So deep brah

So deep brah
Dat guy right dere!

As it was

On this journey I hope for many things: Adventure, challenge, self development and discovery, the expansion of my mind and soul and the meeting of a thousand interesting new faces. I aim to experience the true spirit of America, to allow myself to be separated from the people, possessions and places I rely on and am comfortable with, as well as the soul-killing domestication that is our nine to five, technology reliant, information overloaded, materialistic culture. I'm going to be out there discovering what is real, what It means to truly live, to meet with God in the beauty of his creation, and to do some measure of good for everyone I meet on my travels and adventures. I have no money. Lil' crazy? Probably.

I intend to challenge the convention that one requires a source of income more consistent than freelance busking, busing, farming and charming to sustain a happy life, let alone to travel. The less I own, the more I hope to have. Moreover, without the obligations and responsibilities that come with an abundance of material possessions (job, taxes, insurance, bills, etc) I hope to find what these things often get in the way of. What really matters.

I believe travel is one of the most important facets of the fulfillment of the human soul. They say home is where the heart is and my heart lies over the horizon. Thus I follow in the footsteps of my inspirations before me, wandering warriors and wordsmiths and painters and philosophers; John Muir, Miyamoto Musashi, Vincent Van Gough, Robert Burns, Gandalf and Christopher McCandless just to name a few.
As far as trivial matters such as food and shelter are concerned, I will be couchsurfing, camping, farm-working, foraging for mushrooms and berries and edible plants, fishing, hunting (lil' critters), street performing, praying and improvising. Whatsoever I can do short of crack dealing and exotic dancing I shall.

So anyway. Yeah. There it is. My blog. Read it.



Thursday, December 3, 2015

Trails And Trials (And Hot Springs And Bears (Oh My!))

The few days following my night in the Redwood Forest were a bit tiresome and involved some backtracking.  So instead of undergoing the tedious labor
of scrupulously recollecting this droll, I will provide a quick and perfunctory summary.  I wanted to visit the city of Redding, but due to some inconvenient roadwork I was prompted to hie back into Oregon and approach through North Cali's farmland, from a more westerly direction.  This equated to several days of hitching, most of which consisted of ground I had already covered, but eventually I was back into California via a long hitch into Shasta.
During my brief stop in the town of Shasta (home to the most enormous mountain I've ever seen) I dropped into a restraunt with an All You Can Eat Fish option in which one's plate is refilled continually.  Needless to say, the walking I do and the weight I carry combined with the fact of my twenty years of age and naturally overactive metabolism alotts to, for lack of a better term, the appetite of an imploding star.  After paying for and devouring what I'm sure was far more than $10 worth of food (I had them refill my plate five times over the course of three hours, plus once more to go) I departed the establishment feeling like a stuffed turkey, flashing a contented grin back at the manager's murderous glare.  On top of everything I doubt my unshowered, tramp-like appearance did much for her goodwill towards me.
Redding was alright, and I made a friend who was good enough to put me up for a few days and take me to church Sunday morning, where I ran into a friend from Michigan who I sort of half-knew would be there.  It was refreshing.  After some decent rest I moved on.
Poison.  Oak.  It is not native to Michigan.  I had no idea what it looks like.  And consequently I must have camped in a bloody lot of it somewhere along the way.  Following several miserable, sleepless days of making my way back to the coast, a local pointed out the rash on my arm and made the identification.  I promptly collected a bottle of the necessary salve and was given a measure of relief from then on as the affliction faded.
I'd been hearing about California's Lost Coast since Portland and was fain to investigate.  The Lost Coast is a region where the coastal highways (1 and 101) divert inland, leaving hundreds of miles of untouched rural forests and coastline, and small  towns.  I set out into this region.
Branching almost directly off of the freeway was a long bridge over a great river, this bridge leading directly into the mountainous country.  Looking to my map, I surmised this to be the main entrance into the Lost Coast and the only one for many miles.  Plus, it was the most direct route to the town of Petrolia, wherein was located the Lost Coast Trailhead.  What spiked my hesitation in taking this bridge by foot was the constant crossing of semi trucks paired with the bridge's nearly nonexistant shoulder, which was only a foot in width.  Clearly it was not designed to accommodate foot traffic, but there was nothing for it.
It took me about ten minutes to get from one end of the bridge to the other, this thanks to its length of about a thousand feet, as well as the constant need to stop, turn sideways and set my pack over the railing as I was almost constantly passed by some bafflingly uncouth truck drivers who, usually barreling at around 30-40 mph, never saw fit to swerve even slightly and put more than six inches between my bloodless face and the speeding, thundering hauls of their enormous rigs.  This was about as exhilarating as it was unnerving, and left my heart vibrating in my chest several times before I made it to the bridge's far end. 
After this feat was accomplished, hitching went fairly easy as northern Californian country folk tend to be quite accommodating.  It must be shared, however, that at one point I left my smartphone, practically my only piece of technology, on which every photo, note, and contact of my travels is maintained, and on which I am typing at this very moment, in some stranger's car.  It had been clipped to my pack, and at some point during the manhandling of the behemoth of a bag the phone popped free of its clip.  After discovering the absence of the device I stood stunned on the side of the road.  I made the decision then and there to wait, exactly where I was, exactly where I'd been dropped off, and hope the man who had provided me a lift would spot the phone, put two and two together and deliver it safely to me.  It was a longshot and I could only pray.  And I did.  A few moments later another truck stopped in front of me and the man in the cab offered me a ride up the mountain.  I graciously declined and explained my predicament, and he confidently assured me that the previous driver would return and I would see my phone again.  I thanked him for the encouragement and bid him good day, and not two minutes later the truck in which I'd lost my phone pulled up.  I thanked the driver profusely as he handed me my cell.  He was laughing.  I could have wept.
Into the rolling hills of the back country I went.  The Lost Coast is astonishingly pretty, probably more astonishing pretty than any other bit of California I would subsequently pass through.  As far as the eye can see it's all wooded peaks of deep green, hilltop meadows and shaded dells, winding mountain roads, redwoods, and the smell of chrisp mountain air mingled with that of the sea.  It was doubtless the loveliest ride I had experienced since moving along the Salmon River back in Idaho. 
In short order I was dropped at the coastal town of Petrolia, and from there walked about 3 miles between occasional rides until I stood by a vast beach, its great grey dunes stretching across the miles of shoreline visible spanning north and south.  South was my direction.
I was at the Lost Coast trailhead, and before me lie 25 miles of beach-walking.  It was windy, on and off overcast, and there were scittery little lizard gecko thingies everywhere.  Fascinating.  By this time my travel pants, a pair of skinny jeans I'd owned for years and had since conducted to turn into bell bottoms riddled with patchwork (with the help of my hippy grandmother) were rather shredded and would soon require some DUI.  I decided I would sit down and patch my pants as soon as I got home.  By which I meant as soon as my only company were the geckos and the redwoods and the sound of the sea.  I set out at 3:47pm down the path into that beautiful, treacherous land.
The going along the Lost Coast Trail was easy for some time, notwithstanding the labor expected of a burden such as I carry.  The dunes were mostly shallow and could often be avoided altogether by steering myself along the wide open moores upon the cliffsides, which often sprang up running parallel to the coast.  The ocean spray was pleasant in the heat of the day.  Moreover it was a perfectly leisurely stroll, and near the end of the day I reached the abandoned lighthouse which marked the trail's first eight miles.
Here I tarried in the company of some hikers coming from the trail's far end.  It was good natured run-of-the-mill back and forth and we shared a meal.  I met a friendly squirrel who ate bits of trailmix from my hand and considered what an excellent sidekick he would make, the Pikachu to my Ash if you will.  There were also some incredibly noisy seals nearby, which I had never seen outside a zoo.  My investigation consisted of getting as close as I dared, flapping my arms and making noise.  I concluded that they are gentle, docile creatures.  They regarded me unamused.
As I began to leave the lighthouse, one of the hikers gave me a labrador, a jagged stone which shined glossily in places but retained a mostly ebony, chalk-like complexion.  Her friend insisted I accept small bag of rice as the two of them were nearly to Petrolia and would not be needing it.  I accepted graciously and moved on.
I camped that night on a mountainside cliff overlooking the sunset- my first ocean sunset.  My situation was in a small grove of pines.  My sleep was sporadic, the remnants of my poison oak affliction waking me on and off through the night, as well as the headlamps of some passing hikers.
In the morning I bathed in the cold, salty waters of the sea, and it was sweet relief.
Day two was a little tougher, the terrain consisting mostly of rocky beach; piles and piles of smooth stones, which demanded focus with every step.  My food was running low as well, and so a measure of frugality was now in order.  I took an easy pace and many breaks over the course of the long day, most of these breaks spent reading (Robin Hood and The Lord Of The Rings).  At the end of the day I found a fine camping spot well above the tide line and fell into a deep sleep.  The stars above were vivid and brilliant.
Sleeping alone in the open, far from civilization, doubtlessly comes with the ocassional bone-chilling moment.  In the case of my adventure on the Lost Coast, it came in the form of some nearby rustling.  It was pitch dark except for the stars, a perfectly moonless night when I awoke to the sounds.  I quickly wrote it off as a deer or a chipmunk, dismissing the usual paranoid visions of bears, which campers are so prone to formulating.  I flipped on my flashlight and shined it towards the source of the sound.  It was a bear. 
A black bear specifically, and certainly a healthy, fully grown one.  I wasn't afraid.  This lack of fear half-surprised me, but truth be told, I know enough about black bears to know I wasn't likely in any danger.  And if I was?  So be it.  I had slept practically on top of my food perfectly ready to put my bear spray (or machete) to use if I had to.  But I never had to.  My lack of terror was clearly contrasted by the wavering creature in front of me, who barreled quickly back into the hills.  I went back to sleep.
My third day on the lost coast was undoubtedly the toughest.  I took an early start, before the sunrise, because I was determined to finish the trail today.  Most of the walking that day was rote and over sand.  I learned that sand can make ten miles feel like twenty.  I was nearly completely out of food and hardly ate. 
At about 10am I came to a point made impassable by the high tide.  My tide chart indicated things would calm down in about three hours.  Were I perhaps more confident in my swimming abilities, I might have attempted to brave the crashing whitewater.  But as it stands I posses the buoyancy of a palsied rhinoceros.
Two hours later, I deemed my route passable.  By now if I intended to make it to Shelter Cove, there could be no breaks. 
The rest of the day consisted of one of the most profoundly uncomfortable walks of my life.  Nothing to cross but sand and stones, each an only slightly favorable break from the other.  Everything hurt.  Everything from my knees down was soaking wet and full of sand.  My eyes were heavy and  my stomach was a day empty. 
In spite of all this, I could not help but feel taken by the shoreline's tropical beauty.  Rivers and waterfalls were plenty, each of which provided a veritable oasis and a chance to refill my camelback. 
In the distance, the town of Shelter Cove came into view.  The sun had almost set.  In the last glimmers of twilight I stalked up to the wooden stairway that lead up into the town.  After I had accomplished the strenuous labor of ascending I met a couple of people who were apparently impressed by how fast I'd finished the trail and bought me a pizza.  That night I relaxed and feasted amongst the tall grass of an empty lot on a cliff by the sea.  I slept there, feeling greatly accomplished.
It took me the majority of the following day to escape the Lost Coast, but once I was out, San Francisco was just a skip and a hop away.  Unfortunately, it was here that I erred.  I had been picked up in the Lost Coast by some pretty young lasses and found myself so preoccupied with our conversation that it was only after I had been set down and only as they drove off that I realized I had been dropped in the middle of San Francisco.  Brilliant! 
To clarify my not-too-thrilled feelings about my current situation; big cities are a hitchhiker's wasteland, doubly so for a moneyless hitchhiker.  I had no means to pay for a ride out of town and hadn't eaten since last night's pizza.  A clear mind comes of a full stomach, thus I sauntered to a nearby Starbucks and used their wifi to look up free food in SF.  I didn't find much, but I did discover a bar that served free comfort food on Fridays from 12pm to 5pm.  "How comforting!"  I exclaimed and set out for the establishment at a strong pace.
The San Francisco cityscape is an astonishing cornucopia of modern and victorian architecture, practically every house a work of art from the distant past.  There are also lots of hills.  Ouch.
It wasn't until I had passed through Chinatown and made it three miles down the road that I discovered Google Maps had been glitching and I had walked three miles in the wrong direction.  I was now 15 miles from the bar and 5pm was nearing.  I turned with such a violent jerk that the people sharing the sidewalk around me scrambled back, but I hardly noticed.  I was hungry.
I set forward with a volatile vengeance I have seldom witnessed within myself.  All pain and soreness from the previous days of hiking evaporated before the unyielding bale of my relentless march.  I bore forward up and down hills, through suberbs and alleys and a couple of parks with all the force and intensity of my clenced eyebrows.  At 4:58 I stepped into the bar.
My spirits were dampened when I learned that the free food I sought was given out only in the months of summer.  I had missed it by several weeks.  I tipped my hat and departed back into the streets.
Daylight was fading.  I really, really did not want to spend the night in the streets of San Francisco.  I got to the nearest on ramp to try and hitch, but no one picks you up in the big city, especially at night.  Eventually I was forced to admit the futility of my endeavor and began to scour the streets for a place to pitch my tent.  This would prove difficult.  
I was practically a bum.  I knew no one, had no money, and had resigned myself to sleeping on the streets.  I came upon a small hobo tent neighborhood situated on a section of soft turf.  There seemed plenty of vacant space, so I casually approached a resident and made a straightforward inquiry ascertaining to the case of my temporary uptake of residence upon a nearby parcel of open sward.  The refusal was expressed unanimously and simultaneously by both my direct conversationalist and his nearby hoboland countrymen.  Having been fully rejected (probably due to my ignorance of the hobo political system), I shrugged and moved on.
In the end, and after hours of tireless slogging, I came upon an onramp that I might like to try for hitching in the morning.  There was an expansive and, more importantly, unoccupied and out-of-the-way stretch of grass running alongside this ramp.  I situated myself as inconspicuously as could be managed and pitched tent. 
It rained that night, and at one point I was woken by someone speaking at my tent; "Hey!  Have you seen a purple pillow?"
A flat "No." was my only response.
"Okay."  And that was that.
The morning was discouraging.  I felt hopeless, standing by a ramp on which every car seemed in a hurry and on which there seemed little to no room to pull over and pick me up.  The temprature and wind were such that I could not decide if it was cold or comfortable.  This minorly irritated me, as I am a man of extremes and would just have liked the weather to make up its mind.  This went on for almost four hours until finally, when I was almost asleep on my feet, a rented minivan came to a stop for me.
I blinked in surprise.  A young woman rolled down the driver side window and spoke in a thick German accent:  "Get in!"  She didn't have to say it twice.  Her boyfriend was already out of the car, helping me shove my massive pack through the sliding door as the traffic behind assailed us with honking and cursing.  I was in at once and quickly to the freeway, departing at last from San Francisco.
I do not remember the names of the young vacationing German couple who had liberated me from my seemingly ceaseless turmoil.  They were very talkative and were wonderful company.  They deduced I hadn't eaten recently and being as the van was packed tight with food, they quickly began to offer me loads.  I ate cheerfully and we shared stories and philosophies, and as they were my 100th ride since setting out, I shared with them the cigar I had been gifted in Roseburg Oregon.  A celebratory cigar for the lucky winners.  When they set me down at a gas station they loaded what space there was in my pack with food while I was using the bathroom.  I have seldom felt so thankful.
I stayed with some friends of a friend in San Jose and took a much needed shower before getting back on the coast and stopping in Big Sur.  California's coastal highway in the Big Sur area is just as picturesque as you've seen it on TV or in any photo.  Big Sur itself is a rustic little redwood town and a hub of travelers.  I had stopped here because I had been told of a fabulous hot spring out in the mountains, and so after one overpriced burrito (payed for by an enthusiastic individual who described his charity as "Contributing to the pilgrimage!") I set off for Sykes Hot Springs up the Pine Ridge Trail.  The trail was lovely but tough, nothing but mountains.  I pitched tent at the campsite 2/3 along the 8 mile footpath and realized I had brought no food except white rice and oatmeal.  Adhering to California's fire ban, I had no way to cook it.  Perfect. 
The next morning was spent on an empty stomach, but I didn't care.  The mountains were too beautiful.  Or perhaps refreshing is the word I'm looking for.  Browns and greens and high-altitude air will provoke such feelings.
When I made it to the spring I found it to be of excellent quality.  It was butted up against a clear river and managed by a bearded caretaker who needed a girlfriend.  I soaked all day, meeting all sorts of wonderful weirdos until the sun went down and I was so hungry it hurt. 
I noticed some of the people I met were using a tiny propane stove, and requested the use of it.  Thus was born what I now regard as my signature survival dish:  Hipster Gruel.  The base ingredients are white rice and oatmeal, equal parts both.  I was generously provided a flavor pack by my fellow campers.  It was the best thing I've ever eaten.  I slipped into a deep food coma.
The next morning I rolled again into the hot pool and spent another full day enjoying the soak.  I addressed my foodlessness with a devil-may-care indifference and decided I would hike home tomorrow.  When tomorrow came I soaked for another hour and was more than ready to get out of the woods and get some sustenance. 
I set off back along the trail.  Everything was going smoothly.  I was hungrier than I've ever been, the flies were maddening, and the inclines were no kinder to my calves as I bore 60lbs on my back, but I was headed back to civilization and would eat soon enough. 
Several miles along the trail I came to a place I didn't recognize.  It was a campground full of redwoods.  I remembered the spring's caretaker mentioning something about Redwood Campground, a further 4 miles down the trail.  One look at my map and it was confirmed.  I was three miles further into the forest.  And alone.  I bellowed at the top of my lungs.  I was so frustrated.
But there was nothing for it.  I took a deep breath and began stalking back the way I came.  It wouldn't be out of the mountains until the next morning when I finally made it back to civilization.  It was the most grueling walking I've ever done.  When it was finally finished I ate 3 footlong subs (I had a coupon).
My plan now was to hitch from the coast to Sequoia National Park, so I made way inland, scoring various rides towards the Sierra Nevada. 
I tend to invest myself deeply into most conversation.  Thus it came to pass that during a particularly engaging bit of banter I was having with one ride, we passed beyond my exit and I was forced to spend the night camped on the outskirts of a small truck stop town 50 miles south of my destination (I had been approaching from the north).  No biggy, all part of the whimsicallities of vagabonding.  The less strict you make your plans the less likely they are to go wrong. 
In the morning I got back to the freeway's on ramp to make my way back north.  I was picked up by a Steve.  Watch out for Steves.
We chatted on the way and he seemed alright.  Then, out of nowhere his head began to droop, then he started twitching around, and he began to veer towards the ditch.  He came close to flying off the road, but suddenly straightened up and recovered.  He quickly assured me it was nothing.  Based on the way he talked about his past I surmised he was either under the influence of something or feeling the aftereffects.  Whatever the case, I put it out of my mind.
Then it happened again.  Only this time he practically passed out and started running down traffic cones.  I lunged for the wheel and pulled us to an exit where I managed to stop us on the shoulder.  Steve asked me to drive.  I accepted.
An hour later, I had been ditched in the middle of the city of Medesto.  I had also overshot, again, miles and miles north of Sequoia National Park (it was where Steve needed to go). 
At first I didn't much like Medesto.  It was seedy and decrepit.  But there seemed a couple decent places to hitch, so I busied myself thumbing.  I had no luck.  Not only that, but I was flipped off five times.  I had only been flipped off once before on my trip, in Indiana.  In four hours thumbing for a ride I had been flipped off five times.  I decided I disliked this town, so I made the decision to run to its other end and find a place to camp by an on ramp I was sure I would find a ride at.  It was a long walk. 
At one point, a pitbull came charging at me from the darkness of a side street.  It was growling and barking, which I didn't think was cause for great concern.  I changed my mind when it flew at my face.  I placed my palm on the dog's neck and thrust it away, its claw tearing the sleeve of my favorite shirt.  This displeased me.  When it moved to lunge again (presumably for my throat or neck) I threw a swift kick directly into the animal's snout.  I didn't kick hard, but the contact was solid.  It scampered whining back into the darkness.  This all happened within a couple of seconds.
Now I was wary, and weary.  I slept lightly that night, every wind-rustled leaf a rabid dog, stalking me.
When the morning came I positioned myself on the freeway ramp (to which I had yesterday quested) in order to flag down a ride.  About two hours in I was threatened with a ticket, so my day consisted of about twenty five miles of city walking in 100+ degree weather.  At one point I stopped at a church whose pastor let me shower in the church's gym (a long and much needed shower) which boosted morale.  Nevertheless it was a long and wearying day and I wanted nothing more than to leave Medesto.
At about sunset I was out of the sprawl and about ready to scout a camping spot when a guy pulled over and offered me a ride.  In short order I was away from Medesto and on the road to Sequoia National Park.  I was dropped off at the edge of the Sierras long past dusk.
While I was extremely glad to finally be out of that accursed city, I was frightfully famished, and across the street was a small, lone pizza parlor.  I took a deep breath, put on my best attempt at a charming countenance, and strolled in.  I spoke to the woman at the register:
"Alright here's the deal:  I'm really hungry, but I'm penniless.  However, I can wash dishes, sweep floors, whatever manual labor may be done for any extra/leftover pizza you might have." 
She looked at me quizzically for a second, then smiled.
"No worries!" She said "My husband's a backpacker, I know how it is.  We have plenty in the back."
I have often noted my own certain proneness to emotional reaction upon receiving food when famished.  When the cashier returned from the kitchen she bore a plate stacked high with about a dozen slices of pepperoni pizza.  I almost choked up.  What's more, the gentleman behind me in line bought me a beer and I was sent off grinning ear to ear, ravenously munching my pizza into the night.  It was cool and starry and moonless, and I could see the black silhouette of the Sierras.  I camped behind the sign for a local pie shop.
In the morning I was quickly picked up and brought to church (where I told my story and was fed breakfast!).  Then I was picked up by a rad aussie dude who was checking out Sequoia National Park himself.  He was vacationing in the states, and the two of us entered and explored the park into the evening. 
I can now say Sequoia National Park is one of my favorite places in California.  The giant sequoias are nothing short of magical.  They are enormous, magnificent, and totally breathtaking.  The forest is like a scene out of a fantasy novel, a place of ancient enchantment.  And enchanted I was. 
Some of these behemoths pushed 3000 years of life.  Some could be passed through.  Some could be touched and some were fenced off.  High in the mountains of the Sierra, I felt I was walking between the mighty columns of a cathedral older than man, like passing among the pillars of heaven which held aloft the sky itself. 
Eventually we came to General Sherman, not simply a giant tree, but the most massive living organism on the planet.  It blew my mind.  I had to touch it.  I handed my friend the camera and leaped over the fence (probably made to keep my sort in line).  I scampered to the tree and stood beneath it, leaning and resting against its mind-boggling girth.  The outer bark of these trees possess an odd mixture of sponginess and pheltiness.  When I looked up, it seemed to stretch on forever into the sky.  I'll never forget it.
On our way out of the park there was a bear!  A small black bear that came within petting distance of my open car window.  I resisted the urge to pet it.
With Sequoia out of the way, I set myself in a general southern direction, and just my luck my Australian friend was going the same way.  Thus it went, and I was now on my bold way to southern California.  Tally-ho!

QUOTE OF THE WHATEVER ~

"The word adventure has gotten overused. For me, when everything goes wrong, that's when the adventure starts." -Yvon Chouinard

Friday, September 18, 2015

Finding WiFi In Idaho Is Hard

Hitching my way into Idaho wasn't easy, but I suppose it wasn't terrible.  Many interesting individuals did I meet along the way, such as

a muddy truckload of high school grads who took me to Rexburg, and a Mormon woman who took me to church and then some ways north through the desert and the Crators of the Moon. 
After much hitching through many rural towns I was picked up by a long-bearded babyboomer named Tim, who shared countless crazy stories as he drove me through some of the most rugged and beautiful countryside I've ever seen.  Based on images and film I've seen, the orange landscape and strange vegitation made me think of Australia. 
We passed through the Rockys and across the great devide, over mountains and into canyons, through desert and forest and along the river with stark cliffs and spectacular ancient rock formations all about. 
We reached the town of Salmon, a quiet hamlet far enough into nowhere that there seemed little to no tourist activity.  The town was situated in an expansive valley surrounded by mountains and old, rugged country.  Here Louis and Clark themselves passed through by the guide of Sacagawea, and here they bartered goods and horses with the local tribe.
Tim introduced me to his wife Rebecca, and the two offered me a place to stay in the RV in their back yard.  Before sunrise the next morning, Tim and I traveled to a mountainside hot spring where we talked life and adventure and swapped stories as the sun gradually lit up the sky.  Tim related to me stories of rescuing damsels and encountering cougars and running from cops.  His stories were fantastical, yet I didn't doubt a single word of them, especially in this wild country.
The spring was warm and calming and when we departed I felt detoxed and invigorated.
Later that day I was lent an ATV with which I cruised around town until I decided I would take it up a mountain.  The following ride was exhilarating and treacherous. 
The rocks and gravel were loose, the inclines were steep, and I often came to points in the two track where slopes or even sheer cliffs shot down hundreds of feet.  As I finally came to the end of the path, near the mountain's peak, I savored the view of the valley and the towering Rockys beyond.  I decided then to descend via a two track alternative the one I first came. 
This proved to be something of a booboo. 
As I progressed downward the trail became less and less defined until it faded to nothing but grass, boulders and cacti.  I constantly had to push and dismount and work the four-wheeler over jagged boulders, which frequently ground against the skid plate.  This was troublesome terrain, the nature of which would not allow for backtracking.  
I was lost.
Finally, after much sweat and dust in the merciless afternoon rays, I came to a place where the main path was just a steep uphill climb away.  This slope was long and much more steep and rocky than any I had yet climbed, and even those had proven difficult.  "But I'll be damned if I don't try!" I declared aloud to myself, and I charged the ATV forward, full throttle.
The vehicle tore up the slope as I crouched as low as possible, putting all my weight where I and the ATV wouldn't be thrown tumbling backwards.  I was jarred and bumped all about by the lumpiness and rockiness of the land and at one point had to reach back and catch my shoulder bag, which nearly went flying from the carrier basket just behind the seat.  I was almost there, just a hundred feet from the road above.  Then I was stuck.
I thumped into a rutt and the ATV began to flip backwards.  It was a big machine (as far as quads go) and the moment it began careening I leaped to its shifting flank and threw myself against its weight, feet planted and back braced.  I slid backwards a few feet down the shifty gravel before I managed to muscle the beast to a stop.  I was covered with bramble and sweat, and my heart was beating fast.
Catching my breath, I returned to the tedious task of gassing the rear-wheel drive vehicle up the treacherous slope, but upon getting it well stuck once again I decided the risk was too great for a machine that didn't belong to me.  The ascent had been unstable, the vehicle lurching and jumping all about as I climbed in the most ginger fashion possible.  Had it been my own I might have gone on, but as matters were the thought of being responsible for sending Tim's ATV -which he had so graciously lent me- tumbling to shreds hundreds of feet downhill was not particularly appealing.
So I hiked until I found reception.  One embarrassing phone call later and Tim was there with a truck and a rope, and we liberated the vallient four-wheeled steed from its precarious position.  Thankfully he didn't seem put out and we laughed it off.
That day I learned how to drive an ATV, and more importantly; how not to.
I stayed a few more days to gather myself together for my next stint of travel and over that time enjoyed my stay with Tim and Rebecca.  They were incredibly cool and I intend to visit Salmon again someday.
Anyway, back to the road!
I hitched up to Missoula Montana, and upon mentioning my intention to visit Portland and California, I often received a common opinion, as put by one of my rides:  "I like the area, but so many people just seem to have this sense of entitlement, and it gets worse as you get into California."
In Missoula I was picked up by a couple of cool cats named Alex and Tonya who, just my luck, were on their way to and through Portland Oregon.  Thus for hours we plodded east in Tonya's little Suberu, stopping at small towns here and there.  I was reminded after the fifteen minutes I slept in the car that it only takes a short nap to leave your mouth tasting like the devil's armpit. 
A few hours along the way we entered Corde Al Ane, a nice but touristy lake town where we floated about for a few hours.  There were pretty girls dressed for summer everywhere.  I decided I spend too much time in the woods.
We squated that night at a camp ground after passing briefly in and out of Washington and were now in Oregon.  We made our way near Portland, but stopped for a few hours to sip tea and pick berries with Jess, an earthy man with a dapper hat who was a friend of Tonya's.
I spent the next few days with some hosts in Happy Valley, a suburb about 15 minutes south of downtown Portland.  We made several trips into town, though mostly I went by myself.  I was dazzled and enchanted by the sights and smells and sounds and spirit of the city.  Portland Oregon is somewhere I could stick around for a while.
One night I found myself taking the tram into the city for the simple freedom of flanuering.  Portland at night is a feast for the senses.  Musty alleys, public fountains, shady parks and a hundred food carts.  The sounds of live music and the smells of fresh coffee and restaurant food.  Lights and bikes and beards and beers.  This guy juggling on the side of the street, that guy covering Lennon on his mandolin.  Brick roads with trollies crossing here and there, more vegan cafes than I can count. 
At one point, when the bus I was riding came to the end of its route, the driver shut off the engine, pulled out a skateboard, jumped to the street and proceeded to spend his break busting out sick kickflips.  Only in Portland.
A staggering amount of homeless dwell all about, and most of them don't look to be more than thirty years old.  They line the sidewalks, often dozens of them clustered in their blankets and sleeping bags along the side of a street.  There are doubtless thousands of them altogether.  Many are drifters like myself, merely passing through town, pitching camp for the night.  Many are locals who live as they do simply by choice.  They are their own social class, comprised of minimalists and hippies and vagabonds.
Eventually I said goodbye, and continued down to Oregon City.  I stayed there for some time, put up by Don and Jaci, two family friends.  I spent my time looking for  odd jobs and short term work, that I might put some  cash in my pocket and get back on the road.  I spent much time hanging with Don, and with Jaci I talked books (specifically Tolkien).  My base of operations was a 72' VW bus where I slept and did many internets.
One day, I received the privilege of accompanying Don and his friend Charles into the wilderness.  Up into the hills and mountains we went in Charles' Suberu, into the old growth.  We skirted cliffs and slopes on perhaps the most treacherous gravel road I've ever experienced.  Once we'd reached the designated area we forsook the car and pressed into the forest. 
Don and Charles scouted and restored old trails as a hobby and were both sensei woodsmen.  We spent the better part of the day cutting away brush and skirting gravely hillsides as we pursued an ancient Indian trail used by the natives for untold millennia. 
Several miles into the trek we detoured to stalk up a nearby mountain.  We made our way up, and for the first time in my life I stoot on the peak of a mountain.  We terried there, far above the forest, breathing deep the chrisp air.  I'll never forget that feeling, and the awesome view from the top.  Not bad at all.
I had some luck in my work hunting, but after two largely fruitless weeks I made a decision.
In the words of Robin Hood (or more accurately Howard Pyle)-
"For fourteen days we have seen no sport, so now I will go abroad to seek adventure forthwith."
When I first made the decision to travel, I declared to myself that I did not need money and would not be a slave to the dollar.  Not to say I am opposed to using it, but money or not, I would still go and live on the road.  And in my experience, so long as you act with kindness and integrity, in a manner befitting a decent human being, the bare(/bear?) necessities of life will come to you.  I decided that so long as God was watching over me and I abided in goodness and common sense, I would seldom be without.  In the words of the Buddhist Zen Sage Eihei Dogen-
"In this world, inherently everyone is given a certain amount of food and clothing as a gift.  It does not come by being sought after, nor does it go away by not seeking after it."
So I thanked my friends and hit the road..  It may be rough, but that's good.  Rough forces a man to grow.  It may be rough, but I'm rougher. 
The very next day, I was given a lift by a vacationing man who bought me breakfast and then gave me a hundred bucks when he dropped me off.  So yeah.  Rough.
I made it to the Pacific Coast!  I reached coastal highway 101 and for the first time in my life I experienced the ocean.  Much saltier than Lake Michigan, the water did not taste very good and the waves were enormous.  It was so vast and wide and magical, and driving the cliffs of the Oregon Coast is an experience to remember. 
Eventually, due to many recommendations, I decided to detour inland to see Crater Lake.  I passed through the town of Eugene that night, a hip little city of musicians and burnouts (and musician burnouts).  Much of my evening was spent there playing Tetris at a local arcade and stuffing my face with pizza before retiring to some bushes under a telephone pull, cowboy camping near the freeway.
The next morning progressed thumb high  and spirits low with a four hour stint of waiting.  Eventually I got on the road again and was able to maintain some steady momentum until I was offered a place to stay in Roseburg. 
Dan was an ridiculously nice man, and he and his wife insisted I join them and their family for a hearty, fabulous dinner.  They were all absurdly welcoming, hospitable, and friendly in conversation.  I was sent on my way in the morning with a new inflatable bedroll, a headlamp, and a thick cigar.
My next stop was quite a ride into the woods.  I spent a long afternoon basking in a cliffside hotspring by the river, mingling in conversation with a dozen naked hippies all around me.  It was pretty chill.  We bantered and jested, swapping tales and singing songs, sharing our stories.  Every so often we would all charge into the chilly river and then back to the shoking warmth of the natural pools.  I made a few friends and when we were all finished they gave me a lift all the way to the entrance of Crater Lake National Park.
From there I hiked several miles into the park, through forest and desert and up a constantly changing landscape.  In short time I was picked up by a goodly passer by named Jeff, and together we explored and marveled at Crater Lake's sheer majesty.  Photos can never do justice to the lake's immensity.  It is purely massive.  Jeff and I rolled all the way around, bobbing  up and down the circular crest.  The gusts and altitude made the air brisk, and the quiet of the lake seemed to leave nothing to the ear but the whisper of the wind.
The surrounding landscape was likewise stunning, with vibrant green forested mountains rolling up and down hundreds of miles into the distance.  Oregon is an astonishingly gorgeous state.
That night we met some hikers who were walking the Pacific Crest Trail and we shared beers and camp with them.
In the morning Jeff and I made our way south to Klamath Falls where we parted ways.  I met a kindly old man who picked me up and traded backpacks with me, and so I left the external aluminum frame pack Ronnie from Illinois had gifted me for a pack of much more modern construction and greater space capacity.  It also fit me extremely well.
Finally and for the first time ever I passed into California.  I hitched down the 101 until I came to Redwood National Forest.  To see the redwoods has ever been a dream of mine, and to stand beneath such immense ancient life filled me with an indescribable sense of awe.  I could only gape and smile.  To place one's hand against the girth of such a vast living presence, so great and old, is humbling.  You can feel the very energy of life shooting up the tree's trunk.  Vast life, grand life, old life. 
I slept beneath those trees that night.  I have never experienced a quieter forest, and as I lie there in the bosom of the redwoods I thought long of the relationship between nature and man.
Just as our forefathers did when they first looked upon these lands, we tend to observe from a distance, to stand apart, to scrutinize and judge at arms length and when we're moderately satisfied or allow ourselves to be touched on some numb surface level we nod our heads and stroke our mustaches with our knuckles to our chins and our thumbs up our assess.  This culture of distancing ourselves and setting ourselves above the rest of the world has been bred into us over countless generations, and is the reason we don't allow ourselves to love or experience life's greatest joys and beauties.  This cold stubbornness destroys our ability to be happy and desecrates compassion.  It oblitherates our capacity for empathy.  It applies to both people and nature, and the original natives of this land were perhaps the last to truly understand this intimate connection.
Well there's a rant to finish off this entry.  Anyway...uh...bye.
QUOTE OF THE WHATEVER ~
"Like a true nature's child we were born, born to be wild."  ~ Steppenwolf