Refuel

I am catching some embers from my past postings. My first blog, The Adventurous Spirit hit its thousandth view a few days ago. I suppose a humble accomplishment for having existed for some 4 years now (I began a few days into October 2009). As I listen to Why Should I Cry For You -- which is seeming to contain the emotional essence (in my mind's ear and amygdala, anyway) of my future, present, and past -- I am getting enough juice to write one more post. In 6 hours, that big silver eagle is taking me on a journey back to Utah. The freedom and entrapment all at the same time. Remember that?

We ride a bus, a big silver eagle
It ain't quite as nice as you think
The freedom of the highway can feel like a prison
With bars made of asphalt and paint

I had a conversation with one of my most amazing people I met on the mission. The work of gathering people to Christ allows you the realest and most bizarre and beautiful (all descriptors are fitting of this particular man) encounters. He suggested that "we are all trying to experience freedom. You are getting it with your bicycle, I am getting it with this room [he kept it immaculate and free of any junk. Spotless. Clutterless]". This gentleman extrapolated the conclusion merely from describing pleasure on a scale from one to ten that the greatest way to experience fun/joy/freedom/pleasure was to, as I would say, "lose yourself in the service of others". My 2 years in California can attest to that. I look back at my posts and see something in myself that I don't have right now, or at least is greatly suppressed. I want it back. I want me back. Is that all I wanted to find out here? I didn't find anything! What am I looking for?! A PC?! I love this ten times more than an iPod touch (now don't get me wrong, it is a wonderful thing to have, but its just second best at the end of the day. I put off writing in this blog until I have a PC in front of me). I feel like myself just for now, just by being at a PC for the first time in months! I will change the nature of my writings for a bit, a little experiment. We have spent enough time wondering about outer space and not enough time pondering on inner space. What I mean is that what is dramatically more important than what is outside us is what is inside us. And I don't mean you, I mean us. Each one of us, you and your brother, your mother, the love of your life, what lies on the other side of their eyes, that is what I will consider more important in my next blog. The inner man, not the outer world.

On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are

The leather-rubber tramp is tramped out and his rubber tires and leather shoes will finally get some rest.

Done

Oh how many travelers get weary
Bearing both their burdens and their scars
Don't you think they'd love to just stop caring
And fly like eagles, out among'st the stars?

Turns out, some that wander are lost. I realized this once and for all after my before-mentioned trip. I am tired. I want nothing, but I want everything. I dare to desire, yet, within the deep recesses of my mind, I want to sleep and dream and drift off. The dream keeps slipping away. My mind leans to when I'll leave a land, not what it should be.
I got into Ventura at 6am, the day before Thanksgiving. Within an hour, I was asleep. Within twelve hours, I had given away my dinner to a homeless person, bought a half-dollar pair of swim trunks and taken a dip in the Pacific. A day into my landing in Ventura, I became ill, and kept this illness with me for more than half of my time in the Golden State. That feeling of "Yes! I'm succeeding! I'm moving and loving and eating truth!" faded by time Bakersfield came. Some things don't go as planned. All will be well. 

Lompoc: Part Two

I must admit, Christmas burnt me out a little bit. Food, people, food, people. I needed some decompression time. I allowed this is the perfect time for me to go on that bicycle tour of the Santa Ynez Valley. I was later told that the places I traversed are an envy of the world for bicyclists and that roadies fly here to experience the ride which I, ultimately all the way from South Carolina, enjoyed.
First destination was Gaviota. Goodness, I had passed this section of America literally dozens of times during the mission and there were times that it called to me so strongly. It is an odd part of the US 101 that changes from sand hills to stoic rocky soil in nearly an instant. Two land masses seemingly smashed up together, resulting in dramatic sheer rock faces and mountains on both sides of the road. In a small dell between these formations, where the cold north winds find contest with the tropical sea winds than make Santa Barbara 5 to 10 degrees warmer and which swirl through the wind caves that overlook the Pacific. I arrived in Gaviota State Park but before getting into the actual park stopped at a rest stop. I watched a man playing Jingle Bells with a rabbit sitting on top of his head and gave him 5 dollars before he got in his van and drove off to Ojai. I love California because there are such a high "population of people who is what they is per square mile". I went to the beach and walked around. I eventually found a place to lay my blanket. All I brought with my bicycle was warm gear and a plastic bag with Ezekiel 3:7 cereal, honey, and dried cherries. I dropped all of my things except the food and practically leapt my way up to the summit where the wind caves are. Pockmarks and holes covered the entire rock faces, often having divots within divots. Some sections formed as if the rock was fluid. Caves often opened on opposing sides. I got to a point where my entire existence became climbing. The deformities and cubbyholes in the rocks served only as functional to me to grab hold of. At times I would hug the entire rock face to hold on while moving one knee then that same leg to get to the next grab point. Getting trapped was a grave possibility at many points, with my inexperience (climbing up or down, only to realize that you can neither go up nor down from that next spot). I came closer and closer to the peak, the sun shining on the last tip of the summit. I had to see that sunset over the ocean (it was just blocked by the last ridge)!! As the adrenaline levels rose with my altitude, fear left me and I skittered up the last bit like it was a race. When I reached to the top, in all honesty the first thing I did was not stand up and shout, nor did I look to catch that last bit of sunlight. I prayed. I prayed not to fall off and die. Any slip gave no reticence or chance for a redeeming correction or grab. I can see why people get into rock climbing. It is intimate, it is raw. I felt like an animal and invincible.
I stayed up on that summit and the hollow section below it for a good hour. It was so lovely. The hills offered slivers of the ocean and horizon, now set in fuchsia and bright reds and oranges. Looking more east the road made its elegant curve from south-going to east-going, the car lights going by casually. I took a rest in the cave, fitting my body to the curves and holes, almost as comfortable as a good bed. With night fall it was surprisingly charming, the lights from the cars in the distance and oil rigs at sea with the last-light ambient purple sky as a backdrop. The caves sounded beautiful, albeit quiet. I mused that the same winds that play on these also shaped them, like a master artisan, crafting ocarinas and steel drums. Sleep did not come easy that night. Dehydration played on my ability to get sleep and keep warm. The next day, the first place I headed was Nojoqui Falls, the only fresh water for dozens of miles. It was wonderful. One of the tourists (I there primarily to live, though it was pleasant to look at too!) suggested that perhaps there were animals urinating at higher elevations and that the water was unclean. I suggested that she wasn't thirsty enough! Either way, it was exactly what I needed. The ride to Solvang was surprisingly fast, and the view (again, looking behind) at the Santa Rita hills was just stunning. The final test was Santa Rosa Road. As you can imagine, what really attracted me to this road was the mention that it was shadier than the straighter route back to Lompoc! I felt my legs getting stronger as I passed the 10% grade, and felt my eyes getting purer as I finished out that wonderful road. The hills looked soft and caressed in the half sunlight, the banks of the road were green and lovely even in this exceptional drought. As I neared the end, a thought kept coming to my mind: "end with strength, not with weakness!". That was my way out of that road, not merely my legs. The last bit of it was an appreciable rise which ended with a scream at the top of my lungs. As I got home and showered and applied my sombra cream, I felt clean! I have to use this strenuous experience as a launching point to become a real roadie once I get to Utah!

Lompoc: Part One

I arrived in this great ol town Friday afternoon. First things first, I rode up the grade, surprised at how easy it was. I reveled in the warmth, open spaces and really the smells of the woods and bushes. Oh how I missed them. Some of the first things you notice when you get here is a rather large outcropping of white rock that can be seen across the Santa ynez river basin, looking from downtown. The next is when you go up to the Burton Mesa and you see that it is all sand! Beach soil 10 miles inland and yet there abounds a flora reminiscent of Muir's summer sierra foothills; pine trees, chaparral, manzanita, and chamise filled the air and my imagination. 

Every morning was a different adventure. The first was Miguelito canyon. I rode up for a few miles and then hit a grueling 13% grade. Thankfully it was short. The land was a wonderful blend of forest and beach flora, a mixing of aromas from the beaches and the deep forest. The next was Sweeney road, which lead to what I like to call crescent ridge. It is a remarkable outcropping of diatomaceous earth left from the time this land was a seabed. The road takes you right alongside the ridge, so much so that looking to see it requires looking straight up. In the distance in the Santa Ynez riverbed, trees stood with all of their leaves intact, blazing in color through a perpetual autumn (though I was told that this color recently came about with the freakish cold spell that passed over the central coast weeks prior). I rode the required distance to ensure all of these photos. I then rode off to the east end of town, soaking in all of the beauty, and all of the smells. Summer smells. Sugary smells. As I rode down one hill I was bathed in warmth. Oh it was excellent! It was like being In the old south again! I broke a sweat many a time that day. As I hinted at, it never gets cold long. While downtown is often fogged over and cool this time of year, the Mesa remains in the hands of Warmth and Light. Later that day, I was riding up above fog level, and I took in sweet aromas, spicy aromas and even the aroma of 

What I called "sweet mint ice cream" when it first hit my nostrils a year ago. And the sunlight in the last two hours f he day always gets me. As the land begins to prepare for bed, and the day draws so a close , The Lord almost seems to tuck a blanket over the land, and the sky turns the color of the sun. Back east we call the Blue Ridge Mountains such because the color of the mountains begins as green up close and fades to blue as you look farther away. In coastal California, mountains fade to white in the day, and to yellow and finally orange in the afternoon. 

Tehachapi, Calif.

I must admit, the weather kept me indoors a bit on this one.
The magic began for me when I was bicycling up to Alpine Forest in the late afternoon. I prepared for a bit of a glum ride, as the clouds filled the southwest sky. As I trudged up Arosa Road, the sun broke through on the western side and filled the northern mountains with the late afternoon color (that was identical in hue to the hills themselves) that originally made my heart yearn to one day return. That one day was today. Once I got to Alps Road and came to an opening between the foothills, what I saw to the north was so deep orange-red and warm. It was cold but my rekindled Tehachapi heart was emboldened. I rode downhill back to the CA 202 and headed west. I decided for a less car-travelled road and sunk down to Cummings Valley Road. It was dark and enchanting. I loved the cold air and the music playing on my iPod. The pure white light coming from my headlamp made things seem cozy and alright somehow. It was a gentle downhill ride almost the entire way to the entrance to Bear Valley. What a pleasant surprise! It allowed me a breathtaking survey of what was around me. It was peaceful and dark. A kind of enveloping comforting dark.

The next night was anything but contentment. Freezing rain. It was the beginning of a weather pattern that kept me inside for the better part of the next two days, as I had mentioned. The next morning I went for walk and was in awe. Everything had the appearance of glass. The trees, the shrubs and rocks, even the grasses were covered in a thin layer of ice, often stuck in bent position, frozen in the direction of the winds. I walked and explored this winter wonderland for an hour or so, coming to a dirt path near the side of a drop-off. It was blocked with rocks and trees, so I scrambled to the other side of the blockage. I slid behind a rock and came to thicket of tree/shrub growth with the past season's foliage crumpled up and soft on the ground, dry on top and damp beneath. It was enough to crawl through, but not to walk. I sat down beside the rock, out of view of the rest of any potential wanderers. I was overcome by a feeling to relax and close my eyes. The sun was just coming out, and shining harmoniously between the branches of the thicket. A final leaf hung onto a branch and was spinning rapidly, suspended in the sunlight. As beautifully cozy and recluse as it was, I'm glad I did not fall asleep. I may not have woken up!! The temperature never rose above freezing all that day and most of the next. I returned to the home to sleep.

Now what really caught me up in the adventurous spirit was what I travelled through as I left Tehachapi on to Bakersfield. I began to enjoy the cold on my face. finally getting used to the cold just as i was leaving it. it would be warmer down below. I got a flat (goat-head. I do not miss those) and had to replace the tube and patch the tire. Because of this delay, some friends who were heading down to Bakersfield saw me and stopped to offer me a ride. I figured to let them help, especially considering I wanted to spend some quality time with them before I left. I decided to cut it halfway and get dropped of in Caliente. Rolling hill country. Yellow and brown hills that caressed my daydreams and told me that I would always come back to them. This is where I rode into "Bakes" from. Lesson: Always enjoy the past for its sweetness

Caliente, California and environs

I looked behind and saw the road curving away. I looked below and saw dry riverbed. Above and afar were tan hills speckled with black dots of leafless shrubs. I stood still for a moment or two. In awe, the riverbed taking the exact same shape and bend as the road and hill. As I passed through all this I came to think about how when I hit tehachapi it was like pressing the reset button. Things were new and non-burdensome.
Just beyond around the next hill was a hidden trove of trees, still green and yellow, like I was looking back one season in time. After that, sights too beautiful for camera lens. It all got more accentuated as the sun got closer to setting. The cattle roads on the other side of the fence were fun just to imagine driving upon. A car passed and carved out the next mile of my travels, hugging the semicircular ridge. Next, a truck passed oncoming, I looked behind to admire it rising into the distance, the sun now casting a white glow on the entire land at my back.
I sit on a thrown away couch typing my thoughts. Looking westward at the tracks along the road, just moments away from the Bakersfield. I begin again, train tracks to my right and open field to my left. The field, frosty white-yellow; and the rise beyond it, a dark tan. The 3pm sun was doing its best work, and it also brought a Truman-show-like quality to the road ahead. It ramped up and disappeared over the horizon. I termed the final rise due west up ahead as "the portal". I belted out this name again and again, giving it saga-like airs. This was the final rise before The Central Valley. It was the portal to Bakersfield. The road gave one final lift (and I had to push to get up this last one), and I was in the Valley. Now, I am being generous with my pictures today, but my iPod died just as before I approached the land ramp. I cannot provide any pictures, but I can give this one oral camera shot:
The sun bathed the entire land. I rode along the orange groves, catching glimpses of forever between the rows. Twenty miles and a dozen hills later, here was I in Bakersfield, and the fruit thereof was most sweet. . .