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