Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Rust. Salt Spray.


Rusted cable, weathered wood, mist, low-ceilinged gray clouds, salt air. We have arrived at the Oregon coast for a respite before completing the final push to Forest Grove and the aging in-laws. I have to confess to a taste for the indulgence of a hotel and the comforts of hot water, clean and comfortable bed, a roof over my head, and a book on my lap. It would be easy to stay here and pass time in a bubble of creature comfort. Time passes either way. I am hoping that days spent pedaling a bike over mountains will jump-start some sleeping part of myself. That part is he who will inform the rest of my life. I hope to meet him soon, but know that he doesn’t often come around places like comfy hotels on the beach, though he might appreciate a brew at the place down the hill. What will he talk about, this weather-beaten stranger who answered the call to go out into the wind, to take a chance on losing, to accept the consequences of freedom? 

Monday, June 11, 2018

Grimy Patina


It's been a few days. Six or seven, I think. In that short time they have acquired a kind of travel sheen from the dust and wind and occasional use as a towel for my wet hands. They don't seem to mind the neglect or abuse. They are holding my wallet, phone, knife, and keys on this road/camping trip along the California Sierras and Oregon Cascades. They are my summer work shorts, some Carhartts long in the tooth and frayed around the edges, and I have been wearing them every day of this little road trip. I don't know what it is about traveling like this that makes changing clothes seem so unnecessary. I just wear the same shirt and shorts for days on end, not minding the glowing grime. They don't seem to mind either. They seem happy and smile with a shine polished from use and protecting this body from sun, rocks. They keep what I need in place so I can enjoy the view, my mind almost as empty as the day I was born.


Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Day One


As I drive to Gallup for provisions before I head up to campground, I feel pretty green at this. "This," is the life of summer: making it up as I go along, spending most of my days outside, living on less comfort and more exposure to sun and rain.

So, what does a sixty-one-year-old man think about when he finds himself free from the responsibilities of gainful work and house-holding? Mostly, this one considers his shortcomings; he broods on regrets, on paths not taken, work left undone.

But then, my love of being out from under a roof kicks in, and I remember what is was like to delight in just rolling along through the trees, under the sun, in the wind. The feeling of being dead, the paralysis that has taken over my body, and the dull ache of not having done what I set out to do fades.

I see that I have a chair, food, stove, and primitive shelter, and I am grateful.

The first thing I do is set out on a trail I don't know and get lost. I am in the Zuni Mountains above Gallup. They are a big range, forty miles by sixty in the shape a big football. The Continental Divide Trail runs through here. The forest is immense and has hundreds of miles of trails and fire roads. There are mountain lions and bears up here. You can get lost for days. I decided to follow a trail that climbs out of Milk Ranch Canyon. It starts about five miles from my campsite, and I rode down the narrow highway between McGaffey and Fort Wingate to get there. Descending the road meant climbing back to camp.

I didn't know what I was getting into. I had about an hour's worth of water, no food, no rain jacket, no spare tube, no map, no phone, and I had no idea where the trail would end up, though I hoped it would lead back toward the campground.

I went, partly out of impulse, partly out of a need to cut the cord tying me to too much ennui, and partly out a need to attend mindfully to what is happening right here in front of me.

Twisty, packed single-track mixed with rocky outcrops and naked limestone stream beds made for some serious grist, which I had to grind up as I turned my attention to here and now in order to enjoy, and to keep from crashing or flying over the bars.

Up here, no one knew where I was and no one would know for at least a few days. I was incommunicado and out of touch. There was not one person who could have predicted I might take this trail, a trail which is not on any maps or in any of my plans.

Perfect, in other words.

Dark gray clouds began to blow over and a little rain fell. After two-and-a-half hours of hard climbing, I wondered if I should turn around. I had enough reserves of energy stored in my body to ride for several more hours, even though I had no food, but I was running on fumes in terms of water. The climbing forced me to stop, lean over the bars, and gasp for breath. I made a promise to myself to prepare better for the next foray into unknown territory.

Just as I was getting concerned, after almost four hours and sixteen miles of hard riding, the trail dumped out into one that I knew. I was only about four miles from water, food, a chair and cold beer.

Not bad for a first day.