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.
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 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.
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
"Like a true nature's child we were born, born to be wild." ~ Steppenwolf
