East Meets West

Like every sun that rolls at dawn, into the west we all have gone
Two days ago, I did something I've wanted to do for ages: Bicycle from Provo to Heber City, Utah. And with the fall colors at their finest, it was the perfect time to do it. I begin with a due-northerly attack on Mt. Timpanogos. As I rode along Canyon Drive, fruit trees offered their food to me, apples blushing with the same earthy-red cast as the lower mountain ahead in the distance. I had just left the Rock Canyon area, with only some color showing itself in the rivulets of the ragged mountainside, stoic and rocky overall, but with tender autumnal feeling bleeding out in occasional crevices and other faces where water was scarce but sufficient. Up ahead was a burst of color, and in some valleys were carpeted with warm colors, looking just like Appalachia. Twisting, hard, confounding rock layers and soft, bucolic tree layers toppled over one another. On more exposed faces of mountain were an indescribable pallet of colors: dark-lavender, orange, pink, bright green, neon yellow, gold, fuschia, deep green. Changing colors of shrub-carpeted mountainside, spotted with all shades of autumnal trees cheered me on all the way to Provo Dam, where my last lively sight was two men by the spillway below cutting down trees. After the colors faded to grey-scree hills, a teeming rich-blue lake came to view, the only thing sporting color. It extended out for miles it seemed. It was a striking feeling of neutrality and alone-ness juxtaposed with the playful comeradery and worshipful serious joy that filled the colored hills and stately 2-mile-high ski-mountain now in my rear view, mystified in the bright afternoon haze.
(Later that week) The red light reverberated on the hills of Rock Canyon, while Mt. Timpanogos darkly shone in an indiscernible purple and red, interchanging colors from ridge to rivulet, as I descended quick as lightning from the Bonneville shoreline on my Dawes. While speeding at bracing velocity, and as the temple, with its golden angel, passed by my view, I took in all the mountain-scapes, including the southern-most rises, and began to feel tingling in my hands and head, so overcome was I by the sunlight and earth might. Later, I will go hiking by moon night, and look at all of it again from Squaw Peak by morning sight. . .
(Later still) As I entered the grasses of Rock Canyon, still soft with spring, I seemed to enter a sanctuary, with quiet hymns of cicadas and frogs that encouraged pondering and quiet reflection. All this betrayed the gentle soul of a valley encrusted and jagged by rocks and violent strata. After a poor-night sleep made good by the energy of the impending hike and air pouring out cold and clean from the canyon, I took to the trail. Again, the dark conifers stood stately above the tangle of light-colored brush and trees. I took to reading my scriptures in a yellow sacra-dome of birches. The sun's light turned the hills directly ahead bright, bringing out their sun-colored brush-strokes of trees, and it was time to hike out.
I rode the greyhound home, through the grey cold-lands of north-east Utah, the burning yellow hills of northern Colorado, Texas's flat forever-scapes and then rolling hills. It was in this state that I saw the reddest sunrise of my life. It was a sheer, unbroken wall of red. It wasn't crimson, pink, or anything else. It was the pure color red. A song filled my heart before my departure, and lingered as I ventured back home

so many mothers only sons, so many lovers only once
gone away like all the rest, to find our fortunes in the west
still the fire will always burn, the voice in the heart it cries "return"
those emerald hills, now far away, will haunt us back again someday

I thought fondly on those emerald hills of my Carolinas. I longed for the fall colors. I did not get to see them. There was a moment nearing the GA/SC border where I realized I was in the hills and pines of home. I was at rest to have as my old companions the sighing cloud, dancing grass, and happy pine.

Sunset

The deepening skies and cool blow of the new season continues to get at my heart, they know where I keep my softer side. Today was a sleepy one. Many of my family have been visited by brother grief and are feeling weak. They and I are given a small gift by the Lord of love: A bright rainbow and yellow cloud set at the end of day. I set out on the bicycle and am captured, not just by the color and the gentleness in the air, but by how relaxed my eyes were. I felt I belonged. I was at complete spiritual resonance with the earth. As I pedaled on, I found my little spot of paradise. I turned right towards the soccer fields of my youth and saw the fulness of the cloud set. It was an ocean of color. It was tremendous, truly a tenuous sea, its frothing crests lit up in pure yellow, growing more intense as it drifted out to the horizon. Towards the east, the sky held a warm peachy ambiance. I found my perfect spot, a patch of wild grass. I set down my orange bicycle (which was beginning to gleam the same color as some of the clouds above) and threw myself upon the earth. I held nothing back, and was softly received. It was almost too perfect. Burning yellow clouds danced in my eyes between stalks of seeding wild grass. A few others were around, feeding their souls, and I was enveloped in a purity that cannot bother itself with the ways of man. Life is too short just to look as you pass by. You must smother yourself in it, feel it, smell it, get itchy in it. If one don't come out bitten up and a little bruised, what was gained. . . if nothing was lost? I rushed to my aging mother to share this sunset with her. I called and I was touched when she said "its pink outside". Yes, as I left that field, the colors grew deep and imponderable, leaving the pines looming so wise and benevolent, gently teeming with amber feel. Last light.

Color

I emerged out into the summer morn only to find it more suggestive of fall. A new sky surrounded me. I went for my morning ride. Cooler airs always re-teach me how to love. I pushed. I came to a rise over the railroad tracks , and I pushed. I sweat up that hill, overlooked by first-light-touched trees to my left. I pushed. I pushed until I somehow tore through my world of black and grey and re-enentered my world reverberating with color and ringing with shine. First light now had surrounded me. There was no escaping its gloom-shattering, hope-blooming sheen. I made emotional re-connect with old friends, my nature kin. There was the ol' young pine, shimmering in the fresh sun among the flowing grass, the colors of which are the epitome of emotions that words such as paradisiacal and bucolic only scratch at. And there was grandfather pine looking wild and other-worldly up in that forever sky. I sat in the lush grass beside an abandoned grey parking lot, and even that sparkled, seemingly made of quartzy gravel. I sat and meditated, eyes shut, soul opened. I opened about 3 minutes later, and even the small patch of grass before me was flooded with light anbd held an alian beauty to it, as from another world. 

"LEAF"ing

As I left for Asheville and the gentle Swannanoa Valley, the introduction to "Down in the Willow Garden" would not leave my head. I exulted in the grand morning warmth and took pictures as I devoured the light with my eyes. My moped rode strong and my heart ran happy. Later on, this morning my heart sang out the melody to "Wagoneer's Lad" but with these words:
The wind it is howlin' / And the night is so cold / And your mind it is doubting / As you stray from the fold / Oh, The road it is long, now / and the rain is unkind / and wind blows without mercy / But you'll make it somehow / Your hands they are trembling / As you struggle up the hill / You wonder of your fate / If your desires you'll fill / What you see at the hilltop / As first light meets your gaze / Will leave you hungry / For the rest of your days / The road it is long now / What you see along the way / Will still leave you hungry / For the rest of your days /  The sun -- she shows her glory / From the dawn until the night / And her rhythm will be with you / For the rest of your lives
I went up to a multi-cultural festival in Black Mountain, North Carolina. It was a weekend of spiritual renewal, re-commitment, and the setting of new personal goals. How I viewed all the beautiful people is painted in my companion blog "Lord, I Would Follow Thee." I will now tell of my journey back.
I prayed to make South Carolina by nightfall. I began in Black Mountain. I headed south through Asheville down to Hendersonville, just missing the rainstorm I saw to the west. The mountains grew more worthy of lore and folk legend the nearer dusk came. Their deep purple passed to my right with sunset whites and yellows of clouds. Keeping along at a good 40 mph, I felt myself sinking further towards the escarpment. I did so suddenly as the 178 dropped dramatically and brought me into Saluda, North Carolina. It was so quaint and lovely (they even had an organic farmer's market) that I said, "I would like to live here for a growing season or two". Never has a town grabbed my heart so quickly. I continued along the 178, running nearby the Saluda grade (railroad), claimed to be the steepest in the United States. And with all the braking I had to do, I believed it. I often looked behind me, and saw the same cloud colors I had seen an hour previous. I had left the mountains and entered the escarpment, and discovered an experience few may ever realize: A double sunset. The rich deep forest of trees and bushes showed their moist vibrant greens, growing heartily on the exposed eroded slopes. I made one last passing glance at the mountains unexpectedly. After Tyron, NC, right before all color faded from the sky, I came across the proverbial last ray of sunshine. The trees opened up as I crossed a power-line and ambient near-dark became brighter haze. This haze nearly enveloped the lines as they moved out into the distance, and I saw a far mountain ridge enveloped in a halo of gentle crimson. My heart stretched outward in that direction, much like the power lines. Just as much energy, just as much tensile strength. As I departed, the mountains called out to me . . . one. last. time. And they knew they'd get me. Read on, you'll see.

Back in Them Mountains

Long ago, some friends dropped me off in downtown Asheville, I purporting to go home with nothing but my own two feet and hands -- feet that could hop a train, or hands that could hitch a ride. I realized I was entering a new period in my life after that, and determined that I would not visit these hills until after I returned from my 2-year mission in California. I returned in May, going to a music festival, and I got there on my moped. It was the free-est I have been in a long time, singing "No more a wanderer, no more a refugee -- A mountaineer is always free," taking pictures, parking the moped in awe of the landscape, taking pictures. There was not a moment of it that was bitter. All was sweet. I was excited like a pure child, not even 10 miles away from my point of departure, hopping off and taking pictures of green wild-growth of an undeveloped business plot of land (these are some of my favorite things to take pictures of, explosions of life popping  before your eyes. Much better than a grey place of commerce, if you ask me) shining bright and florid in only the way it can in the first hours of day. My second time up here, I found my way to Franklin, NC. I am involved in a WOOFF internship at the Coweeta Heritage Center. I am helping the owner in exchange for organic food and shelter. We have gone kayaking, searching waterfalls, and going out to eat (on rare occasions), as well as sweated it out planting tomatoes, beans, onions, picking basil, kale, squash, and sawing logs and catching fish.
I have traveled to these hills countless times, the mountains of western North Carolina. Not too long ago, I told my friend Kelvin, "Always travel. But travel with a purpose, with a specific end in mind that will elevate you spiritually and further your purpose in life." My journeys in the west and California were prime evidence of that advice in my own life. The beauty of this place is something that not only impresses the eye, but coddles the soul and teaches a gentler, higher way. Earlier this week, we went kayaking, and it was a good work out going up, but very sweet and cool on the way back. We moored at a bend in the river that had a beach and grass knoll. I climbed it to see an outstretched meadow! After a limited view of the sunken river, the grass and fresh clouds and hills seemed so new. It was a hallowed experience. I sat for a moment facing the hills. I then turned around and laid my damp hair in the dense grass towards the sun. The grassy-smelling ground breathed warmth on my face as my eyes took in the sun breaking through the bright clouds above and I reveled in the perfect peace of it. Today, we went for a ride out to dinner and running errands, and I see a bed of yellow wildflowers on the side of an entrance ramp, with greens behind, and the forever-blue mountains piled further and further way. Yellows, greens, blues all laid the foundation of a pure white sky, drifting off to deep grey, promising healing moisture, further to the north. Later, the sun shone through this rain and made everything glitter. Rainwater, worth its weight in gold to the humble farmer. Oh! And a few days earlier, we visited a friend of Paul's (who runs the Center), whose plot of land was strikingly different to ours. the CHC is heavily wooded in a hollow, with steep river runs heading down the valley. This friend's land was open, with a large pond with trees lining the driveway along it. Horses lazed along the opposite pond side. It was sublime. On our drive back, the hills faded to blue-white, towering over one another, a perfect backdrop to the emerald and saffron hills, grass green and hay yellow. The largeness of it was something I hadn't felt since the sun-drenched Santa Rita winter hills of California. The winding road turned like the land did my heart. 

Winter Has Come and Gone

I sort of escaped this winter. The two winters previous I had spent in sunny California, and I even spent a full month of December there this year. This winter I was exposed in the most extreme of ways -- camping and cycling up and down the Utah valley. I even cycled in a snow flurry when it was difficult to see and grains of ice and snow challenged my clothes and core. As I said in another post, it was one of the warmest winters in my life -- singing my songs along the night trail to my tent, waltzing on slippery ice and rock with a heart a-light. A few songs of winds of weather and seasons of change come to my heart. I hope I embody the modest, yet beautiful and hardy flower presented in Gillian Welch's Acony Bell. 

The fairest bloom the mountain knows / Is not an iris or a wild rose / But the little flower of which I'll tell / Known as the brave acony bell / Just a simple flower so small and plain / With a pearly hue and a little known name / But the yellow birds sing when they see it bloom / For they know that spring is coming soon / Well it makes its home mid the rocks and the rills / Where the snow lies deep on the windy hills / And it tells the world "why should i wait / This ice and snow is gonna melt away"
And so I'll sing that yellow bird's song / For the troubled times will soon be gone.

As I arrived back in South Carolina, winter was still obviously present. There were lots of clouds and wind that makes one feel like a wet towel is being thrown on them once they step outside, and this took some getting used to. It wasn't a week or so before I bought some seeds and put them in the ground. I patiently waited for them to come forth, just as I patiently awaited the next season in my life to begin. Though there was no travelling of much report, I embarked on what Ian Martin calls a "pilgimage of the soul" in his book Storyline: Exploring the Literature of the Appalachian Trail. It reminds me pleasantly of Jack Kerouac during a summer in Dharma Bums, him spending the majority of his waking hours meditating in the back yard of his parents' upstate New York house, not travelling but exploring nonetheless -- meditating and pondering. I remember the cold months and spring months before my mission, sleeping outside in the 4x8 enclosure and waking to teeming lawn grass and small bushes offering a feeling of coziness. Nothing can describe how beautiful it seemed to me.
Each morning, I go out in the early-day shadows and check on my precious 3x3 plot and eye the fruits of my labors. It is nothing large, but it is a spiritual and explorative act for me. As spring breathed damp warmth on my face, I bulked up on honeydew melon, cherry tomato, kentucky wonder (pole bean), dill and spearmint (these attract beneficial insects, which improve the soil and/or keep plant-eating pest populations in control). I would sometimes sing this song as I walked out in the mornings

Oh little red bird / Come to my window sill / Been so lonesome / Shaking that morning chill / Oh little red bird / Open your mouth and say / Been so lonesome / Just about flown away
So long now I've been out / In the rain and snow / But winter's come and goneA little bird told me so
Oh little blue bird / Pearly feather breast / Five cold nickels all I got leftOh little blue bird / What am I gonna do / Five cold nickels / Ain't gonna see me through
So long now I've been out/ In the rain and snow/ But winter's come and gone a little bird told me so
Oh little black birdOn my wire line/ Dark as trouble/ In this heart of minePoor little black bird/ Sings a worried song/ Dark as trouble 'Til winter's come and gone 
So long now I've been out / In the rain and snow / But winter's come and gone a little bird told me so
So long now I've been out / In the rain and snow / But winter's come and gone a little bird told me so

Finish Line and Nashville

The greyhound ride was long. I thought about this lyric of his a lot 

 Leavin' ol' chicago, with its rain and snow. Lord, won't you help me ride this greyhound home.

I listened to another song by Norman Blake (I am so fed by his voice and guitar that I do not desire food while I listen to his creations. For those familiar with my food blog, this reveals the gravity of my connection to his road songs) during the entire time of my trip. It floated along with me when I'd wake up rested but aching in Birmingham, walking the midnight streets in Memphis, just waiting, sometimes letting me get a glimpse of the rough lead feel of a trucking life, when waiting for the bus to come in Charlotte , drifting into sleep and sliding into supine position in that lovely awful greyhound station, and the first song I sang when I stepped out of the megabus hours earlier and looked at the sky with its urban stars and scrapers thereof, bright neon and LED in the strange comradery of the cool night.  It was a victory song. 

Annie, Orphan Annie, are the Nashville nights still warm? Somewhere off to west of town is the coming of a storm. Is the river dark and muddy, where the green swamp willows grow. Nine more days and I'll be home, backing of the road. Pickin' and a' fiddlin' and a' playin' the game, listen to what I say. Oh I wish I was in Nashville town, 'bout Fifth and Broadway. Where the Cumberland rolls and soft breeze blows, and home it ain't far away.

I saw bright nashville on my westward journey, but that old grey dog went south of it on my return east. Nashville was musical and alive. Such a shame it was a momentary stop on the rideshare I had been blessed to receive. It was enough to make me hungry for more, assuring my sweet return. I will never forget the happy storms that rose along the western foothills of the Appalachians lapping the ground and trees rather than beating upon them -- just three days after a surprise freeze gracing the western foothills of Appalachia. The next day, enter leather-rubber tramp, Lonepine. I had shot out of the mountains into Gatlinburg, the colors having just been made perfect the day before, orchestrated just for me. Riding my bicycle through the wind and waves of light sprinkles of the Farragut night. A purely tropical storm, made gentle by Georgia and Alison's serenades. I was now in the north path of the gulf tropic winds, buffered only by the noble hills i had left a mere thirty hours prior, it felt so right! 

After months of cold camping, I think about the word warm. Not just a temperature, but a come-home feeling, a type of breeze running through your arms and at your bicycle that makes you hungry to move. But not only that, warm is the after-feeling of a stiff river breeze on your moonlit cheeks as you gaze out into the waters. It is being enrapt in the arms of your woman, a feeling of being touched by the soul-words "Everything is beautiful just for now," and a ray of sunshine on your face adorned with sweat during a break in cycling.

Albuquerque

I don't know if it was all those Bugs Bunny cartoons, but I always thought this would be a great place to see. 

I caught a ride from Monticello to Albuquerque, it was a windfall. The Colorado southern mountains were snowy and breathtaking in the moonlight. New Mexico was a whole new world. I could bicycle around without gloves on! I broke a sweat easily. It was a lot like Southern California. The high rolling hills right before the base of the mountain had a Camarillo feel to it. Life was sweet. A few moments later, I was caught in a warm (emotionaly and weather-wise) scene, at 6500 feet. Cactus, saw palmetto and shrubbery held the orange hue of the painted sunset, while the filaments on knee-high grass danced and swayed. The mountainside to the northeast was touched with light, and I was too. Life was grand! 

I would spend three days in the Sandia foothills. Monday was nothing but beautiful rest. Sunshine hot on my face. Sweating in the sleeping bag. Cozy sweat smells and nylon and polyester feel. A modest though steady wind throughout. And of course sunsets are always bright. My last NM sunset brought thin pinkish clouds whisping across the full moon. The sight was short, a final farewell. I spent some of my last daylight digging my hands in the grasses where the road met the dirt, and powder would flick out as I removed my hands. Goodness it was dry. The ride to the Greyhound was anything but enjoyable. What should have been a little over an hour took almost three. The angst began as I descended into a wash that, after half-an-hour of dragging through loose riverbed gravel, ended in a dam that I had to drag my 60-pound loaded bicycle up and over. Next came goatheads. And I was lost, I couldn't believe it. Slowly my front tire would lose air and from time to time I'd have to fight the bicycle from tipping sideways to take it off and pump I up. The bicycle paths were intermittently bumpy and caused air loss with each pavement crack. Eventually, a mere mile and a half from the station, our brave front tire could hold no air. I didn't realize how quickly I could change a tire! I had to make that bus!

I had no difficulty parting with that bicycle. A gift from the wind, just as easily returned. By time I got to the greyhound station, it had given me such and aching body and mind that I was happy to part with it. Time to save up for a new one. My new life has begun. Morning walks to mother's, sleeping in the thick grass under the warm Charleton stars, redoing all those lonesome downtown things, now all again, but alongside a new friend.

The Long Long Road and Tucumcari

A week ago, I realized that I was stuck in Provo.
I was so bogged down in planning, that I didn't bother acting, and with me, that always leads to a depressed and sluggish feeling. After a call from my friend, now in Moab, I realize my time to act is now. He mentioned a friend who had just left to Salt Lake City and was passing through Moab. I jumped at the opportunity. Sunday came and we rode down to Moab. The town got at my heart quick. We went into my friend's house and we wasted no time in hopping on his bed and waking him up out of his sleeping-bag slumber. We walked out and I was charmed by the red-rock cliffs and fields that I saw off to the north of town. The day ended with a charming sun disappearing behind the ever-prominent cliffs. The next day it snowed and snowed. We met up with a girl and went to hike Arches National Park. As we walked, the snow sprinkled our faces and red-rock dust and fins mixed with the pure white. The sun half appeared from behind a veil of clouds from time to time, enough to bring a smile and sparkle to our eyes. At times it felt heavenly. I share an excerpt from my paper journal:

The next few nights I thought on the lyrics of one of my most-cherished bluegrass albums. Its a Long Long Road by Blue Highway. I could not help but feel it during the bicycle ride from Moab to Monticello, a fifty-five mile journey with an elevation uptake of 2000 feet, along with 200-ft-tall rolling hills. It was subliminal. Red rock, blue skies, robust white clouds, and the lightest-yellow grasses, sometimes for miles to each side, meeting up with more red-rock cliffs.
At one point the snow began to fall, and I rode on, turning to Jim VanCleve's Devil's Courthouse for strength and heated-up blood. The mandolin solo symbolized the snow that poured around me and figuratively through me. This part of the country really is getting under my skin.

It's a long long road to wander alone
It's a cold cold wind hear it moan
Cryin' like a lost child out in the night
Searching for the way, and looking for the light

I think of all the snow, all the red dust, all the rubber residue. It all sort of blends together in your mind. I passed open cattle pastures, rocks that looked like towers, wands, even marks of royalty. I passed Church Rock, next to the turn-off to Utah Rte. 211 and it looked like a Pope's crown. I exulted in it, and after not too much longer, a man pulled off to the side, and offered a ride. He rolled down the window and he had a great pure look in his eyes. I had met him during my first time in Monticello. When I travel I seem to have perfect timing. I landed at the home where I'd visit just as the husband was beginning to split wood. We got it done quick, though I was tiring out. As much as I hated it, he was right, and it was time for me to lay low and recover until I head back out.  

. . . But not before one final southern utah adventure! After some research, I headed down to Home of Truth, and got a ride from a gentleman who actually knew the ghost town's founder, Marie Ogden. So neat. Well I get there, and I check it out. There is a sizable rock to the north, and after seeing the old homes built into the earth, I begin to climb. It was gentle enough to simply walk up and occasionally stair-step up. I was enrapt in the reds and whites and yellows. I got to the small mesa and walked about it for a half-hour, catching a view of the canyon lands  (which really were horizon-to-horizon) looking out to all directions. I began my climb down, I wrapped around the northwest side, gradually hopping down, level by level, when convenient. I came to a double arch, each one actually forming an entrance to a small cave. The arches and cave's depth both measured approx. four feet. By grabbing up a hunk of deadwood, I stepped up and made a hop to a dimple in the rock and grabbed the lip of the arch to climb in. Red dominated the cave's insides but chipped w away to reveal sandstone -- so soft it covered the inside to the depth of an inch with pale powder. I take off my coat and lay upon it, The February sun warm enough to sleep by. I bare my feet and they dry quickly. The sun heats up my waist and legs and toes. The redrock hugs my hips and rib cage. I melt into the rock. My fingers are cooled as I conceal my hand in sand. Pants, arms, hair are covered in red and yellow. I am perfectly and completely serene. I look out and see the quiet mountains in the distance -- the color of the sky in its shaded portions and white in the sun --with a twisted conifer close up, a perfect setting for my surrender to sleep. 

Musical Location of the Day

In all honesty, all I saw of this town was during a midnight greyhound ride. Tucumcari, New Mexico. A town whose name origins are unsure, from stories of a Native American contending with a father for the hand of his daughter to the simple explanation that it is named after the local mountain, Mt. Tucumcari, signifying breast in the native tongue. And how fitting; as from both mountain and mother flow precious fluid, without which is no life. Either way, the song goes as follows:

 

 I was thinkin' 'bout Mary as I left Tucumcari

 Four hours to make Santa Fe

 I know she's been hopin' I'll quit this damn ropin' 

 But that's one thing she'd never say

 It's more than a living it's been my whole life

 It's taking and giving, pleasure and strife

 Well I've known all along this day would come: I guess my ropin' days are done 

The significance of this song is unmistakeable. There are times where we each must put away from ourselves that which seems a complete part of us. For this man, it was the life of a cowboy; and I , my traveling. And soon, I shall take to the road once more as an over-the-road trucker, which will be no less in-my-bones when the time comes to sever it.

My Gear

My buddy had me show him all of my gear before I left Monticello, and I wanted to do the same for anyone else who was curious. I'll include links to the webpages purchased therefrom.
The Bicycle: Dawes Lightning Road (Steel). I wouldn't recommend this to anyone unless you were on a tight budget. Its bulky, but won't break. It has served me well, but is heavy. There's a reason passionate 'roadies' pay big thousands to shave off a few ounces here and a pound there. That's one less pound(s) that you have to carry for a hundred(s) miles on long trips. Overall, it is functional and can climb, and I don't worry about going too fast on it. So, for my budget, it was a perfect choice.
Saddlebags/Panniers: Avenir Metro Panniers (1,380 Cubic Inches). I saw a review where someone claimed they could fit a total of four gallon milk jugs in these, two on each side. Its true. Not only can you stuff these things to the max, the zippers are strong. I've broken a lot of zippers in my life, and I can't seem to do it with these. They still catch on plastic or loose fabrics, so be aware of that.
Rear Rack: Topeak Explorer Rack (w/o Spring). The set up is a bit tricky, but it is engineered to fit just about any bicycle. Even if you have a bicycle it isn't designed for (such as mine. It is older) you can finagle it and it gives just as much support and stability. It safely holds 50 pounds. It hasn't warped or shown signs of ware after more than a thousand miles and rough roads. In my opinion you get more than what you pay for on this.
Sleeping Bag: Slumberjack Lone Pine (Zero Degrees). I've slept a few nights in Provo area above 5000ft where the temperature squeezed just above 0, and trust me, with a minimal ground pad, this bag kept me warm and asleep (nothing worse than being so cold you can only get 30 minutes of shuteye at a time). In my opinion, Slumberjack is an overall great outdoor company. Their stuff is good balance of light enough, durable enough (there were a few times where I thought for sure in my clumsiness I had torn it, but it held up), and warm enough. And to top it all off, they are classy and ergonomic (looks good). A little expensive, but you get exactly what you pay for.
Thermals: E.C.W.C.S. Brown Top (Extreme Cold Weather Clothing System). This is a great option for anyone doing physical activity in below-freezing temperature. As I mentioned in my Monticello post, I took off my coat, leaving this and my polyester work-out shirt exposed to the 20-25 degree air. I had gathered a bit of sweat in the arms, but within a minute or so, it was all gone. Great way to keep warm and dry while working in the cold. It also makes a good ground cover (no heat loss to the ground) in a pinch. I have found, in retrospect, that Uncle Sam's sells them for less than I paid for them at other surplus stores. I ended up forking over 20 dollars for mine.
Tent: 3810 G.I. Type Camo Bivouac. Again, military surplus is the way to go when you can, in my opinion. They are always durable. This sucker weighs in at 2 pounds, and sets up in 5 minutes. It has even kept off snow (though you better have it staked down good, otherwise the weight of the snow will collapse it) while sleeping. I once left it for two days while it had rained and frozen overnight. It was entombed in ice, and after breaking the ice off, it still stood. Surprisingly tough for its simple design. Says 3-season, but it can get away with winter. I did, for some 8 total weeks of camping in it :)

All other gear is noteworthy, but not unique enough to promote. Polyester and tight-fitting is always best. It keeps in your heat but is not overly hot. It is easily overpriced and you never should pay more than ten for a decent one.

Lonesome Trail

One day. . . I will be a cosmonaut

If you really want your mind to be blown, listen to the song.
Lonesome Trail, by Conspiracy (Chris Squire + Billy Sherwood) 


Riding the wind. We drift along. Moving across the desert land. Into the night
Shadows dissolve. Nomads wandering through the sands of space and time
The spirit of adventure raised within our hearts

The time is now. The time has come To journey farther from the sun. Let's not hold back
We've just begun To understand our destiny. We can carry on forever. Driven by the spirit in our hearts

Leaving the world behind. We travel on through silence. With only the stars to guide us
Along the lonesome trail. Never to return. One million miles of silence With only the stars to guide us Along the lonesome trail. . . The lonesome trail

For distant lands We set our course To sail across the ocean We've come so far. We can't turn back. It's a test of our devotion. As we race into the future. Expectations grow within our hearts. We rode the storm. We've braved the seas. This passes from our history Into the skies The great beyond To reach escape velocity

We can carry on forever. Driven by the hope within our hearts. Leaving the world behind
We travel on through silence. With only the stars to guide us. Along the lonesome trail. Never to return. One million miles of silence. With only the stars to guide us. Along the lonesome trail
. . . The lonesome trail

We can carry on forever. Share the universe together. Is this the life that we chose for ourselves?
. . .

Looking Back at The Adventurous Spirit and Carolina

I have just completed saving all of my posts from my flagship blog, The Adventurous Spirit: Travels and Prose (a previous blog with an added subtitle for its published name) to thumb-drive (all fifty-eight entries), and was astounded by how I was able to write. Posts such as Burst, Thoughts, and View From The Ravenel and the San Joaquin are some examples. I laid both hands on the table, crying in my mind, "Why can't I write like that anymore?!" although I suppose I can; but I have simply changed. Take for example my post from July 4th, 2010, a bit of a contemplation of my personal musings on freedom. No coincidence, I'm sure. By this point I had waxed so romantic about train-hopping that I was about ready to head up to North Carolina and train hop across the Eastern Continental Divide. One thing that continues to hit me is how pure my eyes were. There I was, years ago, pouring over rail-road maps, tracing with my finger and my heart meticulously the train tracks that often hugged rivers and highways. I was still under the influence of my grand journey up to Appalachia a mere eight months back and my more recent trip driving the parkway, only two months ago.

 I realize what was different: It was my eyes. My affinity for light. The brightest of rooms was too dark for my taste now

I certainly had a simpler way of looking at things. Just as I said, I was a plant. Sunlight was all I knew. I was newly fascinated by light, both the spiritual and the physical. Perhaps it was fate that kept me away from becoming a train-hopper. Either way, I can't help but wonder what I expected to find when I passed the Appalachians. Countless times I had wished to get to the other side. Tennessee indeed held a sense of wonder and "home" feeling to me when I first bicycled through it. I so wish I could have seen more of it. Eastern Tennessee, Missouri, Kansas, and the Great Basin in general did little to inspire me. Maybe one day I will step out of my truck in the middle of America, take a fresh breath, and understand. I suppose I have the same vagaries, but now are structured with a sense of duty. I'm still working to understand what our American fore-bears saw when they declared on July 4th that we were free. I'm trying to see fully what they saw. Discover what the virgin American freedom was in the 18th and 19th centuries, and go forth to obtain.

Musically-Inspired Place of the Day
It has been years since I've done this, but I like the feel it gave to many of my opening posts. Lately, as I have mentioned in my newest blog, I have felt a strange notion to return home for a short while. I put together an Ipod playlist to power this new scheme. The first song came in with a mournful (yet hopeful, all at the same time) "Leavin' ol' Chicago with its rain and snow / Chilled to the bone / Lord, won't you help me ride this Greyhound home," off of Blue Highway's 1985 album. It was followed by my song of choice today: Carolina in My Mind. Like I, his heart feels a certain yearning to return. My favorite lyric personally is:

There ain't no doubt in no-one's mind that loves the finest thing around, Whisper something soft and kind

 The steel guitar wails discreetly to complement the feel of the lyric. It is like those love-nature metaphors that I've talked of years ago.  The land and romance all give you the same warm, good feeling. Nature has always whispered to me softly, silently even. Subtle holiness. You can never know which moments in nature will leave the deepest spiritual impression on you in the years to come. To me, this song encompasses not just my home town, but the entire gentle green southeast, with its wealth of flowing streams, waving grasses, and tall pines. James Taylor's masterpiece is the same way. It sticks with you powerfully, howbeit modest and common at first.

Reprieve and Altitude Sickness

My outdoor days came to a close. . . or so I thought. Right before the turn of the new year, I was at sea level. By the 7th of January, I was at 7000 feet above. Add to this the strenuous nature of cold camping and 80 miles of hard cycling over the course of 3 days between Moab, Monticello, and the Colorado border (just for kicks, I had little face protection and I pushed harder than normal), and you have 5+ days of 12-hour sleeps and even some nap time on top of that. But what great price we must pay for the pearl! I remember getting dropped of at La Sal Junction and making a good distance, tolerating my toes until I saw the green sign of unfiltered reality: "MONTICELLO 14"

I got off the bicycle, removed my footwear and warmed my feet on my thighs. I called my friend in M and he said, "oh I know that sign. For there, It's all uphill to here. Dude I'm so sorry," as if he were delivering a fatal diagnosis. I was part expecting some help into town (five to ten miles, perhaps), but have also come to mentally prepare for the worst, to take the hard road. A prime example of that: After a quick bite of granola, orange, and Probar, as well as warmed up feet and morale, I gave a brave whoop of "let's DO this!!" and took to the road, quickly getting through the easy part. It's one of those slopes that you can see right where it begins. The grade launched off the earth in front of me, and I began the task. I soon became too hot. Removed the coat, placed it on the handlebars, leaving only my polypropylene thermal and polyester workout shirt. I grew more deliberate (brute force will get you nowhere on these). I chose my breathing and pedaling pace, setting the gears to a speed that assisted a fluid and non-jerking pattern of movement, and entered the zone. Expecting the worst, as I said, I went on as if each curve and hill would reveal yet another one, never expecting a reprieve, and soon duty became joy. It was seemingly over just as it had begun, and 4 miles later (the mile markers passed surprisingly fast. Now that makes you feel good) I came upon a frozen plateau, flatland a mile and a third in the air, with yet a higher set of mountains, covered in black-green nearing the southwest horizon. All around was an unbroken screen of untouched white. I had to take this new wonderland in! I sat in the sun, lying on my thermal, again warming up my feet. I basked in the brightness of it, the glory of overcoming. I waved and gave tokens of wild joy to passersby. One of them stopped. He had seen me all the way back near Moab! He offered his hand and a ride into town. How could I turn it down? I already felt victorious! I got in with plenty of time to see my buddy before he went to work. Truly a tender mercy. That night was starry and immortal, drinking deeply from the spiritual elixir of life, my friend marveling at how I had become a Kerouac in my own right, i casually leaned on the kitchen counter with my arm and ate the cleaned off the last of the skillet with the other. 

I stayed in Monticello for a few days, and each night, I got to sleep in my bag inside the camper. Me and my buddy got a great "beatnik" shot, as he called it, standing at the entrance of the camper. I wish I could have stayed longer. It was such a perfect little town. The ride back to Moab was nice, but I have to say, it beat me up. I was doing this even after feeling the need to sleep for more than 12 hours a day and still feeling listless indoors. I got a bit depressed during the multiple days indoors, until Saturday night I was walking to where I'd be staying that night. It was nearing midnight, and I saw the moon over the large mountain overhead, and I sighed at my star. I waxed romantic and pondered on how I wanted to be wild again. I felt God tell me, "then do it." I imagined the midnight moonlight bathing the deeper ridges, glisten the snow even . . . maybe. Got to go find out! The world is one big playground! I have since gone back, and marveled at the moon sending the snow sparkling. You swear your eyes are playing tricks on you. And one more thought: There is no sweeter thing than sunlight pouring through the fabric of your tent in the early afternoon and it being warm enough inside for a good nap, lying on the sleeping bag.