We're rollin' We're rollin' We're rollin'.

The latest manifestation of the Crosscheck. Riser bar, downtube shifter, 9 gears in the rear, one up front. Is it a 29er? Is it something other? Here's Diana stopping for a laugh break on Bolinas Ridge. Can you smell the Redwoods? Can you taste the salt sea air? By the way, the fencing on the right is to keep the wild mountain lions from attacking. Notice how I'm all the way over there to the other side of the trail. It is a tenuous relationship yes, but man and beast can live in harmony. Just look at George W and ole Dickie "I am the breath from Hell" Cheney. They do it. So can we.

Our home until May

Just a picture post. Have a happy break everyone.

New Post?

I guess it's time for a new post. Staleness. Everyone hates it. You like stale bread? Stale cheese? Me either. Why is that? I guess it's the stimulation. We like new things. Especially when it comes to socks. Nothin' like sliding on a new pair of socks. Which is extra nice when the old ones smell like stale cheese. But what does stale bread and cheese have to do with stimulation? Absolutely nothing. Two different things. Look, here's a new post. It's probably not as good as slippin' into fresh socks, or fresh bread (can you slip into fresh bread?), but it at least should be better than stale cheese. Right? No? Well then bugger off. And oh, no new socks for you this christmas.

Now that you bring up christmas, above is a picture of where we live taken from our living room. Kind of hard to get into the christmas spirit when it's sunny and like 60 something. Well, it's not sunny and 60 something in the picture, it's a sunset after being sunny and 60 something. Clarity is important. Anyway, that whole christmas thing is a little weird when backgrounded by palm trees and surf shorts. I mean where in the hell is that hick St. Nick supposed to land that non-FAA approved sleigh (hello, where's Homeland Security in this whole thing? Seems like Osama Been Shoppin' could easily fly his own sleigh right into my chimney and nobody would give a damn) when there's no snow here? Maybe fat belly St. Nick rides a surfboard in these parts? A nice 10 footer, rudolph up front dodgin' sharks, those little freakin' elves paddlin' for their sweet little lives. Tiny little wetsuits for those dudes. Look like seals to a great white. What a tragedy huh? If those little elves were slung around like rag dolls in the jaws of a 15 foot great white, right off the beach here just before they were about to make landfall. Ever see Discovery channel? When that great white just skims across the water and snags that little seal? Tragic indeed. I mean for both those little elves and the seals. Best not to think about it really. Best to just raise a glass and give thanks that you're not a seal. Or an elf chained to santa's sled for that matter. Poor bastards probably not covered under disability.

But I digress...

So here in Marinland the bay area cleanup continues from the oilspill. The captain claims his gauges were screwy, the Coast Guard claims the captain was screwy, or that the Chinese crew was screwy, or that both were screwy, but it seems they ALL were screwy and the whole thing got screwed. The mayor here, Gavin Newsome, is a real piece of work. Just google this guy. What a joke. He took a trip to Hawaii DESPITE the fact that he knew the oil spill was huge. And the cleanup continues.

But the real reason to post this time was to pay homage. Homage to mountain biking. Okay, if you haven't been following this blog (what's wrong with you?), then you wouldn't know that I got called out. On my last post I was taken to task for some things I said regarding cyclocross and mountain biking. Check the last post and the comments then come back here....Okay, now you see it. WELL, I laid it on thick for sure, and I knew it would have to be real thick to get someone to stand up and say, "Wait, you're a mountain biker, have you no shame?" And someone did. The very person I had in the back of my mind when writing the post, though I thought some other individuals (names kept confidential) would say something to it, but they were either just too slow, or they didn't give a hoot. I knew Adam would give me sh*t for sure for what I was saying, I just thought someone else would chime in before him. I could see him standing back in that dark corner as I stood up on that soapbox preaching, his arms crossed, and I would expect others closer up to protest, but he moved forward and grabbed the mic. And bless him for it baby Jesus. Bless him for it.

His comments gave me a kick in the pants. But before we get into that I have to say one thing. His whole tack on me being the rider to watch was a bunch of horsepucky. This is the same guy that when we were in Squamish (oh how I love thee), and he was on his antique 3-inch suspension bike from what?, the time when 8 track was hip, I think he still has an 8 track in his Subaru (no he doesn't, but I wish he did, that would be so cool, flip it over brutha, flip it over if you want the rest), and we come on this party of four, locals, older than us, 6 inch "big hit" bikes, body armor, full face helmets, the full Northshore get-up, and Adam says, "Is this the way to Black Viper of Death trail?"

I'm in my party shorts, a t-shirt, but on my brand new 4 inch travel bike, the most suspension I'll need for the rest of my life, right? The old man in the group, the alpha male, looks at us, our clothes, then our bikes. Then he says, "The double black diamond eh? Oh yer on the wrong bikes fer that one. You need some big hit bikes." Yup, that's what he said. Well knowing Adam for some time now, and knowing a little how his mind works, inside my head I'm saying Easy now bro, easy. Adam looks at the ground, his bike, and says, "Huh, well does this trail go somewhere fun?" He points straight ahead instead of up to the top of the hill where the Black Viper lurks, and the alpha male says, "Oh yeah, this trail is fun. But there are logs, ladder bridges, big boulder drops, but you can ride around them. We're headed that way, you can follow us if you want."

SO we do. Adam right on their ass. And when they stop to do some trail work, we exchange pleasantries and they point us in the right direction, to where all the big hit trinkets are. Adam drops into the black diamond trail and off we go. Needless to say he was riding all the logs, the ladder bridges, the big boulder drops, all on his bike that wasn't supposed to be able to do it. And he did it with finesse. Which goes to show that it ain't the bike, or the technology, but the rider. Plain and simple. Here's the thing. Adam and I started mountain biking together what, like right after Bush War I? I don't know. Something like that. But we learned on the east coast on some technical trails so we kinda got a head start, though I stopped riding for a long time. Usher in the 6 inches of travel, more gadgetry, and poof, you've got this bike-makes-me-a-better-rider marketing blitz that took over the mountain biking industry. SO that's what people buy. Bikes to make them better riders.

Adam kept riding over those years on what was probably considered an "old school" bike in terms of travel, and he rides all that Northshore amusement park stuff while others sit sidelined watching, looking down at their bikes, thinking about their bank account and the 30+ pounds of bike they just bought and have been draggin' all over creation and back. Scary thing is now Adam's bought himself a bike with 4 or 5 inches of travel (used of course), so I don't even want to know what kind of stuff he's riding now.

So that's the long way of saying don't listen to him. Listen to me. It's better for your health. It's also a way of saying that his comments got me to give the cross bike a much needed rest and break the mountain bike out of the stable for a little trot. Ironically, Marin has very little "legal" singletrack to ride. Most of the riding here is "fire roads." Not the kind of fire roads like up in the Northwest. There are no rusted pickups flying up and down them with meth heads behind the wheel lookin' to tear-some-sh*it-up. No vehicles at all are allowed on these fire roads. Which is nice. But singletrack's where it's at and I think the local mountain biking community got together, pitched a bitch, and the county planners/park agency looked around at their assets and said, okay, we'll let you have China Camp. That's where I went yesterday and it was glorious.

Here's this park that has hand-built singletrack, right on the bay, all of it forested with Live Oak and Madrone. There's a 4.2 mile singletrack trail that pretty much rides along the water the whole way, swerving back and forth, up and down, just throwin' you into a good ole time. There's even a Redwood grove you ride through, and I love that part so much. The riding isn't technical really (sorry Adam), but just good, downhome cooked rolling singletrack through trees that is just fast and fun. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout.

It has been some time since I got on the mountain bike and let me tell you, it was a rip. The thing about all this new/more suspension is that it doesn't make you a better rider, it makes the riding more fun (and it's probably saved my ass once or twice). Riding a mountain bike with 4 inches of suspension front and rear is kind of like eating a cream puff, or a napoleon. If you have one laying around go get it now...okay, now take a bite. See that there. That's what it's like. Light as air. At least that's the way it is on my bike. That baby just seems to float and it feels like riding on clouds. Which is the exact opposite of riding that cross bike, which is more like riding on, well, rocks. And roots. And really hard stuff.

So they both have their thing, which means you need a full quiver of bikes, which is okay I guess, as long as you sell one of your cars. I guess. Well it's Saturday and the trails are calling. What should I do today? Which new trail should I explore? Let's have a look at these maps. Maybe that one right there, Bolinas Ridge. Right on the coast. Runs along a ridge. Hmmm....Here's to hopin' you get out today for a little ramblin'...keeps the bones well greased and the doctor lookin' for things to do.

Hit me with some comments people. It puts a smile on my face when you talk to me. :)

The eagle has landed! I repeat, the eagle has landed!

Well I'm just going to go ahead and post without a picture because I can't wait any longer. Di's got the good computer because she's in North Carolina, where the cigarette tax is only 49 cents per pack and gasoline is 2 something. 2 SOMETHING! I haven't seen gas at two something since what (?), Clinton was president? Cheap gas and cigarettes. The beauty of the south. Oh, and the cuisine of course.

SO she left me the jalopy computer that can't handle pictures. Yeah I know. Look, this one you have to tap the top three times, rotate it in a counterclockwise fashion until it starts to glow, and point the screen to the east before it will even think of starting up. I want a Mac I want a Mac I want a Mac. Sorry. Lost it there.

Anyway, to catch you up to speed, we left Big Sur and that wonderful cabin where I could've spent the rest of my days, disappearing forever in that Redwood forest, on that deck, with the warm winds, the swaying trees, the gurgling brook down there in the valley below, the crickets at night. I could have sat right there for eternity. Now accepting donations for the Jason Sits on Big Sur Deck Forever-a-thon. I could put a cam there and turn it into a reality TV show. Or a web thing. You could check it whenever you wanted and there I'd be. Sittin'. Drinkin' my tea. Readin' a book. Look the bathroom was outdoors. Of course I'd be readin' a book.

From there up to wine country, Sonoma to be exact, where we spent the remainder of our roadtrip riding our bikes through wine country, stopping here and there at the various wineries, tasting, swerving back on home in time for dinner. Did some mountain biking up there as well. Found out later there was some bouldering in the area. Anything else you need for a vacation spot? It's a pretty cool thing to have a little slice of the Mediterranean right here in America. Weather and all. If you haven't been it's highly recommended. Oh, don't bring your Visa because they only accept American Express.

Lastly, we cooled our heels, shut the van down, emptied her out, and opened the door to our little cottage here in Sausalito, our final resting spot for the next six months. Pretty wild living in a place that tourists take the ferry over to see. We have a view of the bay from our living room. The fog horns on the ships are loud enough to almost wake you up. From our front door you can ride right into the birthplace of mountain biking (was that Joe Breezer that just walked by?). The Marin Headlands are pretty much our backyard playground now. Just think of miles and miles of rolling coastal hills, the Pacific Ocean on one side, the bay on the other, Mt. Tam the predominant feature, everything from eucalyptus groves to sandy beaches, and I mean miles and miles of it. All of it protected. All of it with trails and fire roads that you could spend days riding from one end to the other. Literally. There are bike/hike/horse campgrounds dotting the area for those who wish to traverse it. Take out a map and check out the part of Cali just north of San Fran where the Golden Gate bridge reaches over the bay. Now you see it. All the way up to Pt. Reyes National Seashore. That's our local open space. Not bad for a farm boy like myself.

Before Di left town we cruised over to Stinson Beach, home of the Great White shark bite capital of North America or something, and did some bouldering. Yup. Right on the beach. Boulders, waves crashing, sunshine. Di was bouldering in a bikini top (no pics of that!). I think it was like 70 degrees that day. Best time we've had bouldering in a long time. And did I mention that's also right here in the Marin Headlands, our backyard playground? So little time...

So I decided to go and get myself a Surly Crosscheck. What's that? Oh, a cyclocross bike. Why? Well, back when the earth was created, what, 6000 years ago? Right. After the Roman gods and the Greek gods finally got their way with the whole grape thing, on the eighth day of creation, in an 11th hour decision, the little-talked about Cyclocross gods finally got their way. They were granted one place on earth to put their playground. And so they chose the Marin Headlands, or the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, as their place for their cyclocross bliss parties. Yeah, I know. You're thinking wait, Marin is the birthplace of mountain biking. Yes, but it was made for cyclocross, just like I just told you. And here's the thing. I love it. I love the bike (pure steel baby). I love the idea of it. I can't wait to go out again (tomorrow?). You know why? Cyclocross requires you to actually ride your bike. With control. And to pick your lines meticulously, not just carefully (or carelessly nowadays with all the "big hit" bikes out there). There's a certain level of class and sophistication when you're riding a road bike with skinny nobby tires on the same trails you would with your mountain bike (okay, maybe not ALL the same trails you would mountain bike, but then again, I think I'm at a point in my life [age?] when I'm starting to ask, if it's THAT technical, should I be riding it all?). Makes my mountain biking side feel like a knuckledragger.

When I'm on my cyclocross bike I feel like I should be listening to Vivaldi, maybe sipping a little wine, wearing a Campy hat. It requires a certain level of attention to detail you don't have to have on a mountain bike. Most mountain bikes these days allow anyone to go out and nearly traumatize themselves and everyone else on the trail. They seem to allow for way too much speed in the hands of way too clueless riders. Just my experience. I can't just bomb down hills on my cross bike like I can on my mountain bike. No mam. I have to pay careful attention to what I'm doing. Control my speed. Respect my tenuous relationship between tire, dirt, and my uprightness. Call me a snob, or better yet, an old curmudgeon (oh, I like that, do it again). Here's to riding a road bike on the dirt! May all those who know honor the sacred vows of the covenant, and forever grin holding the sweet secret revealed in the land of Cyclocrossatopia. Long live the brother-sisterhood!

And the road riding here. You should see this place on a Saturday afternoon. Cyclists rule the roads here. All the twisting, turning back roads of Marin draw em' by the thousands it seems. That's the other thing about the cross bike (again, pure steel baby!), throw some slicks on it and I'm off. The little road riding I've done here has woke up the old roadie in me. I haven't had that much fun riding on a road since I can remember. Probably since the country roads of Howard County, MD.

SO that'll about do it. I think I'm gonna go hop on the bike, climb up onto the ridge on "Morning Light" trail, connect to Alta, down to Rodeo beach (pronounced rode-AYo, not like the horse and bull torture game cowboys play), back up onto the sea cliff above (that's the Golden Gate behind me, looking north nothing but rolling, green, coastal hills and the Pacific Ocean), and see what other discoveries await (oh look, there are some horse riders down there in the valley on Bobcat trail). On the way out and back to the cottage maybe I'll stop at a little cafe, sip an espresso, and watch the gulls fly overhead, ponder the aesthetic possibilities of a Brooks leather saddle on my new ride, or maybe some Phil Wood hubs. Or maybe just the salt sea air instead. Yeah, let's just smell the wind and watch the water, shall we?

I'll get some pictures up when the real computer makes it back.

UPDATE:

Well I guess I could change the name of this post to say that yeah, the eagle has landed, and now he's all covered in oil. Or I could've ended it with smelling not so much the salt sea air, but the fowl, piercing smell of rank oil. In case you haven't heard there was an oil spill here in the bay area. I did go for that ride and descended down 800 feet from the ridge to Rodeo beach and when I got there the place was crowded. News trucks, fire trucks, police, park rangers, curious citizens, and surfers with downcast eyes shaking their heads in disgust, were there looking out over the Pacific. Men in yellow plastic suits and rubber gloves walked the beach shoveling black sand into plastic bags, picking up dead birds, doing their job. If you've never witnessed an oil spill it is a tragic thing to see. It's one thing to see it on TV, read about it in the newspapers. But to see it in person...

I climbed back up onto the ridge and headed north a little bit and looked out over the ocean. As far as I could see an oil slick covered the water below. This is where the Marine Mammal Center is. This whole coastline is a marine sanctuary. How many marine mammals will die? How many birds?

A container ship (carrying what? Lead paint toys from China? Soccer balls? Flatscreen TVs?) struck the bay bridge and poured thousands of gallons of oil into the water. Apparently the Coast Guard screwed the pooch on this one and under reported the amount of oil spilled. You'd think with all that new money thrown at them since 9/11 they'd be able to do their job. Guess they were busy waiting for Osama to paddle his pretty blue kayak from Pakistan to come and take us all hostage, turn us into commies.

Forty miles of coastline have been affected by this spill. Eight beaches have been closed. 58,000 gallons. Here's a dead, oil covered bird: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/c/a/2007/11/09/MN3TT959H.DTL&o=4

Slow response by the Coast Guard? Try glacial. Try what-the-hell-did-we-give-you-all-that-money-for slow. Guess this is the price we pay if we want to drive our cars. Get cheap beer. Play video games. Wear jeans. Furnish the new kitchen. Wait one minute, I'll be right back...sorry, that was the UPS guy delivering my replacement lenses for my sunglasses. Well look at that, Made In China. Well whooptie frickin' dee. Do I get a choice in this matter? You can't find American made replacement lenses. Not since some died-in-the-wool, blue-blooded, god-fearing, patriotic, tax-evading American CEO decided to move his operations to slave labor land, decrease his costs, beat the sh*t out of his competition. Semper Fi. Oorah.

That's the beauty of the "free" market system folks. We get to buy our stuff from way over there for real cheap. REAL cheap. And some corporation gets to pass the buck. Hand me another slice of apple pie. Tell me about the purple mountain's majesty. Just make sure I get my cheap crap.

But the real costs, the real costs lay floating right out there my friends. They've got to get passed somewhere. What will they add up to? How do they affect our collective bottom line? I guess we'll find out.

THIS is Big Sur!

Let me first start off by saying I’m sorry. I apologize for deserting you blog so coldly. It was me, my dear blog, all me, you had nothing to do with it, you’re perfect just the way you are. I just needed some time to think is all. I know, I should’ve called, or even sent a little comment, but I needed some space, you know, to find myself. You know how Jim Morrison was visited by that naked Indian who led him to the other side, well I had a similar experience. Except I was visited on the street in Haight Ashbury in San Francisco, you know, the summer of love, Grateful Dead and the Hells Angels, by a street person (“bum” if you must) who asked me for a slice of pizza. You’re not supposed to give the “streetpeople” money here, I guess it’s like feeding the bears in Yosemite, so I thought well, he’s not asking for money, the man’s just hungry. No harm done. Sure I will.

So I walk into the first pizza joint I see (and there are lots here you know) and order up two slices (one for me, one for him), walk out and give him one. Here’s the happiest guy in the world. He’s thanking me up and down, sending praises my way, blowing little butterfly kisses in my direction. No problem I say and head off towards Golden Gate park, scratchin’ my head wonderin’ why so much enthusiasm for that pizza. He must have been REALLY hungry I thought. Then I bit into my slice and poof (!), I saw the same light he saw, felt the same bliss he felt, and I turned and sent praises his way, even tried to blow little butterfly kisses back down the street towards him but mine weren’t quite as beautiful as his, mine were more like little grasshopper kisses that didn’t so much fly but bounced along haphazardly. Who knows if they ever made it to the right place. All I know is that eating that pizza awakened in me an old spirit who went to sleep years ago, which tried to stay awake after we left Baltimore, waking up every now and then with the anticipation of trying a new pizza joint in Seattle, maybe THIS one will be the place, and when it wasn’t that old spirit would lay back down, just for a nap he’d say, until finally he never woke again.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that there is real pizza here (no offense my beloved Seattle, I love ya as my own, but you need a pizza enema, everything else about you is just about perfect). There’s even a Little Italy here and I got this slice not even in Little Italy. I had forgotten what pizza was supposed to taste like. Now Little Italy in Baltimore is pretty little, but you could still get good pizza just about anywhere in Baltimore, and for cheap. And here I was, in the Haight (with a VW campervan no less!), with a slice of heaven picked from a random joint, and in three different directions I could see “Pizza Lucca,” Fazio’s,” and “Guzzi’s.” And Little Italy is not so little here. The promise for such good Italian food, the simplicity of walking up to a window and getting a real piece of pizza I guess woke up that old bloke inside, sent him waltzing across my gustatory dance floor, made me remember you dear blog. I hope you forgive me for being away for so long.

Now that we’ve made up I want to tell you about all that we’ve seen. I think Diana did a fine job of describing Mammoth/Bishop. I will just add that the southern Sierras are probably one of the most beautiful mountain chains I’ve seen. ‘Nough said. (Make sure you check out all of our photos here.)

From Bishop we went through June Lake, a little ski town just south of Yosemite, stayed for a night, then headed through Yosemite itself. Through the high country down to the valley and all of that granite. Thousands of vertical feet of granite on all sides, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and right down there in the center of it, high heels and gold grilled slammed Cadillac Escalades with low profile tires and four thousand dollar rims. “Like allmygod. This place is like sooooo beautiful, like rocks and stuff, like super green and like water thingies that go under bridges.” Do you think the person on the other end of that cell phone in Orange county (let me guess, L.A.?) is getting a clear image of this place? I hope so ‘cuz you almost just got run over by an RV called “Mountain Slayer” driven by a half-blind retiree from Albuquerque. That’s the valley. It’s a love hate thing.

You have to understand that I was deathly ill at this point, the details of which I will not go into. Just know that coming out of the valley heading towards the bay area I nearly filled up our trash can with the contents of my stomach while Di was behind the wheel trying not to pass out from nausea. Some of you may know she has a weak stomach for this sort of thing so she immediately pulled over on the side of the road. I tumble out, trash can in hand, and work my way over to the ditch to pour out the can. Just as I’m calculating how much that should have been ( ¾ of a gallon?) I notice I’m right beside a hog pen, and there’s one now, looking at me, his little curly tail back there wagging a bit then stopping abruptly. He throws his nose up into the air, turns around and waddles off towards the rest of the gang, who by now are all looking at me, some saying something to each other, all of them with this look of disgust. Like I was some sort of street person (okay, “bum”).

“Sorry,” I say, “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

We get back on the road, spend the night in Modesto, or Molesto I should say, at the Vagabond Inn with hookers and drug dealers, changing our room at about 11:00 p.m. because of the “special” party next door between Jose and his nice little paid date. Nothing says class like blaring gangster rap in such times of intimacy. Who am I to judge. To each his own, right? Yeah, whatever.

From there straight to the La Quinta (Spanish for “Cheaper than the Marriott”) at the airport so Di can fly out to Vermont for a meeting. I stayed there in San Fran with Edie and Bodhi and we had a good ole time. We pretty much just explored the city and the beaches around it. What a cool town. Nothing like being able to go to the Pacific Ocean within ten minutes of a major city. Grab some breakfast, wax the board, catch the 23 to Pacifica, hang out with the ocean all day and still be back in time to catch the opera, if you’re into that sort of thing, or maybe grab a bite at one of those Italian cafes off Colombo, or perhaps some eastern fare in Chinatown, want organic? Well then just look around, chances are there’s a restaurant serving organic food within eyesight.

Okay, who knows what song this is: “When the lights go down in the city, and the sun shines on the bay….I want to be there in my city…oh, oh, ohohoh.” That band was from San Fran. Did you know that? Amazing isn’t it.

So Di came back, we hopped in the van, went to Half Moon Bay (home to Mavericks, the legendary beast of a wave that is the Quicksilver Mavericks surf comp and death place of Hawaiian surfer Mark Foo), and from there to Santa Cruz. Do you know what’s in Santa Cruz? That’s right, Patagonia. And they have an outlet store. ChaChing! I’m sportin’ new Patagooch threads for more than half off. Di was getting sick of the two shirts I brought with me on this trip, I changed in the store’s bathroom, emerging to applause from the staff and Diana. Our marriage was saved for at least another year.

And here we are now in Big Sur in this cabin nestled in the Redwood forest. Yes, the weather is so nice here that the bathroom IS outdoors, flushing toilet, shower, tub and all. I’ve got to tell you, even though I run the risk of offense, that I’ve never had such a wonderful time going to the bathroom. Our cabin is in this canyon and down there in the bottom is a nice little bubbling stream. So you’re sittin’ there, in the forest, listening to the birds, listening to the stream, sun shining down, and you say to yourself, “Yes, this is the way it is supposed to be.” This place is so nice Di is gonna have to drag me outta here, me clawing the ground by my fingernails all the while yelling “No, you can’t make me!”

At night all you hear are the crickets chirping and the stream below. It’s almost as if this cabin were a tree house because it is perched on the steep slope of the valley wall looking over at the ridge across the way and up valley to the Ventana Wilderness. That’s why it is so quiet here, because of the wilderness. This place reminds me of the writings of the old Zen lunatics of ancient China and their meditation huts high up on Li Shan Mountain, how they would stare at the moon, listen to the warm wind through the bamboo, contemplate the crickets by the stream below. I just came in from doing that myself, still surprised at how warm the breeze is through these Redwood trees. This place is unique indeed.

So I hope that makes up for my time away. Always know that there wasn’t one day gone by that I didn’t think of you. I didn’t visit or post to any other blog while I was gone. There’s only room enough for one blog in my heart. And you’re the one sweetheart.

the green tube of infinitude, that's one big tree, beware the natives, another beautiful one, the serpent inside, other photos

Bluebird in Mammoth Lakes on October 5th!!!

Jason should tell the story of how it snowed 6 inches in 30 minutes while he was grocery shopping (the weather report still saying "possible snow showers with less than 1/2 inch accumulations"). I am sure it would be much funnier if he told it. But, he seems to have lost interest in posting to this blog. In brief, he goes into the grocery store to pick up a few things for dinner, roads are just wet, the 3-4 inches of snow from earlier melted. He comes out to a blizzard with 6 inches of snow on the roads and the melted snow underneath now ice. He has to drive with his head out the window, because he can't see where he is going.... Fortunately, the van got him back safely, and we ended up with a nice blanket of snow on the ground. The next day, we hiked to the top of a peak with amazing views, and found some snowboarders riding down (see the tracks?). So jealous. Who would have thought we should bring our boards and skiis? Well, we had fun anyway, esp. Edie.

Other pics:
Icicles on boulder
Is that Tom Cruise on the trail?
Bodhi climbing in the Buttermilks
Natural hot tub

Snow in Mammoth Lakes!!!

We woke up to a few inches of snow this morning. And it is still snowing, hard! Funny thing is, the weather reports are still saying "cloudy with possible snow showers, less than 1/2 inch accumulation".... Yeah well, 3-4" so far with seemingly no end in sight. Remember the Donner Party? Too bad they didn't have skis. Too bad WE don't have skis!

And this is what happens in the Sierras after it snows (AKA Bluebird):

Okay, now refer back to the picture on top. That's what it's doing again. In Sierraesque blizzardary magnificence.

Bishop and Mammoth Lakes, CA

The beauty of this place has so amazed us, that it has stunned Jason into silence. It seems he has nothing to add to this blog! So, I guess you will just have to check out our photos here:

http://www.flickr.com/gp/10412955@N03/Z3bDz0

and imagine all the wonderful experiences we are having....

Snow in Tahoe

Well, we’ve parked ourselves in the South Lake Tahoe area and have decided to loiter awhile, having found enough here to occupy our time. Anyone wake up to snow on Thursday, September 20th? We did. Imagine that. For some of you reading this blog (as if anyone really does read this blog) it might still be like what? 90 degrees? And here we are, hats, mittens and snowshoes. Well not quite. It was really only a dusting at our elevation. Up higher I think it put down maybe 3-4 inches. What an exciting thing it is to see the year’s first snow. Especially up in the mountains. I don’t know if Seattle’s seen the first dusting up in the Olympics or Cascades, but if it has, I know some people right now are blowin’ dust off their skis, rubbing their hands together, checkin’ the local mountain film festivals to watch vids of people playin’ in the powdery white goodness. People of the snow get giddy at the year’s first dusting. Smiles come out. You notice a little extra spring in their step. Some might even achieve temporary flight they’re so damn happy! If you’re not a snow person you’re probably scratching your head right about now. And this is when I get to use a silly cliché and say, “It’s a snow thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Sorry. I’ve always wanted say something like that. Makes me feel special.

We took a little stroll up 9,735 ft Mt. Tallac, Lake Tahoe’s prominent feature, and summited just when some weather started to move in. The wind was howling, the sky turned dark, we had only a Clif Bar for food, and I had a strange sense that we were being watched. People of the Himalayas talk about Yeti, people in the Cascades and Sierras talk about Sasquatch, and when you’re rummaging around up the mountains sometimes you can’t help but feel like you’re being tracked by some wild beast. Dogs are good to have around in these times because they usually sense something’s awry long before you do. And in this picture, which was taken only at the last split second of our encounter, shows Edie is well aware that we are in fact being tracked. Take a look. Doesn’t she look horrified? Well take a look at the pic again, and look down towards the bottom of the frame and you’ll understand her concern. Right there we’ve managed to capture only a glimpse of the beast as it sprung off, never to be seen again. It may be perhaps the only known photo to capture such incongruity of the relationship between predator and prey. That’s our girl. Special she is.

That’s it for now. Until next time, I want you to conjure up that image we all have of the Dukes of Hazard, right before the commercial break, the shot freezes with the Duke boys mid-flight in the General Lee jumping over some backwater dirt pile, Rosco in chase right behind them, the narrator saying something like, “Will the Duke boys be able to spread the chili on Boss Hog’s dog?” Which I think is redneck for, “Will they make it through that ridiculous jump with the General Lee nary a scratch?” Got the image? Good. Now hold it. We’ll be back.

other photos: summit Team 1 just before the encounter with the beast

Anyone want to go halvzies on a vacation cabin? Di thinks it only needs a coat of paint and maybe an updated kitchen. Edie seems to like it just the way it is.

Lake Tahoe

Okay, it’s been a while. I guess you could say we’re in a R&R phase here in Lake Tahoe, the place where we got married 8 years ago, and just really getting into not doing much. I’m down with a hip injury so some of it may be forced rest time. Right now could be a great opportunity to write about how I injured my hip with some heroic, adrenaline-filled, gnarly mountain bike crash or something. Yeah, like I was trying to jump the American River Canyon (sans cape and stretchy pants), came up short, cased the other side, did like 14 flips before sliding face first to a stop, limped out 22 miles to a dusty, desolate highway.

Or how about a rock climbing fall? Yeah, remember that scene from Cliffhanger, the opening scene where Sly is hanging by one hand from an overhang like a thousand feet off the ground, well how does that sound? There I am no rope, and it starts to rain. Above I hear a mountain lion taking a leak on a sage bush….

Okay. It was a yoga injury. There, I said it. While trying to protect my body from injury because of all the physical activity we’ve been doing, I went and injured myself. Irony is a female dog. A not very well trained one I might add.

So from the North Cascades we drifted north to Rossland BC, home of Red Mountain. But not before crossing the border at the smallest, least conspicuous border crossing I’ve ever seen. Picture a little shack, stop sign, and a guy inside dozing, listening to Bryan Adams. He waves us forward tells us to shut off the van. Uh oh. Not like the Peace Arch crossing eh? There you’ve got like 4 lanes of cars pouring through the border, no time to chat much less turn off your car. I guess we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

“Where ya from?”

Think here, we’re not really from anywhere at the moment. I mean, we’re from the last place we left technically. We don’t live in Seattle anymore. We don’t live in San Fran yet. Where ARE we from? Good, philosophical question there. Could ponder that for eons. Maybe toss in, ‘Why are we here? What’s the meaning of life?’

“We’re from Seattle.”

“Why are you here?”

Damn it! Where do you start with this one? Descarte? Lao Tzu? Or how about the Navajo origin myth?

“Little bit of mountain biking, climbing up in ROSSland.” That’s how you have to say it when you don’t know how it’s pronounced by the locals. Lots of stress on the Ross part.

“Rozzlin eh?”

Should've known. Not only did I screw up the Ross part but I pronounced the land as, well, land. Now everybody knows that if there's a place that ends in land you never pronouce it that way. I'm from Maryland. Pretty common knowledge that it's pronounced like the woman's name Marilyn, not Mary-Land. Know of any place that ends in land that says it like land? Only one I know is Disneyland. No one ever says, "Hey Earl, what say you, me, and the boys load up the truck full a beer and weiners and head on down to Disneylin." Other than that, if it ends in land you should say lin. I know this. And yet.

“Got rabies shots for yer dog?"

Yeah, and we’ve got the paperwork to prove it, you tree tapper. Di digs around in the back for the paperwork and the guy looks at me, asks me what I do for a living. I tell him I’m a teacher. The next question seemed a little off topic, but I think these guys really know what they’re doing.

“Ever been convicted of a felony?”

“No.” Here he pauses for a moment, looks at me harder, his eyes squinting a bit.

“Ever?”

“No. Never.” I look in the rear view mirror, not a car in sight. This guy’s got no motivation to speed things up.

“Know anyone in Rozzlin, any friends or family up there?”

“Nope.” I’m starting to get a little bothered by now. I’m just trying to go into this guy’s country and spend my weak, dying American dollar and he wants to grill me? I mean the dollar and the loonie are about one to one. No more deals for us gringos in mapleland. It won’t take much for me to swing the van back around and head south pal.

Di produces the paperwork, I hand it to him. He takes it and tells me, while sliding the window shut on me, “I need to look something up.”

How much time passed? I don’t know. All I know is that the sun was starting to set and we still had a ways to go before we found a camp somewhere. And look something up? What’s that supposed to mean? Like he had to google something? Check the weather?

The window slid back open and he handed the paperwork back to me.

“Okay,” he said, “Do you know where you are?”

“Well we know where we are on the map,” I said back.

“Okay, because tourists don’t normally go through this crossing. The only reason I’m here is because of that beer store right there,” he points back into America and a little store with neon “Bud Light” signs in the window. “The only reason people go through here is to go and get cheap American beer.”

A six pack of Kokanee, the Canadian version of Budweiser, costs over $12 dollars. You read that right. Twelve friggin’ greenbacks.

It occurred to me that we didn’t know where we were and ended up at the wrong border crossing. He tells us how to get where we’re going, gives us a map to help us out, describes a little the good places to visit.

“Have a nice trip,” he says as I fire up the van. The sun now below the horizon. Have a nice trip. From his point of view we could have been drug runners, or beer runners for that matter. No wonder his obvious suspicion in our crossing there. There were a whole lot more questions than what I wrote, like, “How long will you be in Canada? Ever live anywhere else in Washington besides Seattle? Anywhere? What’s your wife do for a living?” When given this answer (biostatistician) he looked back blankly, lips open like a fish, then moved merrily along to the next question forgetting he ever heard that word. To the Kootenays we went. And as everybody knows, BC is a beautiful place. No need for elaboration eh?

From Rossland down to Leavenworth for a few days and then straight to Bend Oregon, that gem in the desert, to visit Esther, Adam, and Amanda. Another awesome time together with friends. Esther was housesitting so we got to get out of the van for a few days. And like Bedouins coming off the Silk Road, we plunked down into a real, bonafide bed. Used real flushing toilets. Never bumped our head on the ceiling once. It’s the little things folks. For darned sure.

From Bend to Lake Tahoe. And here we are. Right back in the present moment. Gonna start making our way south through Yosemite, then down to Mammoth Lakes, and then Bishop. Plan is to end it with some time on the coast, Big Sur, a must see they say. Looks amazing. Off we go!

other pics:
Bodhi on a V12 boulder problem, an onsight of course!
Di stylin

Edie and Bodhi, getting along

North Cascades, Baby!

Diana and I have been through a few mountain ranges in our time. The North Cascades, even though it is in our backyard so-to-speak, surprises us every time we go through it. Dramatic peaks, snowfields, lakes, insane quiet, and right now not many other humans around—is there a better place on earth? Our first morning after leaving Seattle we woke up from our camp, drove a little bit into the mountains, and pulled off and hiked to here.

Not bad for a post hectic button-up-the-joint and get-on-the-road craziness campaign. Yeah, life’s been a little…well…I can’t remember lately. The mind’s a tad off let’s just say. We’re talkin’ touch down from Turkey, pack all of your junk (i.e., possessions) into some crates, try to sew up the loose ends, cross yer fingers, chant to the gods, comb the hair and start the motor cuz’ you can plan and worry yourself into compulsion. We dropped the keys to our temporary apartment in the drop-box, gave a forwarding address, said thank you very much we’re leaving now, turned onto I-5 north, and began the homeless life that is now officially the start of our road-trip. Yeah, I know, everything before was just a rehearsal. We’ve got our good clothes on.

Seriously, this is the first time since we started this so-called road-trip where I’ve felt, okay, we’re doin’ it. Before it was a week in Squamish, straight to another country for over 2 weeks, then get home and store your things away for the next 9 months. THEN the actual trip will begin. And so it has. And just like the rest of the country felt when Gonzales resigned, we’ve let out a huge WHEW. Good thing that’s over.

Here in the North Cascades, the remoteness of these mountains, the magnitude of their sheerness, and the deafening quiet, separate this range from many others in the U.S. We hiked up today to a ridgeline giving us views of Glacier Peak and the neighboring ridge with a name probably like Desperation Arm or something. That’s the way it is here. The names to the mountains, the ridges, even the lakes sometimes take on a dramatic horror like Dead Horse Ridge, Starvation Mountain, and Death Soon Canyon. My gut tells me the crooked prospectors that clawed their way up here back during the gold rush gave these names to keep others out. And thank ‘em for it. But maybe there is some truth to the names. Who knows. All I know is that rambling about these mountains, often with too little food and water, til you’re tired and hungry but stuck on the views, is a life worth living. There ain’t nothing better than coming down from a high mountain lake (after a dip of course), legs on fire, starving, and settling back into camp, muscles aching, rolling up in a blanket, a warm cup of tea, a book, and reading yourself into a stupor. You’re tired, dead horse tired, and there’s nothing like knowing that soon you’ll fall into the dark land of nod oblivion, a black sleep, dreamless, uninterrupted and deep. Beyond that, can you ask for anything more?

Speaking of sleep it’s about time I turn in. The sun’s setting behind the ridge over yonder and the old bones are a croakin’.

Maybe I won’t keep up this blog anymore. Maybe I’ll just settle in and enjoy the peace. Afterall, can I really convey this place? Will words work now? Sure, they worked to tell about all that historical business in Turkey. But will they suffice an alpenglow sky? The roar of the clear river through the trees? The raven calling through beams of golden light? Probably not. Let’s let them rest awhile in the quiet where they belong. Words sometimes muddy up the place and right now I’m enjoying the clarity of a high mountain nothingness. Wish you were here.

other photos: unlikely companions, nature's air conditioning, typical Cascade scene

“Excuse me, how I can help you spend your money?”

One of the national mottos of Turkey, that and “It’s no problem.” Everything is no problem. Even if you’re at the wrong bus station, will miss your connector, spend the next 8 hours on a bus (we’ve spent about 30 hours on busses, even with a flight between places to avoid another 6 hour bus haul), the AC in your room doesn’t work, there is no pepto-bismol from here to Greece, and you've got Turkey trot (a.k.a. Montezuma’s Revenge, a.k.a. Delhi Belly), all of it is “no problem.” What else are you supposed to say in a place that seems constantly on the verge of tragedy? Here 40,000 people die in an earthquake, and it’s as if a minor storm passed through. Here people push their babies in carriages out into crosswalks and cars STILL do not stop, here where families have at least one relative who has been killed in some sort of car accident.

I grew up at drag strips, my father being a weekend racer himself, I’ve sat behind the wheel of his race car, raced it down the track, pushing 8 cylinders of a 400 big-block good ole American steel muscle car and yet our cab ride from Urgup to the airport was probably the most scared I’ve been in a car, including the time…well never mind. We are in a mini-van, no seat belts of course because in Turkey, to wear a seat belt is to commit a fashion faux paux, I suppose, the driver hacking up something from his throat, answering his phone, cursing (I think), all at 130 km per hour, FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT. All of it down a Turkish highway (think ESPN Texas Rodeo Championship and you’ve got a good idea of what the van must have looked like from the outside), Diana turning green, me starting to fear that that the last kebob might climb its way out of my stomach and jump out the window to save itself (that selfish bastard!). And when we arrived at the airport with what? three minutes until our plane takes off, a line of what looked like Turkish refugees fleeing the country streaming out the door of the terminal (“It is no problem”), I fell out of the door of the van, kissed the ground, thanked Allah, and wondered what we would do if we missed the flight.

Alas, we did make the flight, it being late (of course), schedules here being like stop signs, optional, and we made our way to Selcuk and the site of Ephesus, the best preserved Roman city in Turkey (It is no problem). Not before of course a driver from our hotel picked us up and took us at 140 km per hour FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT, at night, down a Turkish highway (near tragedy).

That’s pretty much the way this trip has been. The pattern is this: insanity (chaos and mayhem), amazement, insanity, amazement, and so on. The physical and mental toll this takes on the European/western traveler becomes evident by the wary, sullen look in their eyes at about day 10, and you can easily distinguish them from the new arrival, smiling, excited, chipper, and you can communicate with this wary westerner with a simple look, I’m with you brother, I understand. You don’t say anything to these newcomers and just let them enjoy the honeymoon. If they were to ask, just like every Turk will, How do you like Turkey, you simply reply, It’s great, so much to see here. And that is the truth. There IS so much to see here. So much incredible history, the seat of Western civilization for chrissakes.

But to travel here you must get used to the title of this post. If there is one thing Turkey is good at, it is separating you from your money. Why? One torched economy after another. Get this. Five years ago a beer here cost 1,000,000 Turkish lira. The government decided to cut some zeros from the currency, printed up a new stack, and poof, a beer instantly cost 1 lira (It is no problem). Five years later a beer here costs anywhere from 4 to 7 lira depending where you are (so about 3-6 American smackers). The price for the metro in Istanbul increased just in the time we were gone (9 days).

You must also get used to what appears to be a general decay here, dying cats (and dogs), constant pestering from carpet peddlers, shopkeepers, restaurant hawkers, being cut in front of in line, no traffic laws (well they are not followed) and therefore utter chaos on the roads, almost being killed EVERYTIME you try to cross the street; ketchup on your pizza; 4 star being a relative term; heat comparable only to the fires of the river Styx; garbage everywhere; Attaturk staring at you at every turn (on the money, on the walls, on statues); people dancing under a giant Turkish flag singing the national anthem while simultaneously throwing their cigarette butts and empty water bottles into the Aegean; Turkish optimism (being told it is 102 degrees when it is 108, or the road signs that say 7 km to somewhere when it is actually 10 km); cigarette smoke in restaurants, busses, hotel lobbies, airports (everywhere okay); and something else but I must run to the bathroom, sorry.

Righto, but with all of this is the incredible helpfulness of the common Turkish person, insisting on helping you find your way, carry your bag, etc. The amazing historical sites. The incredible food (be careful though). The beautiful singing lilting from the imams’ call to prayer from the ubiquitous mosque marinets.

Under the general tone (which can only be called tragic), and the general belief that Turkey may fall into the hands of the radical Islamists of Iran, there is the unrelenting Turkish hope. Turkish generosity. Turkish hospitality. This part will be missed.

But generally I am missing now the cool, crisp air of the Puget Sound. I want to wait in an orderly line, single file, everyone waiting their turn. I want things to work on schedule. I want to actually stop at a red light. Stay within the painted lines of the highway. Cross the street without losing a leg. Eat leafy greens. Drink water out of a tap. I miss you America. Soon we will be home.

Ephesus

Ephesus is home to one of the best preserved Roman ruins in Turkey. Here’s an amphitheater. Here’s Medusa. And here are the public toilets, complete with the musician's area to entertain the relievers. Man, the Romans knew how to live. Since I’ve spent much time in Turkish toilets as of late, I found this sign to be amusing. Thus far I have failed to experience such magic. For the average Turk from a village, this flushing toilet device must be like manna from heaven. Here’s what village bathrooms look like, though this one is in a nice restaurant so it is a particularly upscale specimen. Any toilet paper in there?

Best not to look. Moving right along we went swimming in the Aegean. Had Turkish coffee with a Turkish family in their home (Mehmet’s family, a nice young man from the university where Diana taught who showed us around). Mehmet took us to an old Ottoman village high up in a valley that grows olives, grapes, and makes many kinds of fruit wines. We had lunch at his uncle’s restaurant.

On to Troy, where we saw more ruins. This one has probably the oldest known wall in the world (dated to 3000 BCE, the pyramids are dated to 2700 BCE). And then to Cannakale, home to Gallipoli and the battlefield from WWI , where hundreds of thousands of men died (most from Australia and New Zealand in addition to the Ottomans). We hopped on a bus and a boat and spun back to Istanbul. Short and sweet. Ciao.

More photos: island we took a boat to to eat dinner, castle in Selcuk, the Sacred Ramp in Ephesus, inside Ankara mosque (I forgot to post this pic in an earlier post)

See the rest of our photos here: http://www.flickr.com/gp/10412955@N03/7gb96e

Cappadocia

From Istanbul to Ankara, the capital of Turkey, down to Urgup, we went, to visit the must-see region of Cappadocia, land of grapes, underground cities, the mystical Fairy Chimneys, the Silk Road, and histories spanning the Hittites (1900-1300 BCE), the Phrygians(1200-600 BCE), Byzantines, Alexander the Great, Turks, and certainly others my brain has dropped due to amazement overload. Where to begin? How to describe? Will pictures help?

Let’s try the gist. The Fairy Chimneys. Okay, crazy formations by an ice age melt that left a huge body of water with volcanoes spewing rocks into the water, which landed on top of parasite vents at the bottom, water goes away, wind comes along, snow, melt, snow, melt (ad infinim), and viola! You’ve got basalt boulders sitting on top of cones, in which people lived, like Smurfs you could say, and when Marco Polo cruised through here on his little adventure he reported thousands of them on the valley floor, all with little streams of smoke coming out of the tops, people inside snuggly warm and content. Who were these people you ask? Good question. Originally Hittites possibly. But eventually Christians because there are churches with frescoes painted inside of Christ, John the Baptiste, Mary, etc. Then the Byzantines, finally the Turks, and even modern Turks up until the 60’s when the man kicked ‘em out, made a park, brought the tourists. In all fairness the chimneys started to collapse and kill the inhabitants so mandatory removal was probably a good thing?

This whole area, 4000 square kilometers, is covered in these cave dwellings that have been, and continue to be, used by the local people. Everywhere you look you see doors, openings, balconies, carved into the cliffs and hills all around. There are families here still making pottery in the Hittite style, handed down generation to generation, in these caves. We stayed in one for two nights, windows open into the cool Middle Eastern night. The crazy thing about these caves is that the entrances to them are about two stories off the ground requiring a rope climb entry. Why? Because, get this, to stay safe from cheetahs (the last one being killed in 1982?), lions, and other unsavory beasts (there were Gorillas in this area, giraffes, hyenas). I feel like a doofus for not knowing this.

The underground cities. Mind blower. There is believed to be about 150 of them here, 36 have been discovered, 8 are open to the public. Again, probably pre-Hittite people created the first couple of levels (8 levels in all), with the Christians creating the last several levels during the Roman persecution. These people could live down there for months on end without ever having to surface. They had vent shafts for both air circulation and to retrieve water that go down 350 meters into the earth, they have elaborate chimney systems so their smoke could not be detected from the outside, toilets, stables, kitchens, wineries, churches, everything they needed to wait out an enemy invasion. Four to five thousand lived in this two city complex we visited. Most of the cities were connected by tunnels, and really long tunnels went to the tops of mountains so sentries could watch for invaders (mainly Romans) and report back down into the underground city when they left so the inhabitants could surface and return to their homes and lives outside. In this area it is generally believed that 3 out of the 8 wonders of the world should be listed.

Goreme, a cave dwelling complex used by the Christians and later the Turks, was a kind of monastery, the biggest and most important during its time, it being the place where the Christian kingdom sent orphans to be trained in the ways of the church. Here you will see the only image in the world of Christ as a teenager, and the only image of him without a halo (Mary is holding him and it symbolizes that she would love him even if he wasn’t special).

I really feel like an uneducated American since coming to Turkey. Shouldn’t I have known that Alexander the Great spent much time here in Anatolia on his tour? Shouldn’t I have known that the Virgin Mary came here to retire? Shouldn’t I have at least known that the Romans built coliseums here, the Greeks were here, that Turkey was the seat of Islam for the entire Islamic world until Ataturk shut that program down in 1924 after the Independence War? (There is no such thing for the religion of Islam anymore because according to the religion it can only be located in Turkey) Why didn’t I know I was going to cross the Silk Road?

So we now head towards the Aegean sea to visit Ephesus (Roman capital of Asia Minor and the place of the Temple of Diana, Virgin Goddess of the Hunt and the Moon), home to a Roman coliseum and Roman city, the House of Mary (where she lived her last days), and the sea coast of the Aegean.

Other photos: Margaret Thatcher, Camel, you decide, Orca, no really, a camel

Istanbul, Turkey

Turkish cab riding, the new extreme sport. Don’t believe me? Try it. Pitch yourself in the front seat, strap in, hold on…and pray. Though I don’t think it’s limited to cabs, this suicidal blinded in one eye trust me I’m too tired to care sport comically called “driving,” because everyone here drives as if there’s a fire somewhere and peds are…well…silly. Or stupid. Hemingway said there were only three sports (mountain climbing, bull fighting, and auto racing [not Nascar of course, Formula 1]), all the rest were games. He obviously never tried to cross the street in Istanbul.

In all of this madness, the harranguing of carpet peddlers, the restaurant hawkers refusing to allow you to eat anywhere but there, the feral cats, the children smiling saying, “money, money, money,” there is in this city much beauty, many surprising gems, history beyond belief.

Take for instance the famous “blue mosque.” Famous? You ask. Understood. Once you come to Istanbul you will quickly learn it is famous. It is one of the places you will visit, guaranteed. This one is only 400 years old. You see, it was built by a sultan of the Turkish Empire who wanted to outdo the neighboring Aya Sofya (the picture in this post). The Aya Sofya was first dedicated in 537 CE by Emperor Justinian and was the Byzantine Empire’s greatest place of worship worthy of coronation of several Byzantine emperors. Christendom rallied from this church until the Conquest in 1453. Istanbul used to be Constantinople, the Roman Empire’s new capital following the decline of the western portion of Rome’s rule. And so it was that the Roman Empire ruled from this city until 1453 when the Turks came in and sacked the place (not before the 4th crusade, but that’s getting too involved isn’t it?), changed the color of the drapes, gave it a new name. Anyhoo, getting back to the original thread, the Aya Sofya was turned into a mosque after the Turks took over (now it’s a museum thanks to Ataturk) and the “blue mosque” was built by Sultan Ahmet I to outdo the Aya Sofya.

There are so many things to say about the history here, and we won’t bore you with it. Just know this, our hotel room (located in old Istanbul, which was Constantinople) looks out over the Sea of Marmara, the mouth of the Bosphorus, and old city walls that protected Constantinople from invaders for centuries; we can see the Asian side of Istanbul (no not Chinatown, there isn't one, the half of Istanbul that is on the Asian continent) while we stay on the European side; you cannot go anywhere here without being within earshot of the Imams singing over mosque loudspeakers calling Muslims to prayer 5 times a day (starting at 5 a.m.); and we had Turkish tea in an underground Roman cistern, the largest of its kind, that held water for the city (built in like 300 CE or something) pumped from aqueducts that ran from the Black sea. Did I mention the Egyptian obelisk built in 1430 BCE brought here by the Romans from Cairo as decoration for their Hippodrome chariot races here? Sorry. Just wait ‘til we get to Troy!

Other photos: bread man, us inside palace, inside blue mosque, Diana dancing in street, international man of intrigue, inside Aya Sofya, Aya Sofya mosaic

*note: The pics inside the Aya Sofya cannot illustrate the sheer impossibility that the entire ceiling of this place was covered in mosaics consisting of tiles the size of Chiclets.

Check out all our photos at http://www.flickr.com/gp/10412955@N03/1Qf7s0

Back in Seattle for one night before we take off for Turkey tomorrow. Left Squamish this morning after breaking camp and strolled on down the "Sea to Sky" highway towards Vancouver. Squamish is a mystical place that is changing rapidly. The Olympics are rolling into town and that's got the place sprouting condos and Starbucks like mushrooms at a Dead show. Still, it is somewhat lowkey for the time-being and the place is awe-inspiring.

We spent most of our nights camped up a forest road with Esther serenading us to sleep, while waking in the morning mozying about deciding what to do for the day (hike? bike? climb?). On day 5 we decided to head up to Whistler and play around there for the day. It was clear from the time we started walking through the village early that morning that we were not dressed properly for such high mountain travel. Nonetheless, we trekked on marvelling at the hoopla surrounding the coming Olympic games and the frenzy it's stirred there. Keep your eye on the 2010 winter games and you might just see a shining new team in the bobsled event.

One thing's for sure, even though us humans in this vagabond crew weren't up to the fashion standards of sparkling Whistler, Buck and Edie still won Best in Show. Whistler is really a beautiful place where a family can have good time together. Just make sure you bring plenty of dough. Loonies and Georgies are about even now (translation: the American dollar has sunk to a point where the Canadian dollar is worth more).

On the final day Adam and Amanda made us blueberry and Salmon berry (fresh picked by Amanda by the river close to our camp!) pancakes. As the time came to bring this leg of our trip to a close a certain sadness set in. As I watched Adam and Amanda drive out of camp for the last time I spun memories of our time here around in my head. From Brent and Emily bouldering with us, to alpen nights in camp, spinning still to just relaxing, talking, laughing our way into memories created we can later recall around an as yet to be determined adventure together. Thank you Squamish. Thank you Whistler. Most of all, thank you, our friends, for meeting us during this first week of our trip. We couldn't have started it a better way without you.

So we're off to Turkey tomorrow. We'll see how much we keep up with the blog thing during the next 16 days.

Hiking in Squamish

Sitting in the Howe Sound Brewery...yes, after a long day of mountain biking, following Adam down a Squamish double black diamond wondering, how, howe, Howe good it was going to feel...thighs on fire because yesterday we hiked to the top of the Chief (2,600 feet of granite) with Esther, where just before she was about to prove her mettle someone said wait! What? Check this out. Sometimes when taking photos the light is just right, or maybe the backdrop, or something else, but in the photo in this post something weird has happened. I think it was the clouds. I think it was the fact that the Howe Sound is glacier green. The sun was out. Maybe it was the wind on the water. Or maybe all of it. But I think the magic in it is enough to show the beauty of this place. Words will not suffice. Enjoy.

More pics: Edie and Diana, Esther and Buck, Cool boulder, Beautiful scenery, Edie

Our Seattle homies threw us a little sending off party (good riddance?) at the Barking Dog (a.k.a. the Stray Dog to us insiders) around beer, food, and stories. Even the beautiful Stella graced us with her presence, and annointed the trip as one worthy of the royal blessing. Party is probably too big a word, more like a gathering among friends. The honorable Dik Lang signed our ship's travel log and assured us safe passage through Hells Canyon, though he knew we weren't headed that way. Lt. Commander Ruebel said he received word the roads were clear and that bandits have been warned to steer clear of "The Great White Van," lest they receive punishiment from the Ballard contingent. Thank you Chewy for arranging the ceremony.

Funny how when it comes down to the wire you start to get excited about being on the road, wandering as you wish, with no concrete agenda, but at the same time a kind of sadness sets in. Sadness of leaving friends behind, sadness of leaving the familiarity. Diana said she felt sad when she left her office for the last time (imagine that!). Yes we are heading into some beautiful places, and yes we will be blown away. But we do love our Seattle (even though it rains 365 days a year here, right folks?).

Esther's on her way up to meet us and we'll pull out onto the freeway (I-5 North towards Vancouver B.C.) on Wednesday morning sometime. Adam and his better half Amanda will meet us Wednesday night or Thursday morn (I can't remember) in Squamish. Brent and his better half Emily will show up Friday night I believe. And so it begins, while at the same time our life here in Seattle is coming to a close, like the setting sun, which is the reason for the picture in this post, that hopes to capture my feelings of an ending to something special.

So we will begin our trip on Wednesday August 1st with a jaunt in Squamish BC, land of the hairy sasquatch, playing on the rocks that are scattered around this, North America's southern-most fjord. Squamish is a climbing mecca. A kite boarding mecca. A mountain biking mecca. It's just mecca. Home of the 2010 Winter Olympics. Well technically speaking the Olympics will be held in Vancouver and Whistler, but Squam (or Squish as Adam likes to call it), is the place where everyone will board buses from Vancouver to head up to Whistler for the snow events. Squamish. Where crabs rest with coyotes, and the hills spill free Kokanee from the glaciers above.