loss of family-owned farms, minimizing the intrusion of industrial agriculture in to Oregon, and to eventually draft a manifesto of sorts of common goals to use in the drive for legislative action.  It was a meeting of strong words that had long awaited a venue.

On the drive home, Ken and Susan lamented over some of the challenges they’ve faced in the last year or two as small business owners.  Unbeknownst to them at the inception of the farm, they’re essentially running an illegal operation.  In order to meet sanitation laws, the state requires a slaughter facility more sophisticated than the open-air stainless steel table they use.  As a result all their poultry sales are currently word of mouth.  They can’t advertise or sell at the local markets.  To be able to follow regulations will require a large investment in equipment, and a quick jump up the ladder in the economy of scale.  And a lot more work.  “Politicians are constantly talking about creating opportunities for small business owners,”  says Ken.  “But then when you actually try and go build something from the ground up, you’re constantly running in to laws and regulations that favor big business models.  Not just in agriculture, but for just about anything.”

I feel I’ve gained some perspective in the last week or two on the whole local/organic food movement, which I have mixed but sentimental feelings about.  I feel like the most important role this particular farm- and others like it- can play for its customers is educational.  I doubt that the organic/local movement is a solution for most of the world’s food woes, but the opportunity for people to witness some small part of where their food comes from, as they do here, is essential.  Very few people in this nation do so on a regular basis, myself not excluded.

If anything, the organic/local movement seems to be about honestly confronting the finite nature of resources and attempting to work with what’s available on hand, as opposed to maximizing yield using technologies.  I once read an estimate that as much as one third of the current world’s population owes its existence to the process of industrial nitrogen fixation (the Haber-Bosch process) used in fertilizer production, which allows us to grow enough food to support such population levels.  Long story short, anyone with a set of honest eyes can see that this choice that humanity has made to live beyond its available means creates for us a veritable pandora’s box of challenges.  Alternative agriculture attempts to create small islands of independence from this system, forcing the mainstream to at least consider that other ways are possible.  Maybe not feasible on a larger scale right now, but at least possible.

I feel spectacularly privileged that I was able to contact some stranger via the internet and be promised a sort of home in exchange for some daily chores.  Most of all I’ve enjoyed the chance to step off the road for moment, to have a glimpse in to some local current.  I’ve enjoyed everyone’s generosity and hospitality.  I’ve found a reason good enough to stick around for a while.

Tomorrow my class at UBI (bike school) starts.  I look forward to another change of pace.

Hope all of you are well out there.  I look forward to crossing paths with you.

10.22.2009 Grant's Pass, OR

The Plan: I got here early.  A big fat GRE review book awaits.

In short, I highly recommend against bicycling Highway 199 (Crescent City, CA to Grant's Pass, OR) until sometime after Petrocalypse arrives.  A good quarter of the way would turn your stomach driving, and riding it makes for an even more interesting experience.  Much of the road's shoulder is a literal shoulder, as in the anatomical sense of there being a long, immediate drop off to one side of a flat surface.  The scenery was powerful though, so if you are driving though, definitely take this route.  And watch out for numbskull bikers.

Tomorrow, I will be slaughtering chickens if all goes to plan.  I'll explain more when the time comes.

10.19.2009 Brookings, OR

The Plan: South to Crescent City, CA, then East via Hwy 199.

Total Distance Traveled to Date: 435 Miles

Approximate elevation change to date: 16,000 ft.

For all you lovers of science out there, this journal entry is for you.  For those of you for whom science conjures up images of Frankenstein and D- marks in red ink atop a physics test, trust me, it just ain't so.  I'm love how science can help describe everyday phenomena around me that would otherwise be a mystery.  So, I've collected several "science nuggets" of sorts from the last week or two that I've observed in my travels, and thought I'd share them with you.

1.) The Ideal Gas Law

I once read that Stephen Hawking, the physicist who wrote the popular book A Brief History of Time, was told by his editor that every mathematical formula included in the book would reduce the number of readers by half.  So I will heed this advice and not attempt to outline the Ideal Gas Law, but suffice to say that it is used extensively in Chemistry and Physics to describe how gases behave.  Heat up a gas, and it will expand.  Squeeze the gas in to a smaller container, and it's pressure increases, and etc.  The Ideal Gas Law is used to calculate and predict these changes.  You can check it out for yourself: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ideal_gas_law .

In fact, if you're in to bicycling at all like I am and you live near any hills, you really ought to learn more about the ideal gas law.  Had I been more aware of how the Gas Law relates to bicycles, I may have prevented a crash I had while flying down a mile-long hill at 30 mph recently.

What's the connection, you ask?

I can't claim credit for making the connection, but I recently made the acquaintence of a fellow bicyclist, Lee, who shared his wisdom with me.  When descending a long, steep hill, he says, it's not a bad idea to let about 20 psi of pressure out of your tires.  Why?  Unless you're daredevil enough to fly down a hill with no brakes, the friction from brake pads on the wheel's rim will heat things up and make the air in your tires expand like a party balloon.  So your tube may blow up right at the moment when you'd least want it to, such as when you have enough momentum to fly 15 feet out from your seat, spreading all your gear out across the road at a blind corner in front of an incoming onslaught of body-crushing 18-wheelers.

I was lucky to just have some minor road rash, but now I know.  Knowledge is Power.

2.) Bioluminescence

Campgrounds are nice occasionally for providing an envelope of relative safety and comfort, but stealth-camping off the side of side roads always makes for a better adventure.  On my trip so far I’ve done both about equally.  The best of both worlds is when a local person can recommend an out-of-the way place to set up a tent for the night.  A fellow bridge-pedestrian in Gold Beach mentioned I ought to camp at Pt. Sebastian, just South of town, down on the beach.  I pulled in just as dusk approached and found an invisible spot to pitch a tent.  The waves roared, the stars strained their ancient light through the collander of the heavens, and the headwind I’d charged head-on all day howled.  I went for a walk in the dark.

And then it was suddenly as if the heavens were now upside down.  With each step I took from my tent a spray of greenish-blue sparks flew out from beneath my feet.  A friend once told me that if I ever had the opprtunity to see Bioluminescence it would be an immediately recognizable and magical thing.  I never expected to be tap dancing upon it though.  I ran in circles, jumped up and down, flung sand in the air, illuminating the night for a brief second with every movement.  I pointed my camera in vain at my shuffling feet, the camera’s lens being no match for the sensitivity of the human eye.

So what’s going on?  Who, why, and how, are what I’m interested in.  I don’t have access to a library at the moment, but some web-surfing provides a glimpse.  Kids, don’t do what I do with references.  Use real sources and make a bibliography.

Who: Marine microoragnisms, which light up when disturbed.  Noctilucales, in particular, an order of Dinoflagellates (also known as Plankton).  Noctiluca scintillans are among the more common marine species.  They populate many parts of the world’s more temperate marine habitat.

Why: Bioluminescence appears many places in nature, and appears to have various roles in various Phylums.  Fireflies appear to use it for communication and signaling, some fish use it to attract prey, etc.  Marine dinoflagellates appear to emply bioluminescence for at least two purposes.  The first is to communicate with other nearby microorganisms, facilitating colony aggregation and mating opportunities.  The second use occurs when a predator approaches, where the dinoflagellate will luminesce and alert a larger nearby predator to consume it, while the dinoflagellate itself escapes.

How: Some folks at UC Santa Barbara have already done a better job outlining the basics of the chemistry behind bioluminescence, so I'll just provide the link:

http://www.lifesci.ucsb.edu/~biolum/chem/

Happy reading!

10.14.2009 Coos Bay, Oregon

The Plan: Keep movin' towards Ashland, OR

If you've ever traveled alone before, you'll know that it can at times be an isolating experience.  The adventure of waking up in a new place each morning is balanced by the solemn fact that can't go borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor. 

So it was with some excitement that I crossed paths with several other cyclists doing a long trip, just North of Newport.  I spotted one in my rear view mirror, obviously clicking along at much faster pace than me.  Just ahead was a Light House that beckons all passing tourists to it's winking lens atop an ivory tower, waves crashing violently below like so many lost ships.  No one would just pass by such a sight, so we all took the turn-off.

Eventually we all came to a stop at the base of the lighthouse, joining the ceaseless milling of tourists.  I was exhausted from pedaling like mad for the last few minutes, acting as if I were capable of keeping up with them (if I wanted to).  Wheeling my bike-trailer mobile over towards their neon-clad group, I began to ask where they were riding from-

"Don't park your bike on the grass," he responded to my not yet finished question.

The wind rushed past my ears.  Did I just hear that right?  I think so.  My first thought was, Really?  Or did you just pull that out of your ass?

"Oh," was what I said instead as I wheeled my way back on to the concrete and found a less destructive parking spot.  I seem to recall that I did have a conversation thereafter with he and the other cyclists about whatever the hell they were doing, but it was all just niceties.  I guess I had anticipated more of an immediate kinship among fellow in to thecyclists.  Even if I am obtuse enough to not notice a "Keep off the Grass" sign (which had been right in front of me.)

Newport was great area to chill for a day or two.  A good friend of mine from high school, Danielle, had just moved to Newport to study "Aqaurium Management" at the Hatfield Marine Science center there, so I got the inside scoop on that world.  She seems to think it's a great program that does well in preparing one to work with aquaculture, public outreach, and research.  It was great to gives my legs a day to rest, as well as appreciate the wares of the local Rogue River brewery (look for "Dead Guy Ale" at your local store.)

It turns out that I had more to talk about with the old guys at a used bookstore in Reedsport, OR.  It was your classic used bookstore, cleverly titled, "Books."  No labels or signs guiding you to in to the different sections, stacks of a dozen copies of the same novel spilling on to the floor, plenty of westerns and romance and not so much modern literature and classics, it was great.  The owner tells me from behind his smudged glasses that he does a little biking himself and talks my ear off about it for quite a while.  I'll talk to anybody.  He's been selling used books for 40 years and has $300,000 of rare titles stashed away at his house.  Screw the stock market, he says, that's my 401k. 

Then Bill comes in, and it's apparent that Bill comes here a lot. He's got a few plastic grocery bags of spy novels to trade in. He helps himself to coffee and takes his usual seat by the door, moving his belly to a comfortable position spilling over his belt buckle.  In a loquacious twang he relates to me a better story about biking than anyone else I've met so far.  He just come up from Florence a couple days ago, he says, when he see a guy on a bike with a little trailer just like I got.  But instead of a bag in the little trailer, he got a dog.  And then he see that dog do the darndest thing.  It was wearin' a harness, see, and when that bike started goin' up the hill, that little dog- a blue heeler or somethin'- jump out of the trailer, and he's hitched up to the front of the bike, see.  So he's pullin' the bike uphill, and then when they get to the top of the hill, that little dog jump back in the trailer and he jus' keeps ridin'.  It was the darndest thing.

I guess the lesson demonstrated- among fellow cyclists and book lovers, at least- is that even if you have something in common with people who look and act like you, you may not have much in common.  You may have more in common with the portly spy-novel reading local than fellow travelers.

On another note, I recently learned that science fiction author Frank Herbert was inspired to pen his classic novel Dune while he was a journalist assigned to cover the problems that civil engineers near Florence, OR were having in preventing the sand dunes there from expanding in to town.  Herbert was a mesmerized by the problem of dune expansion.  What if the sand just didn't ever stop coming, he pondered?  What if the dunes kept expanding until the whole earth was buried?  Thus the seed for one of the best-selling science fiction novels ever was planted.  I have picked up a copy of the book and plan to spend a couple late mornings in bed with it.  I'd file it under the category of, "Local History" if I had a used book store here.

I have two minutes left of public-library computer time left to write. Next, I'm on way to Ashland, OR next for 10 days worth of bike mechanic/maintenance classes at United Bicycle Institute.  Ciao for now! 

10.12.2009 Newport, OR

The Plan: Stayin' Alive

Life is easy.  Life is about fifty miles a day, sandy beaches, cool breezes.  This trip is a little fantasy I've been cultivating for a long time, and so far it's been just as great as I envisioned.  Only have 20 minutes computer time here at the Public Library, so further updates will have to wait!

10.5.2009 Portland, OR

The Plan: South, by Bicycle, Route 101

I feel like a Pilgrim in the Holy land of Bicycles.  Here in Portland there are entire lanes- sometimes in the middle of the road- with white-painted lines and little bicycle stencils, devoted to two-wheeled traffic.  People yell out their windows to thank me for wearing a reflective vest instead of telling me to get off the road.  Perusing the local papers, I find no less than three bicycle races this weekend, as well as several other "bike-culture" related lectures and events.  Gas stations are not as conveniently located around here.  All the rumors you've heard are true.

I arrived here two nights ago via the Alaska Highway, and am heading out tomorrow on Route 30 en route to the coastal Highway 101.  As my work this summer as a wildland firefighter did not finish up until fairly late this summer, I was not able to start my odyssey from Alaska as originally intended.  I was exceptionally lucky to secure a ride here with a person I met via the ride-share board on Craigslist, Laurel.  We took turns buying gas, camped out every night, and made the whole trip from Palmer in 5 long days.  It takes a brave and generous person to agree to take a random traveler like me on such a long and remote trip, and I am exceptionally grateful for her openness to such adventures.  We had some mind-blowing end-of-fall-beginning-of-winter scenery, lots of caribou, sheep, and buffalo in sight, and in general a great time.

Here in Portland I've been staying with some old friends of my family's, the Planchons.  They've been wining and dining me to excess, chauffeuring me around for any last minute items, and plying me with maps and suggestions of places to see.  Tomorrow I'm off towards Astoria.  We'll find out what I've gotten myself in to with all this talk...