3/21/18 - Remembering, Reflecting, Rewriting

It’s been more than a year since my cross-country bicycle journey came to an end.  I still remember waking up for the last time in Joshua Tree National Park.  Covered in a blanket of gray clouds, the sun was not there to greet us like she usually was.  It was by far the dreariest day I had seen in my month of staying in the park, a sign that our plan to leave that day was the right choice.  

Vinny and I crawled up off the ground and sleepily started packing up.  When the first few rain drops fell, we started moving much more quickly.  Driving out of the park for the last time was an emotional experience that the heavy wind and rain emphasized quite nicely in a sad sort of way.  Our 2.5 day drive to Austin, Texas had begun.  From there, Vinny would travel South to Mexico and I would fly home to Massachusetts.  

I was truly excited at the time, I had accomplished what I set out to do and the most rational thing next was to go home and process everything that had occurred.  At the point of walking through my front door for the first time in 7 months, everything I had seen and done on my journey was such a blur, a long strip of film balled up and stuffed in a box in a drawer in a desk in my head.  But now, more and more, I can simply close my eyes and find myself reliving all the little moments of my trip in great detail: the feeling of crossing into New York realizing I wouldn’t be back in Massachusetts for a long time; rolling over the hills lined with corn in Illinois and Iowa; the subtle shifts in the landscape once I entered South Dakota; the moment I saw the Pacific Ocean in Oregon and all the miles I rode next to that great expanse of blue all the way down to SoCal.  I’m still transported when I listen to music I heard on the seat of my bike and just the smell of peanut butter brings me back inside my tent where I ate many sandwiches topped with m&m’s or trail mix.

It’s almost eerie in a way to be able to jump back in time with such clarity by a sound or smell or simple thought.  I can understand how soldiers coming back from war find it difficult or impossible to return to civilian life.  At least my trip was a positive experience.  And its positive effects on my life seem to be getting clearer and clearer.  Since I’ve been home, all I’ve been doing with my time is making art.  Lots of images just came out of me as I was trying to get back in the habit of drawing and learning how to use watercolor.  I just wanted to make pictures.  But now, a year into making art full time and rewriting my artist’s statement for maybe the fourth time, I finally see how much that bike trip has influenced my life and how much of painting is processing the memories and emotions experienced on that ride.

It’s hard to remember what life was like before I left for the West coast, it really is.  My life was a certain way for so long and having such an intense experience makes me feel like a different person now.  Maybe it’s just that some part of me is more alive.  After graduating college I did not have the same dedication to studio time as I did when I was a student.  In fact, I felt devoid of all ideas, direction, and inspiration, lost in the act of “trying to make a living” through an unsatisfying job.  After a few years, I didn’t quite know what I wanted, I just knew I didn’t want what I had.  And so began the planning for the trip of a lifetime.  I pulled a U-turn on the dead end road I was driving down; or maybe I just parked the car and left in the opposite direction on my bike.

All I know now is the act of making art is an attempt to portray the power of the journey, the spiritual evolution that can occur in a person when they give in to the unknown and allow it to guide them.  Without my cross-country ride, I don’t think my life would be the way it is now, pursuing a career in art, full of fire and inspiration, a healthy relationship with myself and a wonderful relationship with a man I love that’s been blossoming almost since I came home.  A lot of great things can happen when we make the changes we feel are necessary in our lives.  However, a lot of tension and anxiety can build and consume us if we don’t go after the things our heart truly wants.  You might not know what you want but, acknowledging you have something you don’t want can be the first step of a new and exciting journey.

What follows is the latest concoction of words I’ve used to describe my intentions in making the art that I am making, thanks for reading:

A journey begins with a conscious decision to stray from the path that we tread every day, a willingness to encounter the unknown and allow it to guide us in hopes of discovering a better understanding of life and ourselves.  I once felt trapped by the decisions I had made and in trying to work my way out, everything changed.  Life seemed to unfold before me in ways I had never experienced or imagined possible and I portray the feeling of liberation and continuous mystery of life in my art.

My paintings depict figures wandering through dramatic and colorful landscapes often pulled from my imagination based on memories and emotions felt on my own journey.  The inhabitants of my images are often a smaller part of the composition which gives the environment it’s own presence and power over the figure.  Humans aren’t as dominant in the world as we like to believe, there are forces much greater than us and we can see evidence of that in all the diverse and dynamic landscapes Mother Nature has shaped.

I want the viewer to feel small, like standing on top of a mountain or at the roots of a mighty redwood; the same feeling you have in your gut when you realize you’ve never been so far away from home and suddenly you get a sense of your scale: a tiny spec, untethered, roaming across a world that, by chance, came to be and has existed for what seems like an infinite amount of time and will outlive us for even longer.

Jump to my Gallery or Website to see or read more.

Day 75 - 12/6/16 - San Elijoh SP to Dana Point, CA

I got donuts at VG’s Bakery this morning with Randy and Jenny.  They’re real fun, I”m glad I got to meet them even if it was for a short time.  They were headed South, Where I had been but, my adventure takes me back up North.  It was a nice ride today, just as nice as the first time I did it.  I was cruisin’ definitely in some kind of groove.  

When I stopped to take a leak in Oceanside, I met this kid who was sort of drifting from place to place, not much on his back, on some kind of spiritual quest.  He gave me some coffee he had in a big Hydroflask, it was the perfect drinking temperature, as hot as it can be without burning your mouth or lips.  I didn’t really know where I would sleep tonight, I still sort of don’t as I sit here and write this in some community park by these baseball fields.  

The state park doesn’t offer Hiker/Biker sites and the regular sites were going for $40...I lingered there a bit, wondered if I could camp there without being seen.  I moved on down a bike path, saw a flat patch behind the fence of the baseball field I’m sitting at now.  Hopefully no homeless folk have moved in on my turf...I miss doing this, I haven’t boonie-camped in a while, not since Oregon.  It changes up the routine.  

I really can’t wait to get away from these heavily populated areas, there’s just so much crammed between the ocean and the mountains, there aren’t many places to hide in that aren’t already taken by the people that are living on the streets out here.  There aint much room for us folk that are just passin’ through, except at campgrounds.

Day 74 - 12/5/16 - Chula Vista to San Elijoh State Park, CA

I woke up with a scratchy throat yesterday and thought I just slept with my mouth open or was snoring or something but, I definitely have a little cold, we’ll call it the sniffles because it’s really not that bad.  The last time I had the sniffles was after I left Chicago.  I’ve come to the conclusion big cities are gross and get you sick.  I could’ve stayed at Rafa’s another day but not riding when you’re sick is like not riding in the rain, you just gotta suck it up.  It was only a 40 mile ride anyway.  I did a lot of backtracking through the streets of San Diego, back up North along the coast.  I’m heading to LA to meet a couple more artists before going to Joshua Tree to  see Vinny and Nelson and a bunch more dirtbags, no doubt.  

I don’t know if these sniffles put a chip on my shoulder or what but, I was extra annoyed at all the red lights and inconsiderate drivers on the road today, I’m never usually annoyed at all, maybe 6 months of being on the road is getting to me or maybe it’s the city life that’s bugging me.  I can’t get out to J-Tree to see my homies fast enough.  I met a real groovy couple here at San Elijoh State Park.  Their sailboat is docked in New York, they flew out West and have been riding down the coast for a few months like me.  They even met Blue a few times on the way down!  Their plan is to ride back East through the South and then up to NY and then hop on their boat and sail away.  

They’ve already sailed around the world, stopped in many places to work and travel and explore which includes a brief stint operating a banana plantation somewhere in Australia before a monsoon flattened everything.  Randy said he found the biking community to be incredibly similar to the sailing community, other sailors are quick to lend a hand.  It’s gotta have something to do with finding peace in self-propelled travel.  Maybe sailing is my next venture.  Maybe I’ll at least hop on their boat when they sail across to Europe.

Day 69 - 11/30/16 - Oceanside to Pacific Beach, San Diego, CA

Despite the cozy motel room a block from the beach, sleep did not find me easily.  Train tracks run perpendicular to the street the Beachwood Motel sits on, busy train tracks, in fact, maybe every 20 minutes.  I find it comforting, and also kind of funny, how close the Amtrak route has been to my bike route over the last couple of weeks.  

I think when I finally board the train to go home I’ll find myself backtracking quite a bit, seeing all I’ve seen from a train window, back through Oceanside and over the bridge at Gaviota State Beach, being one with the noise that as disturbed or prevented sleep while making my way down So. Cal.  I left the motel early, before 9:00am so I could see Stephanie before she went to work.  I did not make it, I was on pace but, I blame my Canadian friends, Brandon, Brendan and Kane.  

I met them at the end of October, rode with them almost all the way to San Fran.  Then another month went by, hundred of miles down the road and we stopped to smoke a joint just like old times.  We caught up briefly but, once on the road we split up fairly quickly without a proper goodbye.  It’s very possible I’ll see them again.  I’ve known Stephanie since 6th grade.  Her last name is Brown, mine is Brenton.  Folks that are close to you in the alphabet usually stay close throughout school.  Since I missed her before she left for work, I didn’t see her til after 10:00.  

I did what I usually do, eat food then smoke down by the pier and watch the sunset.  It’s fun seeing people from home in places you’d never expect.  Part of the fun of traveling is seeing all new people but, it’s also kind of special when you encounter someone from home out on the road, even if you’re not the tightest of friends, having a shared background is a unique way to relate.  We talked a little about home, mostly getting away from it, it makes you appreciate it more once you actually go back from an extended stay elsewhere.  

I don’t know from personal experience but, I already feel a longing to see familiar streets and people and places, to know where I’m going, to be able to look at something and know how it’s changed.

Day 68 - 11/29/16 - Newport Beach to Oceanside, CA

It was a real light breakfast today, coffee and seawater.  I usually like a little more sustenance but, Quintin was driving the ship and he likes an early start.  I guess I’m lucky I got coffee.  The ride to the beach wasn’t more than 10 minutes.  The sun was shining and the wind was blowing in a way that made Quintin incredibly excited.  “When the wind is blowing out to sea the waves maintain a nicer form before they break.”  I’m learning.  He gave me all sorts of other advice for I failed to remember in the hour or so of me getting my ass kicked while Quintin did what all surfers do and made it look easy.  A couple times I stood up but, certainly didn’t get very far.  I still had fun.  

On the way back, Quintin told me more about his European bike tour back in the 90’s, about the South Africans that taught him how to beat the visa system and find work to stay as long as possible under the radar.  The way he spoke about his life on the road, I could feel the sincere jealousy and happiness he had for me and my open-ended trip.  Though he’d rather be less tied down, he’s genuinely happy he made the choice to play first and work later.  As a person that is playing now with no real regard for the future, I like this way of living too.  Leaving Quintin’s on my bike, I could feel the hour of surfing on my arms and stomach.  

My arms aren’t used to doing much these days, certainly not paddling.  And my stomach just took some hard smacks from the waves against the board.  It sure was a beautiful day though.  I didn’t have a place in mind to stay so I made it easy on myself and got a motel in Oceanside, my first motel going down the Pacific Coast, not too bad for nearly 70 days on the road.  I felt like treating myself.  Just a block from the beach I made my way down to the pier to watch the sunset after I checked in around 4:00pm.  

There’s something about dusk and dawn, those transitional points between day and night, night and day.  It’s important to be present, it’s easy to get distracted and come back to the moment and to wonder where the day went, how did night fall so fast?

Days 53 - 56 11/15 - 11/18 - Fremont to Andrew Molera State Park, Big Sur, CA

I don’t mean to take the people I meet for granted but, it seems like meeting people and saying goodbye very quickly is the way of the road.  Oliver, Helena, Will and Kat have been my cycling family for the last 3 days and they are already gone. 

I liked them all a lot and I feel kind of selfish for staying behind while they all went on but, I think being selfish at the right time is part of the road too; everyone has to ride their own ride.  Helena and I were the 2 Americans that are still touring from our cross-country journeys. 

Oliver, Will and Kat are all from the UK but, Oliver has been traveling alone around California for a little bit now.  Will and Kat haven’t been back to London for over 2 years now.  While we all rode at our own paces, we ended up at the same campsite at the close of each day and seemed to get along like we’d known each other for a long time.

Days 49-53 - 11/11/16-11/15/16 - Time Off in Oakland/Fremont

The continuation of my exploration of the bay area led me to Oakland, a 60 mile ride from Vacaville.  I was headed to visit a friend, Dalton but, stopped for a night in Oakland to stay with Mari and Nikko from Warm Showers.  I got to their place just after dark as I finished a half-loop around Lake Merritt in the middle of the city.  Mari made an incredible pot full of rice and veggies, then we had a spliff for dessert. 

In the morning, we made pancakes with an excessive amount of toppings: apples, bananas, plum jam, chia seeds, granola, pomegranate and real maple syrup.  And a spliff for dessert.  I had planned on riding the 30 miles to Fremont where Dalton lives but, he took his bike on the train and met me in the city.  I rode uptown to get donuts and back to the lake in the time it took him to get there.  We rode around the city into the night, got some dinner, got some coffee and then took the train back. 

I had to carry my loaded bike up and down too many stairs on the subway but, we eventually made it back to Dalton’s place.  Him and 2 other doods live in a warehouse that Dalton dressed up to make liveable.  He put up some walls and made a loft and hung a bunch of art and it makes for a beautiful space to live.  On Saturday we got into some psychedelics and took the train back into the city.  We circled the lake, following the strings of lights that added a warm glow to the sidewalk and a geometric pattern to the fluid water that would ripple and distort any time the wind blew or a duck went swimming past. 

We made a massive loop around Oakland, passing by political protests and the swarms of police that would attempt to control the crowd later, ended up at a bar where some other friends met and shared the sacred hours that make up Saturday night. 

After leaving Dalton’s, I knew it was going to be another couple of weeks before getting off the bike again.  I knew I would be crossing over into the area they call, “Southern California” and I was so stoked about that.

Days 36-49 - 10/27/16-11/10/16 - Time Off in Vacaville, CA

Is it even considered a bike tour if I spend as much time off the road as I do on the road?  Life sure has been different since I started heading south compared to my 3 months of riding west.  Feel free to call my journey whatever you want, I’m into the phrase, “Exceptional Bumming”.  Labels are silly anyways.  I spent this time with one of my best friends from home, Adrian and his lovely girlfriend, Cierra and their 2 crazy pups, Jackie and Lulu. 

 

A lot changed in the time I wasn’t riding: the transition into holiday season, we set the clocks back, a terrible human being became the president, and weed became legal in California AND Massachusetts.  The world was not the same place when I finally got back on my bike but, can the world really be the same from one minute to the next?  No, not even one second to the next.  What a trip it was to ride over the Golden Gate Bridge to see Adrian waiting for me.  I had spoken to him that morning from Olema and then proceeded to ride 35 miles down the coast and over a mountain in the cool, gray haze. 

 

The weather told me it would rain that day but, I somehow managed to make it all the way over the bridge before any drops fell, I’ve been a lucky boy out here.  Just over a year ago, two friends and I flew out to visit Adrian; at that point, it had been a couple of years since I saw him last and probably too long since I had spoke to him over the phone.  I’m bad at keeping in touch but, I’m trying to be better. 

 

The last time I saw Adrian was last winter when he came back to Massachusetts for a week around Christmas time.  What a strange thing to only see someone a small percentage of the last 5 years and still remain such good friends.  It’s crazy to think of all the time and all the places we spend and visit in a lifetime and there are people out there, carrying out their own adventures in remote places and when you get together, it’s like encountering a part of yourself in some shared history with another person. 

Even though Adrian and Cierra had their jobs to tend to, the 3 of us still got to spend some time together, cooking, going out to eat, and watching movies.  I even took Adrian out for a 35 mile bike ride, his longest ride ever and he didn’t even hate me by the end of it.  We have a good streak going in terms of visiting each other. 

 

I hope it continues and I hope one day we live less than 3,000 miles away from each other again.

Days 29-35 10/21/16-10/26/16 Burlington Campground to San Francisco, CA

Vin, Nelson, and I parted ways in Myers Flat, a tiny town along the Avenue of the Giants, just 4 miles south of the campground.  Although I’m heading south, I rode the 4 miles north to Burlington so I didn’t have to ride 50 miles to the next state park on my first day on the bike in 10 days.  I saved the 50 mile ride for day 2!  Back at Burlington, the place I spent 2 nights with Will, Martin, Lau and Flo, I settled into the hike/bike site all by my lonesome.  Clementine, my bike, needed some love, a little wipe down and some lube on her chain.  I found the tube bulging out the back tire where some threads were visible; I must’ve hit a sharp rock on the dirt roads on the way to the farm, there was quite the gash.  I did my best to fix it but, I knew a new tire would be my best bet in Garberville.  Burlington seemed like it would be pretty empty but, as the sun went down the campsites started to fill up.  I called my mom and spoke to her for the first time in quite a few days – not much cell service up on the farm. 

While I was recounting my tales and updating her on my lonely situation at the campground, I turned and something hanging in a tree caught my eye: when I was with my old bike gang, Flo made a dreamcatcher from thread and sticks and it was still hanging in its austere beauty, catching the remainder of the afternoon light.  I felt a sense of being home, what a trip.  After the phone call, after cleaning Clementine, I saw a couple small swarms of bikers enter the campground.  They set up camp at the first H/B site, not even seeing me down the road.  That was fine, I was too tired to socialize; I hadn’t done that in a while, there’s no normal conversations on the pot farm, I probably would’ve started talking about shits if I talked to them that night.  It wasn’t ’til the following night that I spoke to the massive group of 10 at Standish-Hickey State Park.  Before then, I enjoyed my first real ride back on Clementine. 

The abrupt shift from vegetative pot trimmer to touring cyclist wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be although, it still wasn’t very smooth.  A midday coffee in Garberville after I swapped out my new rear tire helped me make it all the way.  I didn’t bother to learn everyone’s name that night, no need to overwork my fried brain but, eventually became familiar with Jana, Brandon, Brendan, Kane, Goun, Cass, Colin, Ross, Sander, and Kay-Lee.  Somehow, I was the only American.  Sander came from the Netherlands, Jana from London and everyone else from British Colombia, Canada, kind of a funny coincidence.  Much like any large group of traveling cyclists, these riders found each other, for the most part, and stuck together on the road.  Brandon, Brendan and Kane started together as did Cass and Colin, a young couple hoping tp make it down to South America.  Everyone else got added on.  Ages ranged from 21 to 37, Ross being the grampa, towing his surfboard behind his bike.  That was quite the site, especially considering some of the windy weather we rode through. 

At times, Ross had to hop off his bike and push it for fear the wind would blow him and his board off the road.  As kind and inclusive as these Canadians were, I felt like a total outsider, like some guy following the group (there was no other route to take!).  Maybe it was my own mental block that prevented me from being warm and friendly in the beginning, too burnt out from the pot farm, still re-acclimating to bike-society, maybe because I was the only American; I think it was mostly me missing my own gang from before.  Although I had these feelings in the beginning, they didn’t prevent me from getting close and enjoying the company of all these great people.  I enjoyed many a doob with Brendon, Brandon and Ross.  Brendon and I were even handed a bag of pot from a stranger.  That happened to me another time when I was alone but, I was happy to share the story and the bag of weed. 

Life was kicked up a notch over the next few days – more wind and rain was headed our way, there was no avoiding it no matter how fast or how far we pedaled.  We woke up in the rain at Van Damme State Park, ate in the rain, packed up in the rain, and got on the road.  We never left all at once, small groups trickle out and it works the same way when we get to our destination.  This particular day, we were aiming for the KOA in Manchester.  By the time we got there we were all soaked, shaken up from having the intense wind gusts push some of us right off the road.  Jana said the wind lifted him right off his seat and forced him off the road where his bike tumbled a bit further throwing his panniers and bags into the wet brush. 

He was safe and continued through the aggressive headwinds and crosswinds that held most of us to an 8 mph pace.  I say with certainty that this was the most intense weather I rode through.  Tired, cold, and wet we sprung for the nice cabins some KOAs offer.  It’s always nice to be able to dry things out for the following day, even when the forecast predicts more rain.  But we dried out like kings and queens and utilized the hot tub and the hot showers at the campground.  The sun teased us in the morning, shining brightly through the clouds while we loaded our bikes and hit the road a few sets of wheels at a time.  I felt lucky with 8 dry miles before the wind and rain found us again.  We weren’t getting blown off the road like the day before so I considered it a good day. 

Kay-Lee and I stopped in Gualala as a checkpoint for everyone to meet back up.  By the time we were all in the cafe, the weather was about to be at its worst, around 2:00pm.  Half the group wanted to get a place to stay while the other half wanted to press on for another 20 miles to the next state park.  I knew I still had some momentum and so did Brandon, Brendan, Kane and Sander.  But somehow, Brendan and I didn’t end up at the same campground as the other 3 boys; in fact, we didn’t even arrive at the campground at the same time, just ended up the only 2 people at the campsite in general, not even anyone hanging out in their car or camper, just us and the rain and the massive spider in the sink of the restroom.  Even before I really got to know this group of cyclists, I knew San Fran meant different things for everyone. 

For some, it was the end of their trip, others, a place to stop and catch their breath for a few days, and others, it was just a name on the map to pass through.  For me, San Fran was the start of another break from the bike.  Maybe knowing my time with these other cyclists wouldn’t last very long, I subconsciously didn’t allow myself to get attached.  Or maybe my social skills really did take a blow from being up on the hill for 10 days straight.  Looking back now, I’m kind of glad the last 30 miles of my ride to SF were done alone; I’ve hit a couple major milestones in the company of others but, it felt nice to be by myself going up and down the cliffs along the Pacific, climbing up towards the ocean and then careening back inland where the road hairpins and whips you back out to the sea for another ride.  Then seeing the tips of the Golden Gate Bridge, weaving in and around the tourist foot traffic on the bike path over the bridge, and seeing one of my best friends waiting for me on the other side…sometimes riding with others takes you out of the moment while riding alone can really intensify an experience.  When I left the pot farm, I was wondering what getting back on the road would be like, if I would meet up with any more cyclists or if it would just be Clementine and me, just like it was only Ginger and me for many, many miles on the way over from Massachusetts.  I feel so lucky (like I do so much lately) that I met the people I did, even if we only spent a week together.  I might not have weathered the weather so well if I didn’t have friends to get my ass kicked with. 

That sure is an interesting aspect of behavior, togetherness vs. solitude.  Some people I’ve met say they could never embark on a trip like this by themselves.  I think a lot of people have that feeling about life in general.  The idea of a “better half” is embedded in peoples brains but, I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I’m missing something.  And at the same time, once I rode with another person, I finally saw the benefits, the allure of having someone to ride with, to see things with, to survive overnight in a shit-town like Wanblee, South Dakota with, someone to share the inexplicable beauty that finds you on the side of the road.  What is this desire to connect?  I feel it just as much as the desire to be alone.  Both are great, if not necessary in doses.  Humans aren’t meant to live one specific way for an entire lifetime, at least I can’t, at least I don’t think I can.

Days 17-28 - 10/20/16 - Up on a Hill....Back to Burlington Campground

Note: names and locations have been changed to protect the innocence and dignity of some individuals

The road to Dunkin felt like a road I shouldn't be on.  Not like it was busy or dangerous, it was quite the opposite, nearly deserted.  I rode through some nice redwood groves on the opposite side of Wiggly Worm River for a while until the road started to slope up.  For 12 miles I climbed upward, winding up switchbacks on the neglected road that carried me past many dirt roads stemming off the main vein, either leading to intense inclines or declines far into the pines where I'm sure people are doing things they don't want other people to know about, hence the "No Trespassing" signs and my feeling of being where I shouldn't be.  But I pedaled on, I was meeting Jim at 3:00 and I didn't want to make him wait for me.  After riding up for 12 miles, the next 8 were all downhill.  However, the road was so rough and curvy I had to ride my brakes the entire way into town.  "Town" is a loose term.  The road spat me out in front of a market with a gas station with at least a dozen hippies smoking spliffs and cigarettes, probably looking for work or waiting on a ride to the next farm or just smoking spliffs and cigarettes.  I sat on the bench, away from all the hippies and waited for Jim. 

I'm glad I was early because so was he.  We broke down my bike, loaded the car he borrowed to come and get me and headed into the hills.  I would not have made it up the next road on my bike, it was steep and rugged, and steep, insanely steep.  At the top there was one of those roads that lead into the abyss of pine trees and this is where we were going.  Bryan met us at the top of the hill with the quad.  I rode my bike, trying to keep  up while him and Jim sped along to the farm.  We passed through a couple gates on our way.  I got the top of the hill tour, the good places to pitch a tent, Jim and Wilson's cars equipped with tarp overhead, the outdoor kitchen consisting of a double burner and a mini grill, a few coolers, a few storage bins for dry food, a fire pit, and a sink with a shower head for the spigot. 

 

And just before the road continues down the steep hill to the rest of the farm was the trim room, a large, maybe 12' by 12' army tent filled with Delilah, Armando, Elfinah, Tish, Arnie, and Tequila.  There was a small patch of weed plants next to the tent, the tip of the iceberg.  Hundreds of other plants were scattered about at different sites along the windy road but, I didn't see these until later.  We got to trimming.  Jim was my teacher.  He showed me how to clear the leaves away to reveal the beautiful, hairy buds that we're all so accustomed to smoking.  It was easy to know what the finished product should look like, I've seen enough weed in it's final form.  It was a struggle to acquire the finesse to trim quickly and efficiently, I kept wanting to double check my work and make sure I got every leaf; Jim and Wilson call this competing in the prettiest nug contest, they don't have to be perfect they reassured me. 

 

It took me a couple days to get a good pace going.  In those couple days it seemed like everyone left but me, Jim, Wilson and Tequila and it was like that almost up until I left over a week later.  Trim room conversations are in their own category when it comes to socially acceptable discussions.  The afternoon I got there, Tequila was telling the tale of when she broke an ex-boyfriend's dick during sex.  Half the room was in stitches as she was telling it.  The other half didn't understand all the details because half the room spoke Spanish as their native language.  Luckily, Tequila was able to translate for them.  I feel like I've known Wilson for a year now but, I met him for the first time up on the hill.  Him and Jim met up a little over a year ago, I don't remember where or when but, it seems like they've been living out of Wilson's car, rock climbing, and trimming pot together ever since.   I'm stoked I finally got to meet him.  So it was the four of us trimming for a couple days on Lieutenant Dan's Farm.  When you sit in a small room with the same people for 12-15 hours a day, you really get to know each other.  I'm not talking about the usual, "Where are you from, blah, blah, blah….."  We talked a lot about shitting. 

There's no toilet up on the hill, just a nice shovel to dig a hole and a roll of TP.  I nearly died laughing when Tequila said, "When I go to take a shit, I'm terrified I'm going to dig up someone else's shit."  It's a genuine concern.  Jimmy and Wilson have been up on the hill for over 30 days, that's over 60 holes with 60 shits, the probability of digging up shit just gets higher and higher.  That's not all we talked about though, we're not savages.  Lots of times we all just shot the shit with music playing in the background.  But other times, we all sat quietly, listening to educational podcasts, story-tellers, even local radio programs that broadcast political and world news.  Sitting and listening to people speak is something that calls back to the 50's, pre-TV. 

 

How nice it is to listen, not get sucked into a screen, just carry on with work while a voice attempts to shed some light on something you never even thought about.  As much as I've enjoyed living under a rock my whole life in terms of world news and politics, it felt so good to listen in on Democracy Now, the news source broadcasted over the airwaves right in Humboldt County.  It's also funny to hear the commercials and the sponsors, all stores dedicated to pot growing.  It's ironic to think I lived on a hill for 10 days, completely out of cell phone range, and I felt more plugged into the world than I ever have before.  The threat of weather was present from the start of my time on the hill.  I don't know what day I got there, when it started to rain or how long it rained for but fuck, did it rain.  It blew, too, the wind, that is.  The whole storm experience while living outdoors was one for the books. 

 

We all added some extra tarps to our tents, an added barrier against the elements.  Luckily, day two of the storm was a bit of a lull, we needed it.  None of us did an amazing job tarping our tents so most of us were drying all our stuff above the mini propane heater in the trim room.  I used to hate the idea of getting into my tent all wet, getting water on my sleeping bag and pad, waking up damp.  But why?  I asked myself.  There's always time to dry things, always a way to reset before things get worse.  For most of us anyways.  Just before the storm hit us, Hurricane Matthew ravaged Haiti, killing hundreds, leaving survivors with no food or water.  Our situation on the hill did not seem so bad in comparison, even when the tarps in our outdoor kitchen collapsed, caught the wind like kites and melted into puddles where we found them the next morning.  Life goes on.  With all the added water, trim camp became swim camp and we welcomed it, even taking shits outside in the wind and rain.  Before the storm actually hit, Wilson took his phone out to the tree up the road, the only place on the hill with cell service, and downloaded the three part audio book, The Golden Compass. 

 

Although it was written for kids, maybe preteens, we enjoyed every minute of escaping into this other world while the rain hammered down on the soft, trim tent roof.  We laughed as we picked out parts that might allude to something more "adult" than the average 12 year old picks up on.  There were days when we listened to nothing else for 10 hours, just immersed ourselves in the story that bloomed in all our hazy heads, forgetting what world we're in.  There was one night after dinner, the rain ended earlier in the day and the sky was clear for the first time in five days.  The moon had not risen yet.  I walked past the trim room where light was pouring from the rectangular windows, I walked to the edge of the hill and looked up at the stars.  I could smell the subtle skunkiness of the pot plants in front of me, heavy with water from the rain, bowing down from the weight, full of the magic that is released when dried and smoked, magic like the clear view of the stars above, the faint streak of the milky way spanning the entire slice of open sky above from the tops of the mountains in front of me to the tips of the trees behind my head.  I thought time was tough to keep track of on a bike tour but, nothing will compare to the loss of time on the hill.  The 10 days I spent there could've been 72 hours or a whole month.  The sun eventually came back out and we worked a couple days in the sunshine before I packed up my tent and got a ride off the hill. 

 

Tequila needed a ride down to the next town so Jimmy and Wilson took the day off as well and the four of us re-entered civilization.  I did not smoke that morning but, I never felt so stoned and confused buying groceries in the store with dozens of other people around me.  It's amazing how different living situations, time and sensory deprivation show us how malleable the mind is, how loose and fluid reality actually is.  We're all in different glass containers thinking we're seeing the world and life through a clear and unaltered lens.  The truth is, we're all delusional, from the folks in cubicles on Wall Street to the dirty hippies shitting in holes, smoking spliffs and living up on a damn hill.

Day 10 - 10/3/16 - Crescent City, CA - Day Off

I think a dozen people stayed here last night in this church, folks from all over, traveling solo and traveling in pairs, teaming up and joining forces on the road like a snowball gathering mass and momentum resulting in several pairs of wheels and hundreds of pounds of gear rolling down the Pacific Coast.  When I'm by myself and people ask me where I've been and where I'm going, I'm always happy to answer them and chat til their heart's content, I don't ever mind.  But when this many people with this many miles and towns and stories under their belts, the whole spiel of "where'd you come from" and "where are you going" isn't necessary. 

All that matters is the road has brought us all under one roof.  This roof just happens to be over a church under the care of Katie Berkowitz, a kind, hospitable soul who opens her doors to traveling cyclists in exchange for hugs.  Places like this are brilliant for taking a day off, doing some laundry, and making some real meals with the other friends of the road around you.  That's what Martin, Lau, Flo, Will and myself are doing today, relaxing.  Five others packed up and left this morning.  We all slept in different areas of the same open room, the walls lined with piles of panniers, chairs draped with wet clothing and maps unfolded and open on every table. 

We wished them all well, Herbie, Laura, Peter, Dave, and Jackie as they rolled out into the early morning drizzle.  Breakfast happened in stages; oatmeal and coffee, french toast, and juicy, tuscan cantaloupe.  Then the five of us set out to do laundry down the street.  Will rolled a joint on the folding table and we smoked it out front.  Then we all fantasized about another family dinner like we had last night: stir-fried veggies and rice with plenty of garlic bread.  And beer.  Today, we decided on onion soup, pizza, kale chips, and an apple crisp made with apples that grow behind the church.  The sun has yet to come out today but, it has yet to rain more since this morning.  We made it back to home base with fresh, clean clothes and all the ingredients to make too much food again.  Joanna was holding down the fort while we were out; another cyclist traveling with her friend from BC to San Fran.  Like some sort of commune, we took turns teaching each other the yoga moves that we use before and after rides. 

Or maybe it was more like a birthday party for little kids, taking turns choosing the games.  We did stop to play some card games and share snacks.  I'm very grateful to have such good people to share this day off with.  I certainly have not been as productive as I'd like to be on my trip down the coast in terms of writing, reading, drawing and even taking photos but, this portion of my journey seems to be more about the social aspect since it's a major bike route, much more so than my random trail that took me coast to coast.  I'm in good company, I couldn't feel any luckier.