Monday, June 29, 2009

I could think of no better scenario to be wearing high-wasted shorts and singing oldies than on a stripper stage

I have intentionally left out some juicy bits in the blog thus far. However if I used the same discretion in my Portland blog it would not do this city and my time here justice. There, now you’ve been warned…

Portland, Oregon is a city of epic proportions, a city pumped full of fun, a city with an air of generosity and genuineness. My brief stay in Portland with friends Kristi and Zack quickly morphed into an extended stay. Kristi and Zack have been the most generous hosts and have shown me tasty food joints, fun community happenings, beautiful hikes and scenic views, and playful, peculiar and even promiscuous evening activities. I’ll start with that last one.

On my first night in Portland Kristi took me to a vegan strip club. Zack made the lame decision not to join. We did however have male accompaniment. We spotted Roy near his window on the second tier of the house as we crossed the driveway towards Kristi’s car. We asked him if he wanted to join us and after approximately ten seconds of contemplation he was in. None of us had ever been to any type of strip club before and we all were a tad nervous about it. We assessed our cash situation and shared in a giggle outside the front door of Casa Diablo before we headed in. Enter stage right. There was a dancer on stage naked, except for a neck-tied bandana and a g-string. We passed through the entrance, past the stage which was centered in the room with poles at either end and made our way quickly to the bar. I stole a few glances back at the stage as we sat at the bar and ordered our drinks – I wasn’t imagining it, we were definitely at a strip club. Our topless bartender casually poured local brews from the tap and delivered them to us in exchange for cash. To no surprise we received our change in one dollar bills.

I carefully and thoughtfully surveyed the scene. There were mostly men, a few straight couples and a handful of lesbians. People were scattered around the stage, mostly clustered around the poles at either end of the stage and then seated towards the back at tables that were dimly lit. With drinks in hand we approached the stage. I suggested that we sit in the middle of the stage between the two poles where the dance floor narrowed. To my estimation the lack of poles and sufficient floor space meant that the strippers wouldn’t pay us much attention. I was right for the most part. A dancer was in the middle of her performance. There was money on the stage. When the music stopped, the dancer collected the money and her clothes and left the stage. After her performance the DJ (yes, there was a DJ) announced that everyone sitting at the stage should leave a dollar per dance. We were starting to understand the etiquette.

We fished through our wallets while the next performer prepared to step up onto the stage. Then the most unlikely song came through the speakers, “Hotel California” by the Eagles. I unfortunately will never be able to think of that song in the same way. The girl took who mounted the stage wore tattered scraps of clothing and was the only girl who did not wear black knee-high leather boots with five-inch heels, she danced bear-foot. Her most impressive move was a dash in between poles, where she would then grasp the pole with both hands, swing around several times and then run back towards the other pole. When she approached the three of us she immediately took a liking for Roy. I was enormously glad that we had a guy with us because I wanted to receive no such attention. She attempted to crawl across me and towards Kristi and in the process knocked over my cup of beer. Kristi instinctively took back one of the dollar bills we left on the stage for her.

For the most part I was uncomfortable yet was amused by the novelty. I tried hard to control my nervous giggle. Another song choice “Drops of Jupiter” by Train produced a little chuckle. I dutifully put my one-dollar bills on the stage at the start of each song, yet pushed all my money in front of Roy, who was happy to receive the attention. We ran out of cash at the exact moment the dancers circled back around to the top of the lineup and the girl with the neck-tied bandana reappeared on stage. With that we were gone. We tried to place the ‘vegan’ categorization of the strip club, but couldn’t. Perhaps if we had asked for the food menu we would have come away with a better appreciation for their slogan “the only meat is on the pole.”

I awoke with the sobering awareness that I had indeed gone to a strip club the night before and I wondered what else was in store for me during my stay in Portland. That afternoon I accompanied Kristi and Zack’s roommate, Aaron to the downtown REI store where he worked. I picked up a few MREs, a keychain compass and a pack of beef jerky and left my purchase with Aaron while I took off on foot to explore the downtown area. I walked around the Pearl neighborhood passing by cute restaurants, boutiques, small grassy parks and numerous buildings that were questionably commercial. I used the trusty Google Maps application on my phone to steer me in the direction home. It encouraged me to cross a couple of bridges that were not pedestrian accessible, so I had to improvise. Downtown walking was easy – a grid system with pedestrian walk signals. Outside the downtown area not so easy – I crossed a few highways in ‘frogger’ fashion and was pleased when cars actually came to a full stop for me.

I returned to the house, met up with Zack and a few of his friends and we drove to a community-wide art fair called “Last Thursday.” There were artists everywhere. When Zack and I stopped into a Mexican restaurant for mediocre burritos there was even a couple of musicians near the counter playing their guitars and singing songs in Spanish. The street was decorated with colorful booths showcasing an eclectic variety of goods for sale. Zack bought a couple of necklaces with very large medallions, which he referred to as ‘hippy bling’ from a very talented young Mexican artist. I even bought a print that I found particularly striking from another artist. I was stopped by one vendor who gave me a free sanitary pad. The people at the street fair were equally as eclectic as the art. Zack and I accidentally parted ways at an African drum circle that I stopped to take in. When we attempted to meet back up I scanned the crowd near where he said he would be and completely missed his waving hand of recognition. I mention this because on any other street I would have no trouble picking Zack out of a crowd. He is a skinny white guy with trim facial hair and partial dreads and on this day wore a thick cloth headband, a dusty colored t-shirt, jeans and had brown satchel strung across his back. It was refreshing to be around so many genuine people.



(Zack at Last Thursday)


Kristi came on the scene in time to pick us up and bring us to Darcell XV’s for a spectacular drag show. Darcell was a 70-something year-old drag queen with jolting eye makeup. She told a battery of one-liners that people hesitantly laughed at, not because the jokes weren’t funny but because it was difficult to decipher what she was saying through all her mumbles. For her age though she did a fabulous job and so did her entourage of drag queens. The crowd was mostly women. Present were two bachelorette parties and a dear older lesbian couple that was celebrating a birthday. At the conclusion of the show we wasted no time in moving on to our next exciting stop, the Alibi Tiki Lounge. Here we sang a few karaoke songs each. For the first time ever I used an alternative stage name: Day-zee, which is apparently my ‘west coast’ name [it’s best not to ask.] Under this new guise I sang some Stevie Wonder and Outkast. Kristi and I did a tribute to Michael Jackson, her singing “Heal the World” and me signing it. Our KJ was inspired and followed that song with “Man in the Mirror.” We moved onto another karaoke bar where Kristi continued the MJ tribute and sang “Remember the Time.” Zack and Ali sang “Time Warp” and I busted out “Let’s Talk about Sex.” Overall it was a calm karaoke night, yet very satisfying.


(you should have seen what these drag queens had underneath those dresses!)

We returned to the house and slid into hot tub. Not before long Kristi disappeared into the house and came back with a hoola hoop. This was not any ordinary hoola hoop though, there were large nubs sticking out of the exterior of the hoop, evenly spaced along the circumference. Kristi dipped each of the nubs, which were Kevlar wicks, into a canister of white gas. She gave the hoop a few twirls around her hip, shaking off the excess gas and asked Zack for a light. Zack was already out of the hot tub and carefully raised a lighter to each of the wicks setting each aflame. Kristi stepped back from the hot tub and turned the wooden deck into a stage, carefully swirling the fire hoop around her hips, legs, torso and neck. It was mesmerizing to watch the fire circle around her body.

When the wicks ran out of gas she returned to the canister and this time Zack was dipping his own contraption in the gas. Zack lit Kristi’s hoop on fire again and then lifted the two wicks on his contraption to her hoop to catch fire. Zack spun the fire poi – two long chains with wicks at the end. He looped the balls of fire around in circular patterns in front of his body, behind his back and above his head. The combination of their two performances was stunning. Roy, who had joined us in the hot tub on our return from karaoke asked to spin the poi. Then a new contraption entered into the fire dancing – the fire fan. Roy whipped around the fan, Kristi twirled the hoola hoop and Zack spun the poi and all the while I basked in the warm bubbles of the hot tub, fully enjoying my late night entertainment…

The next morning came sooner than expected. After brunch Kristi left for a weekend Che Kung retreat, the other roommates left for a weekend backpacking adventure and I took off to get my car serviced. My Jelly Bean is still running as smooth as ever, even after the 8,000 miles I’ve put on her in the last couple of months. I’ll need new front brake pads and a flush after the next 3,000 miles; and come to think of it I’m not quite sure where I’ll be after the next 3,000 miles – maybe Colorado, maybe Utah or maybe I’ll make it all the way back to Phoenix. The guy at the service counter noticed the cowboy hat in the back seat of my car and asked why so many people from Massachusetts wore cowboy hats. I told him it was my “road trip” hat and then tried to make some sense of the why people in Boston wore cowboy hats; I forget now what I said. He lit up when I told him about the road trip and we spent a good half an hour talking about places to visit in Oregon and Washington. I love when I meet people like this on my road trip.

The afternoon was lazy. Zack climbed into a hammock suspended by tree limbs that was nearly eight feet off the ground. He explained where his emergency medical card was before he attempted this feat. I chose the hammock near the fence that hung a normal distance from the ground. A dog on the opposing side of the fence barked viciously at my mere presence in the hammock and so my stay there was limited. I took advantage of the spacious wooden deck that had previously been a stage for fire spinning and rolled out my purple yoga mat for a long satisfying practice. It eventually turned into night and Zack cooked a delicious dinner for the two of us that featured cilantro sprinkled Halibut on a bed of beets, zucchini, potato and hazelnuts. Good food was soon followed by good dancing at the Good Foot.


(Zack in the hammock)


Dancing at the Good Foot was comparable to the ‘Sand Storm’ dance party at Kristin and Mo’s wedding reception, the random hip-hop shake downs in the kitchen at my old Mission Hill apartment and that Halloween dance party when Liz and I wore full-body spandex suits, dressed as Thing 1 and Thing 2. On this Friday night the DJ was playing old funk and soul interlaced with several Michael Jackson songs. Zack, Roy and I took to the dance floor after enjoying yet another round of really tasty micro-brew. We danced and we danced and we danced and so did everyone else. I have never been to a venue that was more about dancing. The scene was not particularly gay or straight, not too alternative or too preppy, not many obvious couple or obvious singles; there wasn’t even a group of sketchy men lining the exterior of the dance floor. The intermittent MJ songs were greeted with shouts of delight. It was a wonderful way to pay tribute to an artist who shared so much beautiful music with the world in the peak of his existence. So we danced and I could think of nowhere else I’d rather be.

I branched out the next day and went off on my own to explore some more. I stopped by a local farmer’s market on the PSU campus and purchased a vanilla honey latte, cheese croissant and pint of raspberries. On my drive out to Mt Hood I munched on the berries and croissant and rather enjoyed filling the pastry with the berries and eating it like a sandwich. I drove to Timberline Lodge, and walked on trails alongside skiers, snowboarders and their dogs. Initially I was pleased I had my hiking sandals on, noting that my hiking shoes would have gotten soaked from all the snow. My toes froze quickly however. I looked upwards to the continuation of the trail and tried to figure in my head how many times I would slip and fall on my ass coming back down. I cut my losses and moved on. Next I drove to the gorges along the Columbia River and got out of the car to enjoy a five-mile hike alongside Eagle Creek. Afterwards I met up with Zack who had just finished volunteering on the east side of Mt Hood. We met at Multnomah Falls, which was one of the most beautiful waterfalls I had ever seen, yet the hoards of other tourists enjoying the same view somehow made the experience less special. The evening concluded with spicy Thai noodles, Jasmine flavored shisha, a double shot of espresso, few bites of chocolate cake and riveting conversation.



(Multnomah Falls)

My fifth and last day in Portland had been built up since my arrival. That evening, after Kristi’s return we all went to Striperoke. Striperoke is exactly what you think it is: strippers dancing to karaoke singing. The door to the club was wide open when we arrived and in the distance we could make out the performers in the distance. We had our IDs checked by a man whose head and visible arms were covered in tattoos, ordered drinks from a seemingly normal male (clothed) bartender and found our way to a booth a few yards away from the stage. The place wasn’t particularly seedy. Because of our strip club outing just a few days ago there was no shock or nervous giggles. It also helped that these strippers were comical and had the good sense to keep on at least a few articles of clothing. One stripper at a time and one karaoke singer at a time would take to the same stage. Whatever you sing is what the stripper dances to. Kristi and I tried to come up with songs that we could sing that would be really hard to dance to; we added our slips to the line-up. I was called up on stage first. I stood there in my brand new high-wasted khaki shorts, an aqua blue tank top which was tightly tucked in to right underneath my boob and a matching blue boa that Kristi happened to have. Berlin, the stripper came up to me and said “You’re Big Al?” I laughed. I normally get that reaction from the KJ when I go to retrieve the microphone before my song. I sang “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper, which I believe was a popular song in 1957. Here’s the Big Bopper himself singing the song, just in case you were wondering… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b-by5e4saI

I could think of no better scenario to be wearing high-wasted shorts and singing oldies than on a stripper stage. Berlin rocked it out though. She was also on stage for Kristi’s performance of “Shout.” Kristi’s song choice really stumped Berlin and although she joined Kristi in slowly crouching down to the lyrics “a little bit softer now” she didn’t have much a clue for how to dance along; it was really funny to watch. Towards the end of the night I anticipated Zack and Kristi’s duet to Du Haust. It is a classic duet performance complete with dead pan expressions, sun glasses and arms folded across the chest. Unfortunately their karaoke card was trumped by a heavy-set metal guy with long brown hair whose performance of the song was good, but not nearly as entertaining as the duet would have been. I was anxious to see how the stripper would react to the song. After all this was the song I did an interpretive dance challenge to the Halloween I dressed in full-body spandex where I injured myself by doing a leap across the floor and landing in an unexpected split. The stripper didn’t really change her dancing style for the song she just adjusted to the beat. For that matter none of the strippers really embraced the interpretive dance quality of each song. One exception though was when this one guy sang “Thriller” the stripper actually did a few MJ moves like the crotch grab and the moonwalk – impressive.

I am supposed to leave Portland today, but have decided on one more day in this fabulous city. When I finally do make my departure I will surely miss Kristi and Zack, the wonderful people I met and the irreplaceable memories.


(Zack, Kristi and I at the food carts getting dinner before Striperoke)

Monday, June 22, 2009

Where everybody is somebody

On my way out of Santa Cruz I swung by the local elementary school and saw this slogan etched into the school’s colorful wooden sign: “WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY.” That would be the polite way to describe SC. I rather like describing Santa Cruz as a secret refuge for the exceptionally weird. I heard someone else compare Santa Cruzians to marshins. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for the city and its dwellers, yet I can’t help but bat an analytical eye at a population that so effortlessly lives perpendicular to the grains of society.

I arrived in Santa Cruz after spending a week, essentially alone in the woods. Having adapted to the simple lifestyle, vital to camping, I instantly came to appreciate some slight luxuries of civilization, such as being able to store my food and fragrant toiletries in my car without fear of a bear tearing through it. I stayed with my friend Kristen who was renting a room in Arthur Hull’s home. I name drop here because, according to Wiki “Arthur Hull is an internationally renowned percussionist. He is seen by many as the person who conceived and developed the idea of the facilitated community drum circle.”

Now, again, I have nothing but respect for Arthur and his art, yet it is impossible to ignore his eccentricities. His home is full of indigenous African paintings, the ones with the all the dots in shades of reddish brown, black and ivory. He has unique and artfully crafted drums adorning the walls of his hallway entrance. Bamboo stalks are seen through almost every window in the home, and a jaunt around the exterior reveals total tranquility with a bountiful garden, many plants of which are edible and a waterfall that breaths fresh water into a pond full of lily pads and koi. Arthur himself is quite the sight in his traditional African garbs, complete with cloth hat. He exudes a young and free spirit with aspiring roots in Africa.



I thought I had Arthur pinned, until I saw his Lego room. Walking into the Lego room carried with it the same sense of awe and discomfort as that scene from “A Beautiful Mind” when Jennifer Connelly walks into Russell Crow’s secret hideaway and finds a frenzied mass of conspiracy notes. I walked into the Lego room to discover hundreds of tiny Lego drawers, multiple Star Wars replicas and other replicas I could not place and the apparent tinkering of several unfinished projects. This tipped the scale on eccentricity.



My first evening in Santa Cruz Kristen took me for a spin around town. We drove all along the coast making our way into the ‘downtown’ area and passed a rather large amusement park that was nestled in next to the water. After some excellent sushi we rolled by the local pharmacy to pick up some 40’s in anticipation of watching surfers and the sunset. The pharmacy was run by the dazed and confused and we experienced the employees fighting over the loud speaker about who ate who’s pizza. We got out of there with brown paper bags for our 40’s and found our place along the water. We must have watched the surfers for nearly two hours and for the first time since my arrival in California it felt appropriate to categorize our experience there as gnarly.



Kristen brought me out for a surfing lesson the following day. I forgot how unforgiving wet suits were. We paddled into Cowell Beach which claims to be one of the best beginner beaches in the world. The waves were barely breaking, but I did manage to stand up and catch one wave before letting out a high pitched yelp and bailing. We attempted another surf spot at Pleasure Point where Kristen was more in her element and me, well, I was mostly there to take it all in. I attempted a handful of waves, but was unsuccessful and as I paddled back into the ocean I was assaulted by a succession of waves, one of which caught me prone on my board and ran me smack-dab into another surfer, who had the good sense to dive below the water. I couldn’t help but laugh at my misfortune; in a way it was refreshing. I think I could get into the whole surfing thing. It was enormously peaceful sitting on my board, bobbing in the water alongside other wet-suit clad surfers, looking out at the water. Sitting there, looking for waves is after all a good 75% of what surfers do.



The beach life exposed a culture of surfing and sand covered activities. The coffee shops and bars of Santa Cruz exposed a whole other culture. I have never seen so many colorful mohawks, tattoo sleeves, facial piercings, thick framed glasses and mismatched clothes. Before embarking on this road trip I lived in Jamaica Plain, arguably the funkiest and most alternative neighborhood in Boston and yet there is simply no comparison. In my continual quest for the curious and unique I, myself felt rather boring and ordinary here. I was however quite amused with the mainstream culture of SC; the blatant and blissful disregard for social norms creates of a peaceful environment where everybody can be somebody (well, almost everybody.)

Next stop: San Francisco.

I could have easily spent a week or more in SF. I love this city and am seriously considering moving here when my 15months are up. I got to experience the beauty of the coast, the iconic views of the Golden Gate Bridge, the exotic botanical gardens, the Castro, the Mission, the Haight and last but not least the Pinball Museum. My first night in San Francisco I met up with an old friend, Jamie, who took me to a very happening bar in the Mission called Zeitgeist. We sipped our Big Daddy beers and munched on Tamales. After making a brief stop at her house and encountering the cat that purred like a pigeon (see video below) we got some of the most delicious ice cream I’ve ever had.



San Francisco really has it going on with food. In my first and only full day in SF, my friend Katelyn and I went out for dumplings in Outer Richmond at the Shanghai Dumpling King - I had never experienced such pasty, doughy, fried goodness before.

Katelyn drove me through some amazing parts of the city including the Castro and the Haight. Everywhere I looked my eye was pleasantly distracted by colors, characters and dynamic views of the hilly landscape. Our day ended with a trip to Lucky Ju Ju, a pinball museum in Almeda that Jamie had told me about. The museum is just as fabulous as you would expect: all the pinball machines, dating back into the 1960’s are on free-play so no quarters needed. Katelyn immediately took to the Adams Family machine and then we both wandered around playing on as many machines as we could for as long as the excitement lasted, which was exactly an hour.



I have a good feeling that I’ll be back to that pinball museum and to SF in general.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Here goes nothing

Half Dome in Yosemite National Park is a distinct sheer rock face 4800 feet in elevation above the valley floor in which the final 400 feet to summit is lined with braided steel cables for hikers to pull themselves up on. Just days before I had the chance to attempt this 17-mile hike a man had slipped off the cables and fallen his death. With an air of gloom and several voices of caution I was hesitant to follow through my intentions to hike to summit in a day.

After spending a good portion of the day at a Starbucks in Fresno composing my previous blog and posting pictures, I drove to Yosemite and straight into the ranger village. The drive was nostalgic, as I had been to Yosemite once before. Spring break of my middler year Katy, Liz and I met up with our friend Lindsey who was a ranger in Yosemite. We stayed with Lindsey in her ranger cabin and cruised around the Park with her, getting a local feel for what seems like a little city in the infinite wilderness. Lindsey put in me in touch with her friend Andrea who is still in the Park and I had the pleasure of staying with her and her family for a few nights.

I drove to Yosemite with full intentions of hiking Half Dome, yet at some point during the drive that motivation disappeared. The cautionary voices and regard for the recent death circled in my thoughts. Andrea sensed my wavering commitment when we spoke of plans for the following day. She set me straight though, speaking more truth than she may have realized when she told me not to think about it too much. So with that I set my alarm clock for 4:00am and attempted a good night’s sleep in preparation for the hike. When the worst-case-scenario reel in my head came to a stop I finally fell asleep.

As soon as I hit the snooze option on my phone I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. I lay there, four in the morning, wide awake, heart already pumping. My headlamp came in handy as I brought things from my car and tent into the house. I spent my first waking minutes packing my bag, making sure I had everything I needed for the day-long hike. I brought a gallon of water, plus two nalgenes full of water (later I discovered that I only needed one additional water bottle, not an entire gallon and in bringing a more appropriate amount of water I could have shaved nearly five pounds off of my pack – oh well.) I packed a fleece, a winter hat, extra socks, gardening gloves, a big lunch, toilet paper, the first aid kit and emergency blanket Sarah had given me as part of a bon voyage gift, my rain jacket and of course my trusty tomato-cutting pocket knife. Once I felt my pack was complete I sat down to eat a large bowl of granola and soy milk, which seemed almost ceremonious – as if I was preparing myself for a marathon or a big presentation.



I stepped foot on the trail at 5:30am. I knew I had eight miles to go before I reached the base of Half Dome; eight miles before the cables. I was pleased to see so many other hikers up early and on the same trail. I chatted with about a dozen people on the way up, yet graciously continued past them; I didn’t want to spare any time before summit. Andrea, Lindsey and several hikers on the trail uttered the same phrase “summit before noon” and so I never stopped to rest for too long and never slowed my pace. The further along the trail I got the more confident I felt about the cables, yet I was still a tad nervous. I assured myself that if the sky looked ominous I would just admire the last 400 feet from the base – seeing as though the guy who slipped off the cables and died did so during adverse weather.

When I reached the base the sight of the mountain was intense. Many people were clustered at the base; I couldn’t figure out if they were trying to muster up the courage to scale up the mountain or if they were just admiring the view. I thought about resting, but didn’t. I pulled the gallon jug out of my bag and left it there. I took the gardening gloves out and slid my fingers in between the leather finger holes, curling my fingers into a tight fist to feel the ruggedness. I was ready. I approached the base and got in position to start the climb. I turned to whoever happened to be behind me and said “here goes nothing.” I gripped the steel cables, getting a sense for how secure my grasp felt and started moving.
The woman behind me was named Jennifer and after her there was Troy and then Mary. Jennifer and I exchanged light hearted conversation and words of motivation as we scaled up the seemingly impossible slope. There was only one passage way along the rock face, only one passage way for two-way traffic. We hit the cables at the right time, as very few folks were coming down and very few hikers were ahead of us. Steel poles sticking out of the rock held the steel cable at the top and secured a narrow piece of wood at the bottom. The wooden slabs, every fifteen to twenty feet allowed for pause, re-composure and rest; standing on the summit-facing corner of the wood gave me enough leverage to momentarily rest my arms. Pause. Deep breath. Focus. Pull, pull, pull, pull. Pause. Deep breath. Focus. Pull, pull, pull, pull.

I reached the top of the world by 10:30am. The views were indescribable and incapable of being captured in two-dimension. I hung out on the ledge for a while taking in the exhilaration and phoned a few special people to share the moment with. When I spoke with my father he said “just don’t get too close to the edge” – I couldn’t help but laugh because I had been sitting on the ledge for our entire discussion.


I hadn’t considered how I would get back down the cables until I heard others on the summit talking about it. I knew the sense of safety wouldn’t return to me until I got off the cables all together, and so my time at summit was brief, made even briefer by the dark clouds rolling in from a distance. Apparently Jennifer, Troy and Mary had the same idea and after I picked up the first cable to descend I noticed that all three of them were right behind me. The queue ascending the mountain was stagnant and I questioned their motivations to summit with such gloomy clouds closing in. Nonetheless I passed by them, moving backwards in a repelling fashion. Troy and I chatted on the way down. He was 75 years old and clearly in impeccable health. I shared my road trip adventure with him and he shared with me with the many adventures he has had all over this country; he immediately became an inspiration to me. The four of us gathered at the bottom of the cables and shared in whooping, congratulatory hugs.



That was that. I made it back down to the valley floor, taking my sweet time and meeting another handful of other hikers on the way. By 3:30 I was back to my car and all I wanted was a hot, effortless dinner so I swung by the lodge to get cheeseburger, fries and a diet coke. The rest of the evening I spent with Andrea and her family and even managed to fit in a few phone conversations, taking advantage of the unusual cell phone reception in the ranger village. After a rewarding night’s sleep and a pleasant morning visiting with Andrea I took off for Santa Cruz to visit my friend Kristen.

Monday, June 15, 2009

No room for comfort

When I left Boston I left a life so settled and comfortable. I left behind wonderful friends, memories and for the first time in eight years and eight apartments an apartment that I actually liked. I’ve been on the road for 45 consecutive days now and up until Redondo Beach I hadn’t found myself reflecting upon what I left behind. It was wonderful visiting Marcus in Redondo and although he was extraordinarily busy with work he made time every evening to hang out, catch up, and of course sing karaoke. Although most of my daytime hours in Redondo were spent planning out the remainder of my road trip and thinking forward, memories of the comforts I had left behind started making its way into my psyche. But alas, there is no room for comfort on this road trip.

I moved on and into the depths of the Sierra Nevada, camping out in Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park for the last four nights. I camped alone for four consecutive nights and hiked alone for the three days in between. Although I could have easily befriended campsite neighbors and fellow hikers, I didn’t. In the moments of silence, in the far reaching corners of the Park I was awarded with a new sense of clarity. Reaching such paths of isolation though does not come without caution…

On my first day in Sequoia I set out to hike a trail in its highest altitude, near Mineral King. I drove nearly two hours from my campsite to reach the ranger station in Mineral King. Although I had a map of the Park and a Fodor’s tour book detailing hikes in the area, there was little information on the trails near Mineral King. The ranger was on her lunch break, so I surveyed the hiking trails that were shown on a laminated map on the ranger station’s porch and found a trail that looked good. I drove to the trailhead and parked my car among just a handful of other cars. Some cars had metal fencing wrapped around their tires, secured in place with medium sized rocks – I knew not why. I put my cooler, two food bags and toiletries bag in the bear safe and figured that was enough safeguarding for my car.



I started in a beautiful meadow that was crowned with lush mountains and above it a sky of rolling mist. A mile into the trail, slightly winded I followed the sign right to Eagle Lake. Two miles into the trail, significantly more winded I reached the last sign– left to Eagle Lake. I had 1.5 miles left to reach the lake and be compensated with a view worthy of the strenuous hike. I underestimated the 3000 feet ascend. After passing this last trail marker the terrain changed to reveal chunks of snow and wintery winds. After passing through another meadow and back into the forest I found myself in the rolling mist I had admired from nearly 2000 feet below. Immediately my visibility was limited to 15 feet in every direction. I continued hiking through the mist hoping that a break in the sky might reveal some incredible vast scenery, like how a flash of lightening illuminates all that was once dark. I got no such relief.



I reached a new rocky terrain and felt as though I was scaling the side of a mountain, but my visibility was still limited so I could only imagine the depths that lie below me. The certainty of the trail was fleeting. At numerous junctions I made three or four attempts to find the continuation of the trail – all were successful thus far. I heard the lake and sensed I was no more than two tenths of a mile away. The ground was almost completely covered with snow and no human footprints gave indication of where to go next. As I attempted to find the last stretch to the lake I started to forget the direction I had come from. I was dizzy, confused and out of breath. I snapped to for a moment and reckoned that I was becoming victim to the elevation. I spared no time and turned around on the trail, leaving the sight of the lake to my imagination. I continued to walk in the direction I had come from and experienced brief moments of excitement when I passed by a human-made stack of rocks or a foot mark I had intentionally made in the snow. When I crossed back across the meadow, with about two miles left in the trail I saw people for the first time since I had seen since I left the ranger station at Mineral King. When I made it back to my car I was elated – shaken up a little – but elated.

That night I returned to the same campsite I had occupied the previous evening. Luckily my tent and hammock were already set up and all I had to do was relax. I boiled water on my new propane stove and added the water to a lasagna MRE for a delicious and filling meal. I was fast asleep before the sound of children ceased and the light of day dipped behind the mountains. I rose with the sun, quickly packed up my car and headed out of the Park in search of a Starbucks. No, I had not given up, but I did need to charge my camera battery before I continued on in the Park. I went from fake eggs and bacon and instant coffee to sausage egg and cheese on a biscuit and a grande, non-fat, latte.

Back in the Park I drove straight to Moro Rock, an adored lookout point in Sequoia. The clouds were low and surround the peak and all I got out of the ½ mile climb was the exercise. Next I drove into the Giant Forest and hiked into see the General Sherman Tree. The tree was big and exciting and all but I was more interested in taking in the whole forest, not just one novelty tree, so I continued hiking in the Giant Forest. After I had my fill of giant sequoia trees I drove up in King’s Canyon to camp for the night.


(at the top of Moro Rock)


(in the Giant Forest)

I picked a site in the Azalea Campground, close to a few other families and just down the road from the General Grant’s Ranger Station, in the thumb of the Park. I did my usual campsite set up and then set off on foot to explore the rest of the campground. I walked deep into the campground, making brief eye-contact and giving salutations to fellow campers. I was approaching a loop of about fifteen campsites, few of which were occupied, and at the far end of the loop I came across a camp site occupied by five younger guys.

I immediately got a bad vibe from these guys. I continued to walk past their campsite and noticed that there were no campsites ahead of me, just a road that weaved through the woods, back around to the start of the loop. Right at the moment I had passed, four of the five guys quickly loaded into their giant 4-door truck and started the diesel engine. I thought better than to walk down the road alone, with a pack of potentially dangerous guys on my tail, so I casually glanced at my watch to somehow indicate that I needed to get going, and turned around to continue in the direction I had come from. As the guys slowly pulled out of their parking spot I avoided eye contact, hoping that they would just speed by me.

They took off down the non-campsite side of the loop and stopped at the other side of the loop where my path would have met up with them. I listened for their diesel engine to continue on, but they just sat there. I hate to say that a wave of paranoia swept over me, but it did – there was something that did not feel right about this whole situation. Any onlooker could have guessed what I was doing by reading my body language. I was partially hidden behind a tree trying to plan out my next move. There were no other roads and no people in the near distance. I glanced back at the campsite and saw the one guy there tending the fire. I discretely glanced down to the beginning of the loop and saw all four guys, carelessly standing around their truck, still with the engine on. I waited longer for the sound of the diesel engine to slowly disappear, but it didn’t. My best option was to run into the woods, so I did.

Eventually I found my way back to my campsite. My ears remained sensitive to the sound of diesel engines and my eyes sensitive to every passerby. I had another MRE for dinner and a cup of hot cocoa. It was getting cold and I was quickly growing tired of being on high alert, however I continued to sit at the picnic table, reading by the light of the slowly falling sun until out of the corner of my eye I saw the pack of guys strolling in my direction. My move towards the tent was quick and deliberate and by the time I was fully zipped into the tent I felt fairly certain that the guys hadn’t seen me. I sat in my tent reading until the sun disappeared, trying to keep my mind silent. There was no room for comfort, yet somehow I slept soundly through the night.

I woke at 5:30 in the morning to the perfectly orchestrated alarm clock of nature: sun rising, birds chirping and squirrels rummaging. Fortunate to have had a sound sleep I allowed myself few more hours of slumber before beginning my day and rolled over onto my other shoulder that felt less sore at the moment. Just as I was glad to be out of Albuquerque, I was glad to be out of Kings Canyon – or so I thought. I packed up my things when I awoke for good and headed over to the Panoramic Point trailhead near the General Grant station. At the lookout point I was greeted by a fellow Bostonian. This girl, Rachel, was a PT student at Northeastern and was out in California on a clinical rotation. We had a pleasant visit, an encounter that renewed my faith in Kings Canyon. I embarked on a fairly easy five-mile loop after I left Rachel and when I returned to my car I decided to continue on into the bottom of Kings Canyon. Here I hiked around some more and made peace with a roaring waterfall and an elegant meadow. I claimed a campground in Sheep Creek and enjoyed the silence and isolation that the night offered.


(Panoramic Point)


(Zumwalt Meadow)

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

"These songs are true, these days are ours, these tears are free..." ~ Paul Simon

The drive through the Southwest was magical. I drove from the northern rim of the Chihuahuan Desert (Albuquerque) through the rolling hills of Northern Arizona to the heart of the Sonoran desert (Phoenix). This drive brought me through some of the most extreme and contrasting landscapes I’ve ever seen in less than an eight hour drive. I broke up the drive with a visit to the Petrified Forest National Park (in Northwestern Arizona) where I battled gusty winds and bus-loads of senior citizens. The petrified wood was very cool to see up close and I loved the Painted Desert with all its purple mountains!

Continuing onto Phoenix I picked up the Pony Express route and drove down roads that whipped through the mountains with hairpin turns and steep descends. Paul Simon’s “Rhythm of the Saints” album set the perfect mood for this drive. [Although the audio quality isn’t 100%, here’s a video of one of my favorite songs on the album: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DHYo69JVm4]. Paul Simon followed me right into Phoenix where the temperature spiked to over 100 degrees.


(Me on a hike with my Aunt and Uncle at Picacho Peak State Park)

So I arrived at a place I will soon call home. The stakes were high for me on this road trip stop. I knew I would compare Phoenix to every other road trip stop, and already it doesn’t even compare. I had the chance to visit with family who live just south of Phoenix and was able to drop off a trunk load of stuff I had been transporting all the way from Boston. I am very fortunate to have family so far away from any place I’ve ever called home. While I was here for a few days I went up to visit the Thunderbird campus and said hello to admissions and all the other staff I had been in touch with during my application process. The campus is small, but nice and I don’t think I’ll have any trouble focusing on my studies for the 15 months I’m there. Perhaps the lack of enticing local activities will be exactly what I need to do well in my MBA. [This is my school: http://www.thunderbird.edu/ ]

The drive from Phoenix to San Diego was probably my least favorite so far. The temperature never dipped below 105 the entire way; it made me wonder if I could just stop off for an hour and get my windows tinted. It was hot and I was gross and sweaty. Every pit stop I made along the way was disgusting. I incessantly washed my hands and popped vitamins and electrolytes along this drive. One of my stops was in El Centro, CA; I can’t even begin to describe the area, but I imagine it might look and feel similar to some impoverished city in Mexico. I was relieved when I got closer to the coast. The temperature began to drop, the landscape started to look more tolerable and the ocean smell drifted through my car windows.

(this sign was above the toilet in one of the fine establishments I made a pit stop at)

In a roundabout way I couchsurfed for my first night in San Diego. My old roommate Rinaldo, a native San Diegoan or San Dieger or San Diegist, or whatever you call them, was kind enough to put me in contact with one of his old high school buddies. When I got into San Diego I met up with his buddy Rich at a nearby diner. I showed up grimy and underdressed, he showed up in his police uniform. I’m sure we were an interesting sight when we sat down at a booth together. After dinner he sent me to his condo and he left to finish off the rest of his shift. I was in no mood to explore so I went directly to his place, showered and streamed some of the shows that had been piling up in my Hulu queue. He joined me later in the night for a few glasses of red and then it was lights out.

The following day I had been looking forward to for far too long. This was the day I got to meet Elaina and Katelyn in San Diego. I scooped up Elaina from the centrally located John Wayne airport and we spent the afternoon down by Mission Beach where we soaked up some rays, played catch up and drooled over the thought of living somewhere so beautiful. We finally got to our hotel room, which was right in the Gaslamp district and by no coincidence in stumbling distance of several cool bars and restaurants. The night began with an hour of free wine tasting at the hotel, picked up when Katelyn arrived, got a little out of control when I busted out all my rap favorites on the karaoke microphone and ended with 3am pool races (of which I took no part in.)


(Katelyn, Elaina and me out at some Irish bar in the Gaslamp district of San Diego)

The following morning wasn’t so pretty, as you can imagine, however we managed to get up and out for a greasy Irish breakfast, and later in the afternoon we found ourselves at the San Diego Zoo. I’ve never really been that impressed by a zoo before, but this zoo was phenomenal. We had only three hours to experience the zoo and made it a point to see the monkeys - who doesn’t love watching monkeys? Anyway we had quite the show when we were watching the Bonobo Chimpanzees. When we first arrived at the exhibit we saw a chimp eat his own vomit. A few moments later two seeing-eye-dogs (in training) were led in front of the glass that separated the chimps from the outside world. With absolutely no hesitation one of the chimps ran full force into the glass, smacking violently against it and coming within inches of the dogs. The dogs whimpered and the chimp stayed pressed against the glass as if it were still trying to find a way through. Other chimps quickly joined the first one in moving towards the glass. The dogs, impossible to calm down, were led away from the exhibit by their trainers. When I could tear my eyes away from the chimps I noticed that monkeys from nearby exhibits had all moved front and center to see the action. There was something very eerie about this entire thing, something so raw and so far from any human attempt at domestication.


(one of the tamer chimps)


(the bonobo vs. newfoundland showdown)

Later in the evening we all made our way to Newport Beach where we stayed with friends of Katelyn and Elaina. Our first night there was relatively mellow and we got to meet the roommates and their friends. One of my favorites was this guy named Roy. Roy was an older guy, probably in his sixties, who showed up to their house in his high school football jersey. I had been warned about Roy (in a good way) and he was every bit as entertaining as I had imagined. When he arrived at the house the guys took down a birthday banner that was hanging above the door and had Roy run through it to make an official entrance. Roy’s signature line of the night had to have been “I never stand down” a phrase which he tacked onto the end of most all of his statements. I was already having a great time in Newport Beach…


(Roy and Jay)

The following morning I walked a few blocks to the beach and did yoga in the sand. I stared out to the ocean to find a place to rest my eyes as I settled into my first sun salutation. My gaze rose above the waves speckled with surfers and found its place on the meeting of ocean and sky. It was simply beautiful.

In the remainder of the day we rode Cadillac bikes along the water, rented a cheesy little “duffy” boat and took it for a spin in the harbor, and spent the evening hanging around town. It was a great evening that warranted no sleep…


(Elaina cruising the strip)


(Jim and Paul 'the captain' navigating through the harbor, jamming out to "I'm on a Boat")

So I slept on the beach the following day as I slowly made my way up to Marcus’ place in Redondo Beach.

I’m now at a place to regroup and rethink. I’m cashing in on the high-speed internet while I attempt to plan out the next two months of travel…