wind's sea trails
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
made mischievous
So what on earth am I talking about? Well, I'll share a couple of stories. First I reach back to a very early childhood memory in my dad's white pick-up truck. The 1991 Dodge Dakota has a fancy swiveling mini-joystick that controls which speakers the radio deck sound comes from. So driving down the road, I would occasionally push the thing back and forth and in circles for a radical swirling auditory experience of shifting surround sound encircling the listener from a new angle every second. Fun for me, probably really annoying for everyone else.
But the real fun began while I sat alone in the car for 10-20 minutes in whatever strip-mall parking lot while Dad was running a quick errand. What could I do to get at him and have an indecorous adventure along the way? By the time he returned to the drivers seat, I would have typically jammed a few cassette tapes under-neath the gas or brake pedal, or both. Me, tame and innocent, twiddling my thumbs and biting my lip while he fumbled to get the car going. He must have gotten used to the trick eventually, but somehow he always seemed surprised as he bowed to free the pedal's passage or as we avoided parking lot accidents by a hair.
Tame, you may be saying, tame. Well this wasn't my last time jamming something between opposing pieces to incite drama. Several years later, I had the privilege of joining one of my best friends and his family on their yearly vacation out west. This friend, who I'll call Carl for confidentiality's sake, had always had a certain phobia. Carl would never use public restrooms, at least to go number 2. So whenever I went to his house for a play date after school, he would be shaking his leg, jittery and antsy as his mother opened the door to their house for him to rush in and make the movement he had been holding in all day.
Well, at the site where we were all camping that summer, there was an outhouse. A well kept concrete and tile tidy bathroom mind you. Each day passed and it went unused by Carl. Eventually something had to give. Maybe three or four days into our stay at the site either Carl overcame his fear, or something inside Carl overcame him, but I saw Carl accept his fate and enter the public restroom.
My moment had come. With the door locked and Carl completely clueless, taking care of business inside, I began to jam sticks between the outward opening door and the wall behind it, and consequently locked him in! Several long minutes went by before Carl's time to exit had come, and when it did... a volcanic eruption shook the place. At first while trying to open the door, Carl must have thought that he had just not unlocked it properly, another try, and another, no immediate reaction.
In time, his confusion turned to rage, and my chuckles to shivers of fear. What had I done? Had my playful trick crossed the line? I had not realized the depth of the button I was pushing and was now honestly frightened for my life as profane cries of rage bellowed from within those walls, threatening shouts of tyrant agony and revenge.
Normally I am a faster runner than Carl, but something told me that the adrenaline pumping in his veins would catch and rips me to shreds if I wasn't careful. So I mounted a mountain bike and one by one, removed the sticks - kicking away the last one as I sprinted away in high gear, feeling the heat of raging flames chasing behind me.
That fire took days to quell, but luckily no real physical injury was incurred, only emotional scars for us both. Scars, or mirrors? I might ask. Maybe a guilt dodging selfish question or maybe a probe into those parts of the self that need examination - for both of us.
Another dramatic time that comes to mind is cutting jalapenos for dad's mean chili and then going to the bathroom and giving pete a shake to complete. Oh the cries of pain no cold water could sooth. Torturing oneself or another, we have to face the consequences of what we have done and take a firm handshake with reality.
My dad used to pitch baseballs at me to practice batting. In the back of is pickup he kept a bag with dozens of balls, so he could throw one after another without interruption. Every once in while, he would peg one right at me and if I didn't dodge, I would get pelted right in the ribs. I soon realized that the baseballs he was throwing at me were not actually hard like the others. Those that hit me were soft and cushy, intended to scare me half whited, but to be forgiving on contact.
So the compassion in pelting. How to dodge a hardball in a real game. To recognize the place hit in the storm of engaged buttons, so that when the pushers come again, we can recognize that the reverberation within comes from exactly there - within. Nothing outside ourselves can cause us pain. Only in our reactions to excited, tickled patterns already deep within us do we generate misery for ourselves.
Or maybe I'm wrong, maybe these snippets I have shared are ways of merely calling attention to the self, inflating the ego, displaying dominance. I think at the end of the day it comes down to intentions. One's volition, will at the moment of action. So admittedly, the righteousness of locking my friend to face his worse fears is a belated intention overshadowed at the time by a mischievous campaign, and one whose moral integrity pales in comparison to the compassion of pegging your son with baseballs.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Not so rapidly through Gillette. from Rapid to Portland. Maybe
"You gotta get off this bus" he told me through a grey beard and browned teath. "I'm sorry sir without a ticket I can't let you on."
"But you sold me the ticket, you see the tag on my bag, you put it there. That ain't enough?"
"Nope. It's not a ticket. It's like money kid, you go off and lose it in five minutes there isn't nothing I can do for you" came the cold, bitter voice coupled with lonely eyes.
With a long, drawn out and suspenseful pause I looked at the old man in the eyes. He could hardly hold mine. No mercy. I knew exactly where my ticket was, I could see it in fact behind locked doors. I also knew there were no excuses and no one to blame but myself. "Okay" I said in a clean, collected tone and took my self and belongings off the bus.
Mind racing....25 minutes till this thing takes off...and I better be on it, or would they let me sleep inside the bus depot and have to wait 24 hours till the next bus?
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Speeding down a pine ridge reservation dirt road in the rear of a pack of three pickup trucks, out of our cloud of dust flies a wheel, a tire rolling down and off the side of the road. Our fleet comes to as screaching halt. I jump out and huddle around nine other men staring at an open axel dug in the dirt. Attached to the rear of this truck is a 15 foot trailer that we were hoping to fill with wood that day. A plan in suspension as we get busy with jacks, nuts and bolts.
In the midst of drawn out repairs and scattered conversation my cell phone goes off full blast. An unexpected call: months ago when I was sketching out a plan for these travels I had applied to do a 10 day silent Vipassana meditation course in Camp Sherman, Oregon. I had been put on a waiting list. Now a spot had opened for me, the course starts June 1st; less than four days to get there.
I slept like a baby with dementional dreams after a full day of haulin wood, fixin trucks and f*ckin around; cherry coca colas and cheesy chips on wonder bread with diabetes jokes in the air, poking fun at reality for most, by the looks of these sincere and generous people, in the yard of a trailer home with spotty running water, tv blaring and black mold in the damp rafters.
I got to the bus station in Rapid City, SD about an hour and half before my 6pm bus was supposed to take off - Portland bound, scheduled to arrive 24 hours and 10 minutes later.
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"I can see it through the damn window," I told the driver.
"And he won't just reprint your ticket?" He asked me with kind, sympathetic eyes.
"He just told me that there is nothing he can do for me. Listen, I could get my ticket when the store opens tomorrow, wait till tomorrow evening's bus, but you know, I got to get where I'm goin'. Listen, n no one but God is looking, we both know I paid my two hundred bucks for that ticket, you see the tag on my bag. If you've got a kind heart you'll meet me around the corner, I'll jump on there." I could tell the driver wanted me on that bus - he had already let me on once and now we were conspiring in the rain, both aware that our only barrier was the old man ticket seller.
"Come on, lets see if he won't reprint your ticket" the driver said. I followed him inside the bus depot and behind the ticket counter. The driver exchanged a few words with the old man. I stood, momentarily filled with hope as the old man stepped into the back office room and reached towards a printer - a big sheet of glass between us I could see his every sluggishg move.
The old man slowly staggered and stalled, simply sipping his cup of cold coffee, stumbling to and fro. not doin much of anything. I exchanged glances with the driver, I could see the concern in his brow. The suspense built. We all just stood there. Waiting. Sipping from white mug, stained like teeth black cofee thick like syrup. It became clear the old man was unwavering, unwilling to lift his head let alone entertain a dialogue.
The driver walked towards me and said under his breath, "come on, get on the bus."
We loaded my bag under the big bus and I boarded, catching eyes with a natrive woman I had explained my situation to earlier. "Yay, good" she exclaimed in a quiet tone. "Yea, this guys' got a kind heart" I said.
My heart pounded as the driver checked his paperwork and walked down the aisles checking his numbers and passengers. Time moved in slow motion as I waited for the old man to come out again and hunt me down like he had 40 minutes before. The driver walked by me counting heads and whispered in a grumbling nearly inaudible tone, "Come talk to me when we get to Billings, we'll get you a ticket there" his conspiring glance caught mine for a millasecond. I nodded, embracing his raspy voice and attitute that made me feel like a character in a fugative thriller flick.
"Ladies and gentlemen," came his voice through the intercom, we'll be getting into Billings, Montana at about one a.m. tomorrow morning..." We pulled away, no sign of the old man, his white mug or stained teeth.
The prairies passed from my window, through thick fog and relentless showers. We watched a fugitive thriller flick - Bulletproof - with Adam Sandler and Damon Wayens. As its credits rolled "Hey there, we are pulling into Gillette, Wyoming. We are gonna pick up some more passengers here and we will be on our way in 5 or 10 minutes" came the drivers mellow voice.
We pulled up and stopped at a sleazy looking motel at about 9pm. The driver came walking down the aisle and gave me a look to get up and follow him. "I gotta go" I said and hung up my phone call with Jon. I had been filling him in on the situation.
"I am sorry bud, but you gotta get off here. I just got my ass reemed by headquarters. I guess our guy back in Rapid called them up and now so yea, I'm sorry bro but you're gonna have to get off here" the driver said reluctantly.
"Well shit, I am sorry to have put you in this situation - I hope its not to bad for you."
"Oh know its cool, I am just kinda new here so I am just figuring out how it all works."
I got my things and met him inside the motel where we had stopped.
The lady at the counter looked like she had been filled in on the situation, "All I need to know is smoking or non, we are gonna put you up here for the night no cost. There is a bus going back to Rapid at 4 in the morning so you can do as you please - go back or find a way to have your ticket come this way on tomrrow's bus...."
"Well that is so kind of you, non-smoking please. I am gonna hold off on the ticket back to Rapid for now, I'll think about it some-more and let you know."
More action flicks that night in the hotel, Halle Berry and John Travolta, and a solid 12 hours of sleep. In the middle of my dreams I called the shop back in Rapid and asked if they would so kindly take my ticket over to the bus depot at around 5:15pm. No problem. The day was mine in Gillette.
In the morning (actually 1:25pm) I couldn't resist Reese's and Butterfingers for just $.25 a pop in the motel lobby and I took out into the town. A sprawling highway langscape. Junk yards and body shops, liquor stores and a railroad. A billboard that reads "Leaving a friend for dead isn't normal, but on meth it is". Whoa, I am just starting my day here...
I found a cafe and had their Green Chili Pork - to die for. I hadnt had such good Mexican fare since Texas. Thank you Wyoming! The place was charming too with mini sombreros on the wall above plastic chilis and a floor littered with fries. When I first walked in I overheard the conversation at a nearby table. A group of men dressed in black hoodies, tatoos crawling up there necks and over their arms about how much they like doing yoga. "Its seriously the best way to get a good work out, and a good stretch of all your muscles..." "My teacher is so flexible..." The best part for me is watching the ladies..." "The best part fopr me is watching the guys..." came a response with a flamboyont yet dead seious inflection; "I like the relaxation at the end the most, it always puts me to sleep..."
I toured my surroundings, phone camera in hand and enjoyed the afternoon, 4 cups of coffee to my head. Check out the photo album here.
As I write this in the Smart Choice Inn, the woman at the desk informs me that they have my ticket at the bus depot in Rapid, my ride should be here by about 8:30 this evening. Let hope so! Portland here I come...maybe
Friday, May 27, 2011
into the hills
wait five minute days (part 2)
The switchbacks got steeper. The thinning air began to smell of dampness as the waning sunlight was swallowed by thick clouds gathering overhead. Debbie's warning yesterday of "weather" rang in my ear. The ominous clouds unleashed a second round, what at first was a pleasant showering of cool wet snow over my sweaty, steaming self. Within a few minutes however, I could see that this cold and wet would soon cease to be refreshing, and start to be exactly that: cold, wet and dark.
Cresting the steep ridge once more I walked down its spine searching for flatness. None. I would have to settle and sleep on a slant. No gloves, a jacket hardly water resistant, by the time I laid down my pack to get out the tent my hands were already drained of any color. Somewhere in between being numb and frozen is a unique, tingling pain that floods the hands and retards their movement. And so I set up my brand new tent- out of its packaging for the first time in the dark and snow. Thankfully it was a fairly easy set-up. Next, drinking water. I began collecting twigs for a fire, I wanted to get them before they got too soaked. I gave up within minutes, my fingers, frozen like hardened icicles ready to snap, burning in the cold.
Its funny how our minds work. Even when we are completely safe and sound, the mind wanders into fear, doubt, anxiety. With a cliff bar for dinner and a couple drops from my empty water bottle, I went to bed that night, not quite warm and cozy in my summer sleeping bag below the pelting of heavy wet snow, worrying about my basic needs: water, food, shelter. Although not as met in the moment as I might have liked, a part of me was confident that they would be guaranteed sometime in the earlier part of tomorrow. And yet still the worry, why? "Calm down, mind" I told myself... "What is the absolute worst that could happen? Instead of continuing into the mountains tomorrow, I could turn around and go back to the car, to the general store and the nice lady who warned me about the impending weather- I could even pack up the tent and start walking down the mountain right now and arrive before dawn... Calm down, everything will be fine..."
I woke up several times throughout the night with the tent nearly completely collapsed on me, weighed down with collecting snow. I pounded up and recreated my roof, only to last a few more hours before caving in again, bowing to touch my sleeping form.
The morning was only slightly warmer than yesterday evening had been. I packed up my things, rolled up my drenched tent and started up the trail again, sloshing through shallow snow that stuck to the soles of my shoes with frozen pine needles along for the ride. Not too far up the trail I stopped on a steep eastern facing slope amongst small embankments of packed snow and made a fire, melted drinking water and cooked a delicious meal over an open flame. Quinoa, lentils, dried mushrooms, garlic and basil, some olive oil, nettle and sea salt stew. The sun peaked through the clouds, and I shed my layers basking in the glory of radiant forgiving rays, soaking in the feeling I had told myself to embrace the night before - calm, reassurance, its all good. Even the tent got (almost) dry.
Moving onward I summited Bison Pass and continued down the other side of the mountain with Bison peak hovering nearby, occasionally jutting through the rapidly shifting clouds. Bison Peak is a collection of boulders that jut out of the mountain, perched precariously like giant horns embracing a certain rustic elegance. Continuing down the north face of this mountain meant a lot more snow. I curved and swerved away from and back to the trail to avoid knee high embankments and sometimes just had to trudge through with moistening socks in return. The trail lay just where the slope of the pine forested mountain to my west gently leveled into a valley of low lying willow bushes before again cutting sharply upwards as the cliff faces below Bison Peak. The grand overlooking vista of my summit now gone in this narrow valley, a creek reemerged in the shrubby overgrowth, clearly the stomping grounds of elk and bear. Clumps of wooly hair found in branches.
It was nice to filter water at the creek and not have a smoky after-taste with each sip. Instead, the the crispest, clean, clear, cold mountain water of the Rockies. The valley became more and more narrow with high walls of steep forested hills and giant rocks jutting up until the trail became a passage paralleling the bellowing stream. The chute suddenly opened into a brilliant open pasture. Golden grasses and low lying shrubs growing out of flattened earth moistened by snow-melt and the gentle stream. A couple hundred yards in the distance the surrounding hills engulf the valley and highlight the glistening snow capped mountains on the horizon.
A part of me wanted to camp here, find a place where the sun's early morning rays would find my tent as it rose above the eastern hills of this valley, but I knew it was too early in the day to stop. I examined the map and saw that only a few miles ahead was what looked like a similar prairie-like valley, exect several times the size of where I currently found myself.
And the map didn't lie. After falling down into another narrow, winding chute along the stream on the back side of willow shrub valley, the trail leveled into a thick pine forest and hugged the eastern side of more steep hillsides before dropping into another immense valley. The breathtaking vista at the southern tip of the opening revealed more shrubby willows and glowing golden grasses gently pushing and filling the outer limits of what remained flat under a network of dark, forested mountains and ridges falling into this mammoth open space. I found the spot where I hoped to cross the rocky wetland grass, shrub pasture a couple miles in the distance - where the space between two opposing mountain ridges was most narrow and made my way. I rock hopped across where I could and otherwise had to guess where the earth under thick grasses trampled by hooves was most solid in the lowlands of muddy snow-melt.
On slightly higher ground I found a white, thick thighbone on dry earth. Wind was constant from the south - the narrow, deep ravine my trail had followed, surely channeling sinking frigid air from nearby summits. Here, pine trees testing their limits, growing boldly in the flatland before following their brethren up the nearby hills accompanied with mossy rocks and singing birds. Within minutes my tent was erected behind the protection of tall trees. I went back out into the open to catch some sun before it disappeared from the brilliantly lit sky behind peaks I could no longer see, now once more in the belly of a valley.
Within just a few minutes of taking out my little pocket book to scribble some notes, they started falling from the sky. First just one or two, and then a relentless swarm. Pebbles of ice the size of swollen knuckles tickled where they found clothing and stung where they pelted open skin, scalp, cheek. I tried being patient, but again each minute passed like a day, each piece of hail its own hour collapsing on itself and on me. I had to get up and return to the tent - just in time for 5 minutes to elapse and bring along the rising sun of five mornings over.
wait five minute days (part 1)
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
confessions of a camper
A couple days ago i burnt a whole through one of my shoes at the campfire after surviving a hail storm at 10,000 feet, thankfully the thrift store had another solid pair for four bucks. My nose is peeling. They call me Rudolf. Do reindeer noses peel?
It wasn't easy leaving Brooklyn, New York City was starting to grow on me by the time I left in the end of April. There are things and people I miss and others I don't, both long lists but definitely a shout out goes to my roomates, bandmates and duct tape of 260 Moore St. NICE!
A couple days of gardening in Maryland and a few bucks in my pocket brought me west to Boulder, CO where family and friends gathered to celebrate my sister's college graduation. Congratulations Hetta! I got to enjoy plenty of sunshine, hikes, music and bbqs before I took my mom to the airport to return east. Zach and I went north to stay with my friend Andrew in Fort Collins.
Straw-bale raised beds. Healthy chard and lettuce and a lot of frost bitten tomatoes. We had the priviledge of playing a show that night at a venue downtown - jam night. It was a blast being on stage again for the first time in months, this time with a georgeous '59 Les Paul. Andrew of course is a ridiculous drummer and he now makes music with a guy named john who besides being an incredible vibes player is hands down the most high energy person i have ever met, and that is no small feat considering I know this dude named josh lipkowitz - you out there? I witnessed 4 days of hypo-mania, I hear its been like this over a year. Nonstop flight. John and I had to turn around a couple times, returning to the grocery store for items on his mental checklist ignored by a free flow of chatter, beautiful thoughts, and some radical ideas. Have you heard of geodesic domes? If not check it out, self heated greenhouse using sacred geometry built anywhere for cheap. Bananas in Colorado, roses in the arctic.
More good times with Hetta and friends, and recording music with songwriter Steve Boorstein in Bouqlder and then I was back in Denver all by my lonesome, co-conspirator Zach on a flight back east. There was only one place to go, into the mountains, I had an itch and I had to get in them fast. As you'll soon find out I am definitely glad I bought 12 energy bars at the REI checkout line. I was gonna only get four 'till the cashier with a pretty smile told me 20% discount if you buy a dozen. four would not have been enough...