Mountain Biking Off Dead Indian Memorial Road

The Dream Catcher

I've decided to begin jotting down notes about my dreams, immediately after waking up.  I'll have to write quickly - dreams tend to fade from my memory like puffs of smoke.  Why are dreams so difficult to retain?  I don't care, I aim to cheat with cliff notes.  It's like sitting through nightly lectures from a mumbling professor that hardly speaks English - if you want to remember anything you better listen closely and take damn good notes.  If anything, this daily exercise should make for good material.  If dreams are the window to the subconsciousness, it's time to take the screen down.  Moths, birds, ladies, tigers, dragons, dinosaurs, come in, come in!

A Grand Return to Camping

Sharing an inflatable mattress with a whiny dog in a cold tent resulted in two hours of crappy sleep and marked the beginning of another beautiful morning at Grouse Ridge - not bad for couple of Grandparents freshly out of camping retirement.

I know What You Ate Last Summer

It’s been 2 days since I last saw Sarah.  I went searching for firewood to no avail.  Ten minutes later and I’m lost.   I wandered for hours, hollering her name.  Only owls and crickets returned my calls. 

Who knew the desert could get so cold?  A one day backpacking trip together through Joshua Tree.  What a nightmare.  One hell of a first date.  Is she looking for me?  Did she find her way back?  Did she find help?  

I hope she’s ok.  She’s a beautiful girl – clever, kind, athletic.  Perfect, almost - just before our hike, she stuck a meatloaf sandwich into my pack and told me to get over it.  Disgusting.  Could I love someone that feasts on flesh?  Could she learn to live without it?  

Thank god I’ve found water.  A small spring surrounded by sand, bugs and thorns.  I’ve heard it’s best to stay put when lost.  Wait to be found.  Save energy. Sit with the ants.  

I’m terribly sunburned and hungry.  I've eaten all the food I brought – granola, organic string cheese, dried fruit, and an avocado and sprouts sandwich.  All that remains is Sarah's loaf of ground calf, coated with blood-red sauce and pinned between sourdough. 

I’d move on from this water hole if I had the strength.  I've resorted to gnawing on cacti and josua trees.  I dig for roots like a wild pig.  

I’m barely conscious.  I lay half way submerged in water, burnt from head to toe.  I struggle to gaze upon my pack.  My fingers tremble as I reach inside, pulling out the remainder of Sarah’s sweaty sandwich.   All that's left is the patty.  

My throat gags.  I close my eyes.  Tears run down my face.  I pull the patty close to my chapped lips.  My tongue reluctantly reaches for it.  I begin to sob.  My stomach shudders as I lick off the last of the tomato sauce.  My chest heaves.  I can wait no longer.                                                                                     

I sink my teeth in and begin to scream.

Temporary Tribes

No activity better suits a gathering of old friends than camping.  When camping, no one is confined to anything - Want to go fishing? Go for it! Want to go for a hike? Awesome, we'll see you when you get back.  Want to lay around and nap in the sun? By all means.  Everything about the great outdoors invites individuality. Nevertheless, camp sites are communal - food, drinks, firewood, activities, etc. Ten of us sit around a fire after a long day of laughs, sipping beer and fading fast - a temporary tribe of old friends.  

Frogster

Rucker Lake

HWY 5, Shasta National Forest

Summer Heat

Without shade, fans, air conditioning, cold showers, rivers, lakes, iced beverages or popsicles, I'd dread the summer like surgery.  I don't do well in the heat.  It sucks the life out of me.  Interrogate me in a small hot room without water and I'd break in ten, twenty minutes.  Nothing agitates me more than long lines, traffic and run-on conversations while blasted by heat.  My version of heaven isn't the same as the bible's but the book sure nailed hell on the head.  Those folks that seem unaffected by the heat amaze me - like this fellow from the Far Side:

Moving

To some, moving means accepting a promotion, selling a home, buying a new home and packing up a U-Haul or two.  A family arrives at their big new house.  The kids race inside to pick out rooms.  The wife rests her head on her husband's shoulder, admiring their big new lawn, imagining all its potential.  The husband smiles proudly.  To me, moving means a migraine in a Motel 6 in Medford after seven nights of camping out. 

Creek Camping

O'Brien, Oregon

Since camping by the tiny two store town of O'Brien (about 8 miles north of the CA border), I've spent a little time with two radically different groups of folks:  In the evenings it's McGrews - a rowdy biker bar facing HWY 199.  Local bands rock the house, covering classic Thorogood, Skinner and Fogerty.  The lead singer is hairy and sweaty and pouring his soul into each song.  Everyone's laughing, chain smoking, shouting, drinking and dancing - the dancing's dirty and the drinking's hard.  Clothing appears to have been purchased sometime between 1970-1985 and worn ever since.  Eye contact is met with big toothy smiles and beer raises.  Almost everyone looks to be over 50 - some, in their 80's.  Everyone knows each others names - like a grimy version of Cheers with four-wheelers and methamphetamine.  


My campsite is located by a botanical treasure trove of rare plants that thrive in the Siskiyou Mountains.  Each day, dozens of botanical tourists visit the campground for lunch and a refreshing dip in the creek.  These folks average the same age as McGrew's crowd and they're all very kind...but that's about all the two have in common.  They arrive in minivans.  Water is sipped politely through BPA-free Nalgene bottles.  Everyone's quiet and observant of nature.  Clothing is brand new - straight from this summer's catalogs for REI, LL Bean and Eddie Bauer. Binoculars and cameras are carried in fanny packs.  Faces are protected by various types of sunhats and layers of sunscreen.  I, too, lay in the shade for lunch, reading my book quietly.  All is peaceful, until thunder comes rolling down the mountain - four shirtless dirt-bikers cutting each other off and raising hell in preparation for tonight's ho-down at ol' McGrews.  

Namaste

Passing time in Southern Oregon at a hot springs yoga retreat.  Hippies all around. Bumper stickers read: There's No Place Like Om, Arms are for Hugging, and Support Your Local Midwife, Make Love.  Bathing together in the hot springs, the hippies don't know what to make of me.  Am I one of them?  No one speaks.  An older woman with dreads and tattoos on her face begins to hum.  The hum continues for five...eight...ten minutes without a break in tone.  It's amazing. Impossible even.  The other snow monkeys don't seem impressed.  A mosquito buzzes around my face like it's a Coast Guard helicopter, searching for a dry place to land - I snatch it from mid-air like a Tibetan Monk.  

Happy Trails, by Lew Toll

Ashland's Lithia Park