Showing newest 4 of 6 posts from January 2010. Show older posts
Showing newest 4 of 6 posts from January 2010. Show older posts
11 January 2010, Monday
Logan, Utah
Due to his schedule, Mondays are a sort of "day of rest" for Eli. We lounged away the morning on couches, reading and talking with Deanna, discussing issues from theology to social networking. The evening, however, was made lively by our dinner guests, Bethany and Azure Kliene. The sisters, ages eighteen and sixteen, brought with them five people's worth of energy and no apparent self consciousness, in the wonderful way that good parenting and uplifting friendships tend to promote.
Azure tells her joke.
Over pasta and homemade meatballs we exchanged stories and riddles. Azure laughed herself silly with her own, "What is brown and sticky? A stick!" I told the infamous "brick joke" and turned down the lights for the legendary Tale of the Glass Coffin. A number of painfully ironic gaffs about denominationalism were also put out:
All of this was, for the most part, good fun, but by the end of the night I was longing for something more substantial. Thankfully, Eli asked me to join him downstairs for prayer. After talking about our experiences of struggle and grace in the tumultuous season of our mutual conversions to faith in Christ, we knelt for some while to thank and implore God to expand His light throughout earth in the hearts of men.
Logan, Utah
Due to his schedule, Mondays are a sort of "day of rest" for Eli. We lounged away the morning on couches, reading and talking with Deanna, discussing issues from theology to social networking. The evening, however, was made lively by our dinner guests, Bethany and Azure Kliene. The sisters, ages eighteen and sixteen, brought with them five people's worth of energy and no apparent self consciousness, in the wonderful way that good parenting and uplifting friendships tend to promote.
Azure tells her joke.
Over pasta and homemade meatballs we exchanged stories and riddles. Azure laughed herself silly with her own, "What is brown and sticky? A stick!" I told the infamous "brick joke" and turned down the lights for the legendary Tale of the Glass Coffin. A number of painfully ironic gaffs about denominationalism were also put out:
Q: How many liberals does it take to change a light bulb?Despite our more bookish tendencies, Eli and I were compelled by our young friends to join them in an acting game. The gist was that two people improvise a scene until someone in the audience yells, "freeze!" Both actors then hold their position until one is replaced by the person who paused the scene. He or she then resumes action with an entirely different plot derived from the frozen positions.
A: At least ten, as they need to hold a debate into whether or not the light bulb exists. Even if they can agree upon the existence of the lightbulb they may not go ahead and change it for fear of alienating those who use fluorescent tubes.
Q: How many Independent Baptist Fundamentalists does it take to change a light bulb?
A: "Change?!"
Q: How many Pentecostals does it take to change a light bulb?
A: 10, one to change it and 9 others to pray against the spirit of darkness.
Q: How many TV evangelists does it take to change a lightbulb? A: One. But for the message of hope to continue to go forth, send in your donation today.
Q: How many United Methodists does it take to change a light bulb?
A: This statement was issued: "We choose not to make a statement either in favor of or against the need for a light bulb. However, if in your own journey you have found that a light bulb works for you, that is fine. You are invited to write a poem or compose a modern dance about your personal relationship with your light bulb (or light source, or non-dark resource), and present it next month at our annual light bulb Sunday service, in which we will explore a number of light bulb traditions, including incandescent, fluorescent, three-way, long-life, and tinted--all of which are equally valid paths to luminescence."
Azure tells her joke. from theopenlife on Vimeo.
All of this was, for the most part, good fun, but by the end of the night I was longing for something more substantial. Thankfully, Eli asked me to join him downstairs for prayer. After talking about our experiences of struggle and grace in the tumultuous season of our mutual conversions to faith in Christ, we knelt for some while to thank and implore God to expand His light throughout earth in the hearts of men.
10 January 2010, Sunday
Logan, Utah
The sun was late in rising, or so it seemed to my more southern sensibilities when I awoke to darkness at 7:00 AM. After reading the Word and praying privately, I joined the family for a cup of tea before attending service at Valley Christian Church. The little community of Baptist believers convened in a smallish one-story bungalow. Music had already begun, and parishioners sat or stood in loose rows of folding chairs.
View from Taylor's home.
Though most attendees were Caucasian, a number appeared to be of the Karin people, first evangelized in the 1800's by the legendary Adoniram Judson. During the past decade, ethnic cleansing in Burma has sent them fleeing as refugees worldwide, and of all places, to Utah. Their plight is especially sad in Cache valley, where LDS missionaries seize upon indigent people, such as the Karin, offering appliances, food, and help if so long as they submit to baptism and induction into the Mormon Church. "Converts" are then heralded in newspaper figures as evidence of stellar growth in the advancing kingdom of Joseph Smith.
Valley Church
In an effort to combat such mercenary activity, Protestant Christians in Logan and throughout the State have stepped up to aid the Karin without requiring anything in return. When appropriate, Christians share the gospel and invite them to fellowship, but make no demands of the Karin. Valley Christian Church has gone so far as to perform scripture readings in the Karin tongue, and provide Sunday school services in their own language.
Following the service, I met Michelle, a woman in her twenties. She was kind enough to inform me that she has read and appreciated some of my articles from The Open Life. I am always surprised and humbled to discover persons profiting from the portions I am sometimes able to set out.
Eli speaks with friend.
In the afternoon a number of believers gathered to help a family move into their new home. It was here that I met Brad Scheelke, though only briefly.
Eli helps another pastor move furniture.
Brad Scheelke [center] and Alan [lright] with Brad's son.
After dinner, Eli, Alan, and I played the rather complicated game of Diplomacy, a favorite of John F. Kennedy. Reading the rules itself required two hours. We never did finish the game, but I project that defeat was headed my way.
Playing Diplomacy.
Logan, Utah
The sun was late in rising, or so it seemed to my more southern sensibilities when I awoke to darkness at 7:00 AM. After reading the Word and praying privately, I joined the family for a cup of tea before attending service at Valley Christian Church. The little community of Baptist believers convened in a smallish one-story bungalow. Music had already begun, and parishioners sat or stood in loose rows of folding chairs.
View from Taylor's home.
Though most attendees were Caucasian, a number appeared to be of the Karin people, first evangelized in the 1800's by the legendary Adoniram Judson. During the past decade, ethnic cleansing in Burma has sent them fleeing as refugees worldwide, and of all places, to Utah. Their plight is especially sad in Cache valley, where LDS missionaries seize upon indigent people, such as the Karin, offering appliances, food, and help if so long as they submit to baptism and induction into the Mormon Church. "Converts" are then heralded in newspaper figures as evidence of stellar growth in the advancing kingdom of Joseph Smith.
Valley Church
In an effort to combat such mercenary activity, Protestant Christians in Logan and throughout the State have stepped up to aid the Karin without requiring anything in return. When appropriate, Christians share the gospel and invite them to fellowship, but make no demands of the Karin. Valley Christian Church has gone so far as to perform scripture readings in the Karin tongue, and provide Sunday school services in their own language.
Following the service, I met Michelle, a woman in her twenties. She was kind enough to inform me that she has read and appreciated some of my articles from The Open Life. I am always surprised and humbled to discover persons profiting from the portions I am sometimes able to set out.
Eli speaks with friend.
In the afternoon a number of believers gathered to help a family move into their new home. It was here that I met Brad Scheelke, though only briefly.
Eli helps another pastor move furniture.
Brad Scheelke [center] and Alan [lright] with Brad's son.
After dinner, Eli, Alan, and I played the rather complicated game of Diplomacy, a favorite of John F. Kennedy. Reading the rules itself required two hours. We never did finish the game, but I project that defeat was headed my way.
Playing Diplomacy.
9 January 2010, Saturday
Eastward through the Nevada desert
Pale mists brooded expressionless over a frost-bound Nevada desert luminating the barren scape dully with monochromatic light. Above headstone silhouettes of Eastern mountains, there arose the silvery apparition of the sun manifesting his pallid aura over a vast and silent slab of ice and ore.
The night had passed restlessly, cramped against the cold plate window of a bus. Without a pillow, I pressed into service a fleece jacket which performed stoutly enough. Meanwhile, other passengers had more ingenious, if not more successful contrivances for comfort. Wiping my eyes against the morning light, I spied amusedly at least one pair of legs projecting straight up to the ceiling. No doubt, one is a master of sleep who can sustain his slumber for any great while on a Greyhound coach.
One by one, passengers began to stir. Now and then a few made small talk. In the row behind mine, a baby-faced Army vet announced to all in general that he was headed to Vermont to take part in a grassroots gladiatorial club. Though hardly the figure of muscular might, the effervescent fellow boasted to have been promised $2500 to wrestle and fight in a ring with other contestants. To my judgment he was being baited for a public beat down, and I felt for him. The idea of bloodthirsty persons finding pleasure in observing real violence is repugnant to my conscience, but the fact that men willingly subject themselves to become victims of it for a mere paycheck is most grieving. "Men lie in wait for their own blood; they set an ambush for their own lives. Such are the ways of everyone who is greedy for unjust gain; it takes away the life of its possessors." [Prov. 1:18-19] Yes, men go to terrible lengths to obtain money, even staking their health and life on gain. None, however, enjoys his wealth more than a godly man content with simple food and sufficient clothing. [1 Tim. 6:8]
Around 5:00 PM, the bus arrived in Salt Lake City depot, leaving me to wait curbside in the refreshingly frigid air. Soon pulled up a navy blue AAMCO truck from which stepped Alan Taylor, a husky forty-some with a broad smile and peppery facial hair. After embracing this dear brother in Christ and greeting his fourteen year-old son, J.P, I hoisted my gear into the truck bed and climbed inside the cab.
The two-hour drive to Logan, Utah, afforded a chance for Alan to inform me of the unique spiritual situation of the churches in Cache Valley, perhaps the most densely Mormon area on the planet. Over 96% of Logan professes to be LDS, and has been called by some, "the last Mormon stronghold." Because of their being so heavily outnumbered, Protestant Churches of the valley and her surrounding towns feel strongly the necessity of affirming their unity in Christ on central matters of belief. For this reason, diplomatic roads are being forged, Alan explained, to write a joint statement of faith declaring the essential oneness of these Churches, despite variations in certain doctrinal particulars. At the fore of this sensitive venture is Brad Scheelke, who for thirty years has managed a literature mission in the Valley, Oasis Christian book store, which serves as a kind of neutral ground for Christians and a discussion center for curious Mormons.
While Alan spoke, I watched with interest as the highway threaded Sardine canyon, whose snowy walls refracted the ochre glow of civil twilight. Across the valley the Wellsvilles jutted skyward, their peaks arched like spines upon the back of an immense beast. Measured from base to peak, the range represents the steepest ascent in the world. Once inside Logan, however, the majestic view was replaced with more ordinary trappings of a University town. Chic corner boutiques on the main stretch, book stores, quirky diners, and the like. Alan treated me to a sandwich, and, citing Utah tradition, his son J.P. compelled me to sample their renowned fry sauce.
Alan's wife, Deanna, and their other sons, Sean, Casey, and Cadon, received me warmly into the Taylor household later that evening. Upon being offered a hot drink, and guided through their quaint and orderly home, I was engaged by Mr. and Mrs. Taylor in earnest conversation, particularly on the subjects of biblical worship and church structure. Then, around 10:00 PM, Eli Brayley, the friend whom I had principally come to visit and observe, returned home. Greeting him with a hug, we set quickly to discussions which lasted past midnight.
When at last I stretched myself upon the bed to sleep, I felt refreshed be with brethren so energized by thoughts of our Savior, whose interest was to discover God's ideals for His Bride, the Church.
Eastward through the Nevada desert
Pale mists brooded expressionless over a frost-bound Nevada desert luminating the barren scape dully with monochromatic light. Above headstone silhouettes of Eastern mountains, there arose the silvery apparition of the sun manifesting his pallid aura over a vast and silent slab of ice and ore.
The night had passed restlessly, cramped against the cold plate window of a bus. Without a pillow, I pressed into service a fleece jacket which performed stoutly enough. Meanwhile, other passengers had more ingenious, if not more successful contrivances for comfort. Wiping my eyes against the morning light, I spied amusedly at least one pair of legs projecting straight up to the ceiling. No doubt, one is a master of sleep who can sustain his slumber for any great while on a Greyhound coach.
One by one, passengers began to stir. Now and then a few made small talk. In the row behind mine, a baby-faced Army vet announced to all in general that he was headed to Vermont to take part in a grassroots gladiatorial club. Though hardly the figure of muscular might, the effervescent fellow boasted to have been promised $2500 to wrestle and fight in a ring with other contestants. To my judgment he was being baited for a public beat down, and I felt for him. The idea of bloodthirsty persons finding pleasure in observing real violence is repugnant to my conscience, but the fact that men willingly subject themselves to become victims of it for a mere paycheck is most grieving. "Men lie in wait for their own blood; they set an ambush for their own lives. Such are the ways of everyone who is greedy for unjust gain; it takes away the life of its possessors." [Prov. 1:18-19] Yes, men go to terrible lengths to obtain money, even staking their health and life on gain. None, however, enjoys his wealth more than a godly man content with simple food and sufficient clothing. [1 Tim. 6:8]
Around 5:00 PM, the bus arrived in Salt Lake City depot, leaving me to wait curbside in the refreshingly frigid air. Soon pulled up a navy blue AAMCO truck from which stepped Alan Taylor, a husky forty-some with a broad smile and peppery facial hair. After embracing this dear brother in Christ and greeting his fourteen year-old son, J.P, I hoisted my gear into the truck bed and climbed inside the cab.
The two-hour drive to Logan, Utah, afforded a chance for Alan to inform me of the unique spiritual situation of the churches in Cache Valley, perhaps the most densely Mormon area on the planet. Over 96% of Logan professes to be LDS, and has been called by some, "the last Mormon stronghold." Because of their being so heavily outnumbered, Protestant Churches of the valley and her surrounding towns feel strongly the necessity of affirming their unity in Christ on central matters of belief. For this reason, diplomatic roads are being forged, Alan explained, to write a joint statement of faith declaring the essential oneness of these Churches, despite variations in certain doctrinal particulars. At the fore of this sensitive venture is Brad Scheelke, who for thirty years has managed a literature mission in the Valley, Oasis Christian book store, which serves as a kind of neutral ground for Christians and a discussion center for curious Mormons.
While Alan spoke, I watched with interest as the highway threaded Sardine canyon, whose snowy walls refracted the ochre glow of civil twilight. Across the valley the Wellsvilles jutted skyward, their peaks arched like spines upon the back of an immense beast. Measured from base to peak, the range represents the steepest ascent in the world. Once inside Logan, however, the majestic view was replaced with more ordinary trappings of a University town. Chic corner boutiques on the main stretch, book stores, quirky diners, and the like. Alan treated me to a sandwich, and, citing Utah tradition, his son J.P. compelled me to sample their renowned fry sauce.
Alan's wife, Deanna, and their other sons, Sean, Casey, and Cadon, received me warmly into the Taylor household later that evening. Upon being offered a hot drink, and guided through their quaint and orderly home, I was engaged by Mr. and Mrs. Taylor in earnest conversation, particularly on the subjects of biblical worship and church structure. Then, around 10:00 PM, Eli Brayley, the friend whom I had principally come to visit and observe, returned home. Greeting him with a hug, we set quickly to discussions which lasted past midnight.
When at last I stretched myself upon the bed to sleep, I felt refreshed be with brethren so energized by thoughts of our Savior, whose interest was to discover God's ideals for His Bride, the Church.
6 January 2010 - Day 1 - "Short-lived Greyhound Romance"
7 January 2010 - Day 2 - "Steak on cardboard platters"
8 January 2010 - Day 3 - "Big basin redwoods"
[Just view photos from these days.]
6 January 2010
Northbound on the Southern California coast
There were other options available when I booked several long-distance tickets with Greyhound, the first leg being bound for Santa Cruz, California. The price was not substantially lower than a flight, but having flown so much for business, ground transport now seemed to offer a certain romantic, more plebeian experience which would better suit the rustic spirit of my adventure. Bay windows would, I supposed, afford a quintessential panorama of the common American vantage. More than this, though, Greyhound advertised free wireless Internet built into their vehicles, and power outlets to boot. Thus, I was looking forward to fifteen hours of website productivity, or so I thought.
6 Jan. 2010, Oceanside, California. Packing efficiently.
The transportational romance began breaking up just as soon as the coach rolled in. Instead of the well-appointed vehicle shown on their site, Greyhound connected me to their Los Angeles hub via another carrier headed up from Mexico. This bus seemed very narrow and unkempt. Climbing constricting stairs with forty pounds of gear, I peered into the dank interior to find an empty seat. None were obvious, not merely because of drawn curtains, nor because the company had oversold tickets, but that in all places lumberous slack-jawed passengers were strewn unconscious over two seats together, or, when awake, guarded their areas with unwelcoming countenances from behind barricades of baggage. The air was permeated with a dense musk of ethnic odors and on-board septic. Here and there one might see persons wearing medical face masks. Their phobias, if not their diseases, were infectious. I found myself filtering air through my jacket.
6 Jan. 2010, Southern California. Lines.
Following the connection in Los Angeles, however, I boarded a real Greyhound. The switch was comparatively vast. Gone were the curtains, the narrowness, the odor. Nevertheless, over the loudspeaker our driver droned a lengthy explanation of laws and taboos which affirmed that I was still riding with some of society's dregs. It would have been equally informative to observe any of the hombres beside me whose faces and bodies were a scrawl of prison ink tattoos, or the toothless man with grocery bags tied to his feet for shoes. Regardless, something in me feels a kinship with such persons, myself being separated in large measure only by circumstances beyond personal control.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Rainbow in the clouds.
To my right sat a well built twenty-nine year old man, a Mexican national named Louis, sporting knock-off Gucci sunglasses and his fair share of native machismo. We chatted for a while about fatherhood, faith in Christ, and cultural differences. I found him to be quite friendly. Louis admitted, however, to being hesitant about speaking with me because my olive green outfit gave him the impression of Border Patrol. Later, while my seatmate dozed, I listened on portable radio to the live NPR broadcast of Arnold Schwarzenegger's final State of the State address. I hear critics gave his performance two thumbs up.
North of Santa Barbara the landscape became increasingly robust, just as I remembered. Sea worn cliffs rose like amber honeycombs across the channel to San Pedro. Our highway wound into verdant hills roiling beneath pink cumulus cloud blossoms, until plunging down an asphalt vein cut through the heart of an almost vertical mountain face. Songs by The Album Leaf set the score for an evening of reminiscing, filled with a mixture of bittersweet fondness for the past and excitement for the mystery of coming months.
From a text massage sent to an old friend,
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Barbara, California. Ships.
Around 11:00 PM, I was deposited onto an obscure corner of downtown Santa Cruz. Ryan, a fellow believer and photographer who had flown out from Colorado for a wedding that weekend, was waiting with a rental car. After greetings and loading, we sped off to our Pine Beach campsite, but not without stopping at a drug store for essentials - beef jerky, water. Pitching our tent near gnarled cypresses and wind washed seashore we fell fast asleep.
* * *
7 January 2010
Santa Cruz, California
Just past the white bar of shoreline dunes, we made our breakfast on a castaway tree trunk, sand blown and succulent with the smell of the coast. Gauze like haze shrouded the distance even as warm sunlight spilled down from above. One could barely make out a power plant to the South.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan leaves the tent.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Dunes.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Shrouded coast.
Our meal consisted of bananas and blueberry oatmeal, cooked over a brass Trangia alcohol stove. The conversation was at times jovial, then solemn, in the way that thoughtful young men oscillate between humor and sober candor.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan and I.
The afternoon was passed by myself in a coffee shop, writing while Ryan met with his clients. When he returned, we shopped at Whole Foods natural market for our bohemian dinner. Over a hardwood fire we cooked magnificent steaks -- which we ate on platters of cardboard -- sauteed chick peas with minced garlic, and beef sausages. We would have eaten more, too, had not some bourgeoisie cat made off with a whole block of our delicatessen cheese.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan's cross.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading II. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Tracks.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Wash.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Burn.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson
* * *
8 January 2010
Big Basin Redwoods, California
We broke camp early, taking our beach side breakfast once again before hiring out a hotel room for Ryan. He was staying another night, and I would be catching the evening Greyhound to Salt Lake City. All things being sorted out, we drove an hour to the world famous redwood forests of Big Basin.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Limbs in moss. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself in tree. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by giants. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
I must say, I have never tired of the dramatic and diverse landscapes which California affords. One could never leave and yet feel he has seen wonders innumerable. From the rusted pigment wastes of Death Valley to the enormous granite walls enclosing Yosemite, there is no American State more generous with scenic grandeur. Big Basin State Park is no exception. The location was recommended to me by a friend at Oceanside URC. Taking his word, we drove into the mountains and found ourselves hushed with awe and nearly anonymous amongst three-hundred-foot tall evergreen behemoths, thick-skinned titans standing prominently over mossy tangles of woods below. Red-lipped mushrooms whispered of our arrival, or so I imagined, to the pale twisted fungi who populated rocks with their sparse villages. For two hours we wandered gingerly with our cameras, enjoying the solitude and silence. Before leaving we prepared a fine stirpot meal of Andouille sausage, garlic, fancy cheese, and peas. Who says one must have reconstituted food while traveling?
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself, leaping. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Fallen tree. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Red mushroom.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. White fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Yellow fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Moss.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Mossy bough.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Ryan.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Cooking.
In the evening, Ryan attended a rehearsal dinner while I remained at the hotel to write, shower, and pack. We had a glass each of white wine, something sweet with a rabbit on the label, and left to the depot. Ryan waited with me for the bus and in that time we spoke with a small crowd of ravers who'd been partying at a nearby club. One of them, upon hearing of my proposed bicycle journey, said approvingly, "that's savage." A young woman warned us of a curse upon Santa Cruz, that those who come must return. It might be the one time I hoped for some truth in such things, but if God wills I shall be back to this beautiful corner of the country.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by the fence. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself, hotel room.
7 January 2010 - Day 2 - "Steak on cardboard platters"
8 January 2010 - Day 3 - "Big basin redwoods"
[Just view photos from these days.]
6 January 2010
Northbound on the Southern California coast
There were other options available when I booked several long-distance tickets with Greyhound, the first leg being bound for Santa Cruz, California. The price was not substantially lower than a flight, but having flown so much for business, ground transport now seemed to offer a certain romantic, more plebeian experience which would better suit the rustic spirit of my adventure. Bay windows would, I supposed, afford a quintessential panorama of the common American vantage. More than this, though, Greyhound advertised free wireless Internet built into their vehicles, and power outlets to boot. Thus, I was looking forward to fifteen hours of website productivity, or so I thought.
6 Jan. 2010, Oceanside, California. Packing efficiently.
The transportational romance began breaking up just as soon as the coach rolled in. Instead of the well-appointed vehicle shown on their site, Greyhound connected me to their Los Angeles hub via another carrier headed up from Mexico. This bus seemed very narrow and unkempt. Climbing constricting stairs with forty pounds of gear, I peered into the dank interior to find an empty seat. None were obvious, not merely because of drawn curtains, nor because the company had oversold tickets, but that in all places lumberous slack-jawed passengers were strewn unconscious over two seats together, or, when awake, guarded their areas with unwelcoming countenances from behind barricades of baggage. The air was permeated with a dense musk of ethnic odors and on-board septic. Here and there one might see persons wearing medical face masks. Their phobias, if not their diseases, were infectious. I found myself filtering air through my jacket.
6 Jan. 2010, Southern California. Lines.
Following the connection in Los Angeles, however, I boarded a real Greyhound. The switch was comparatively vast. Gone were the curtains, the narrowness, the odor. Nevertheless, over the loudspeaker our driver droned a lengthy explanation of laws and taboos which affirmed that I was still riding with some of society's dregs. It would have been equally informative to observe any of the hombres beside me whose faces and bodies were a scrawl of prison ink tattoos, or the toothless man with grocery bags tied to his feet for shoes. Regardless, something in me feels a kinship with such persons, myself being separated in large measure only by circumstances beyond personal control.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Rainbow in the clouds.
To my right sat a well built twenty-nine year old man, a Mexican national named Louis, sporting knock-off Gucci sunglasses and his fair share of native machismo. We chatted for a while about fatherhood, faith in Christ, and cultural differences. I found him to be quite friendly. Louis admitted, however, to being hesitant about speaking with me because my olive green outfit gave him the impression of Border Patrol. Later, while my seatmate dozed, I listened on portable radio to the live NPR broadcast of Arnold Schwarzenegger's final State of the State address. I hear critics gave his performance two thumbs up.
North of Santa Barbara the landscape became increasingly robust, just as I remembered. Sea worn cliffs rose like amber honeycombs across the channel to San Pedro. Our highway wound into verdant hills roiling beneath pink cumulus cloud blossoms, until plunging down an asphalt vein cut through the heart of an almost vertical mountain face. Songs by The Album Leaf set the score for an evening of reminiscing, filled with a mixture of bittersweet fondness for the past and excitement for the mystery of coming months.
From a text massage sent to an old friend,
"Remember the first night of the road trip, 2006. Totally lost. In-N-Out messed up your food. We slept near a beach. I'm near there, now. Lots of memories. Love you."
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Barbara, California. Ships.
Around 11:00 PM, I was deposited onto an obscure corner of downtown Santa Cruz. Ryan, a fellow believer and photographer who had flown out from Colorado for a wedding that weekend, was waiting with a rental car. After greetings and loading, we sped off to our Pine Beach campsite, but not without stopping at a drug store for essentials - beef jerky, water. Pitching our tent near gnarled cypresses and wind washed seashore we fell fast asleep.
* * *
7 January 2010
Santa Cruz, California
Just past the white bar of shoreline dunes, we made our breakfast on a castaway tree trunk, sand blown and succulent with the smell of the coast. Gauze like haze shrouded the distance even as warm sunlight spilled down from above. One could barely make out a power plant to the South.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan leaves the tent.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Dunes.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Shrouded coast.
Our meal consisted of bananas and blueberry oatmeal, cooked over a brass Trangia alcohol stove. The conversation was at times jovial, then solemn, in the way that thoughtful young men oscillate between humor and sober candor.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan and I.
The afternoon was passed by myself in a coffee shop, writing while Ryan met with his clients. When he returned, we shopped at Whole Foods natural market for our bohemian dinner. Over a hardwood fire we cooked magnificent steaks -- which we ate on platters of cardboard -- sauteed chick peas with minced garlic, and beef sausages. We would have eaten more, too, had not some bourgeoisie cat made off with a whole block of our delicatessen cheese.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan's cross.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Ryan wading II. [view larger!]
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Tracks.
7 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Wash.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Burn.
6 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson
* * *
8 January 2010
Big Basin Redwoods, California
We broke camp early, taking our beach side breakfast once again before hiring out a hotel room for Ryan. He was staying another night, and I would be catching the evening Greyhound to Salt Lake City. All things being sorted out, we drove an hour to the world famous redwood forests of Big Basin.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Limbs in moss. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself in tree. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by giants. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
I must say, I have never tired of the dramatic and diverse landscapes which California affords. One could never leave and yet feel he has seen wonders innumerable. From the rusted pigment wastes of Death Valley to the enormous granite walls enclosing Yosemite, there is no American State more generous with scenic grandeur. Big Basin State Park is no exception. The location was recommended to me by a friend at Oceanside URC. Taking his word, we drove into the mountains and found ourselves hushed with awe and nearly anonymous amongst three-hundred-foot tall evergreen behemoths, thick-skinned titans standing prominently over mossy tangles of woods below. Red-lipped mushrooms whispered of our arrival, or so I imagined, to the pale twisted fungi who populated rocks with their sparse villages. For two hours we wandered gingerly with our cameras, enjoying the solitude and silence. Before leaving we prepared a fine stirpot meal of Andouille sausage, garlic, fancy cheese, and peas. Who says one must have reconstituted food while traveling?
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself, leaping. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Fallen tree. [view larger!]
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Red mushroom.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. White fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Yellow fungi.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Moss.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Mossy bough.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Ryan.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Cooking.
In the evening, Ryan attended a rehearsal dinner while I remained at the hotel to write, shower, and pack. We had a glass each of white wine, something sweet with a rabbit on the label, and left to the depot. Ryan waited with me for the bus and in that time we spoke with a small crowd of ravers who'd been partying at a nearby club. One of them, upon hearing of my proposed bicycle journey, said approvingly, "that's savage." A young woman warned us of a curse upon Santa Cruz, that those who come must return. It might be the one time I hoped for some truth in such things, but if God wills I shall be back to this beautiful corner of the country.
8 Jan. 2010, Big Basin, California. Myself by the fence. Photo: Ryan Thompson.
8 Jan. 2010, Santa Cruz, California. Myself, hotel room.
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