Back in Davis, Brett Ann set up a futon in her dome for me to crash on, and left me there to cozy up alone while she went to do some late night catching up with friends. It was cool and comfortable, and I slept like a dream. When I woke in the morning, it was just in time to catch Brett Ann's dome-mate Molly heading into town for the insanity of Picnic Day. I had no interest in the festivities of Picnic Day... which mostly seem to involve blonds and ken-doll boys getting dangerously drunk at an early hour, while the streets of Davis flood with every type of parade-goer and on-looker. What I wanted, more than anything, was breakfast... so I followed Molly to town and wandered off on my own when we hit the craziness.
And I do mean craziness. On Picnic Day in Davis, the population of the town nearly doubles, with people coming from all over the state to party, or to witness the unusual exhibitions that are signature to the event. Daschaund races, sheep herding demos, local bands, crazy bike parades... It looks like the world is divided in two. The people in the parades, and running the demos, seem to me like an interesting mess. There's an adorable freak marching band where tutus and uniforms conflate, manifesting in a beautiful display of color and attitude. There are old fashioned replica bicycles that boast their use of all the original materials. There are tall bikes like the kids in Brooklyn used to build, the frames welded together so that the rider can only stop by leaning against a street sign or light post.
On the sidelines however, every woman looks the same... young girls in sundresses and sandals, talking ill of each other as I walk by, feeling like a happy sore thumb, in all my bra-lessness and silk screened clothing. Two blonds walk by, approaching a third, and I overhear them whispering:
"God, do you see how thin she's gotten? What do you think she's taking...!"
The tone of the whispers indicate not that they are concerned for the health of their friend, but that they are actually jealous of what my eyes interpret as frailty and ill-health. Looking around me, I can't help but to think back to the film from the previous night about the hyper-sexualization that young girls are conditioned to spend their time obsessing over. They are all trying so hard. A girl who showed up in jeans and a t-shirt has realized that the fashion of the day calls for sundresses, and she is shopping sulkily on a side-street, glaring at the other women, who so obviously got the memo. It all makes me kind of sad. I hid out of a side street, eating my roast beef sandwich (the only food I could find without wrestling a monstrous line), and then suck down a large iced coffee, and head back through the mess.
It's so hard to ride a bike through all of this. I'm fairly deft, but I'm finding myself challenged, navigating through swarms of people. A woman on a rented bike coming the opposite direction takes a dive right onto her face and her tooth breaks the surface of her lip. By her reaction, I'm guessing she was a little bit intoxicated, sitting fairly calmly as if the pain didn't really hit her yet... or that could have been her body protecting itself. I couldn't help but to assume everyone around me was drunk by then, the midday sun burdening them with a certain obvious swagger and weighty exhaustion. I checked on the woman, who had plenty of help, and wandered off to the quietest place I could find of the grass, and called the woman in Sacramento who had offered a place to crash. I called to apologize for not coming to play music that morning, and she in turn invited me to come by that night. Her and her partner do massages for women (four hands!) and they offered a freebie, and dinner too... I decided to get out of Davis, away from the party, and go relax.
Brett Ann was out someplace, but she told me I could break into the dome by way of the bathroom window, she had left open just in case. The window was high and tiny, and it was a bit of a comedy routine getting inside. I felt a moment of disdain for the loss of my teenage dexterity... I was so proud of my "ninja-skills" as a kid. I can't help but to want that back. I tell myself again that one of these days I'll study aikido, when I settle down. I never do seem to follow through on that one.
I took a quick shower and packed up, making the bed to the best of my ability, and then dressed to ride. I have about a thirty mile ride ahead of me, and I would like to make it to Sacramento before I delay any one's meal. I waited for Brett Ann to say goodbye, chatted with some neighbors, and went for a walk... but Brett Ann never showed. I dropped her a text saying thanks, locked up the place, and hit the road.
Starting out, the ride from Davis to Sacramento (after pushing through the downtown crowds one last time) is just a long stretch of industrial road alongside the freight trains. There is great graffiti all along the trains, and I seen a man with a professional camera working with the light to get the best possible shots. I feel a little nostalgic, remembering when I used to photograph my friends work, back in high school, up under the bridge. I could never get good light... The shadows under the bridge, and my inexperience, made for some grainy photos. I cherished them anyway, framing them on simple black matte and carrying them with me to college.
Eventually the road lead up over the tracks to a causeway, alongside the highway. It felt like it went on for 10 miles, into a light headwind, and the noise from the highway was deafening. I had been speaking with another rider as we hit the causeway, and we both fell silent. We couldn't even hear ourselves think. The man was a little faster than me, however, and while I generally have been riding with a strict law of "don't chase the boys" (or anyone faster than me)... I used him as a pacemaker to get me off the causeway as quickly as possible. I got my heart rate up, and hit West Sacramento at a good steady stroke, dropping off the path into a worn down part of town. For about 7 miles it was nothing but strip malls and donut shops, until I hit the bridge over the river into Old Town.
This part of Sacramento has a lot of character! There's a cobblestone street, with an old west feel, and bars with plenty of locals coming up from the river. The river itself was teeming with life, people on jet-skis, people drinking on shore, boats and fishermen. It nearly felt southern in it's restorative laziness.
The bike path heads off along the river... and I am in heaven. The city of Sacramento has a bike path that runs all the way out of the city, way up to Folsom, and around Folsom Lake. My route keeps me on the path for a good 30 miles, and I'm thrilled, after leaving the loud causeway and the drear of West Sacramento. The exit off the path for my hosts house is at the 6 mile marker on the path, allowing me a nice little stretch before I go to meet my new friends.
I stopped to ask some strangers for directions, just to double check, and we chatted for a minute... only to discover that two of us are clean and sober. We had a quick chat about what I am doing, and how much life can change. I love running into sober people. It makes me feel like the universe is looking out for me a little. I gave the man and his friend stickers so they could look up my blog, or my music, later on, and then rolled the last few miles out to Maria's home.
Maria and her partner Joey met me out at the gate of their apartment complex, and I followed them back to Maria's place. They seemed happy, driving in with the top down on Maria's convertible. I felt comfortable around them both pretty quickly, and Maria's dog, Hoppy, too... who I promptly fell in love with.
It didn't take long to discover that they too, were clean and sober. Maria has been clean for somewhere around 20 years, and Joey for 4 years, if I remember correctly. Joey only came out last year, and Maria has been out for a good long time. They each told me a little of their stories, while Maria worked up some steaks for dinner. Both of them were heroin addicts. So there we were, 3 recovered heroin addicts sitting around happy and healthy, on a perfect spring evening. Life is full of small miracles.
Maria's cooking was fantastic, and I felt spoiled even before the promised massage that had tempted me away from the craziness of Davis. We had steaks, and beans cooked with basil and parmesean cheese. Soo good.
After dinner I played a little music for them, which they seemed to enjoy, and then they set up the table for a massage. Lucky me.
They call their massage practice "four hands", since they work on a woman together, as a sort of intimacy. They are learning to listen to each other and work together. They asked me what I was comfortable with, set up music and aromatherapy, and got to work.
Damn. I was knocked out. Maria works deep and Joey gets all the details. They worked on my legs, my neck, my butt and my back. Emphasis on the back and the legs... which I really appreciated after so much time on my bike. I have no idea how long I was on that table. It could have been an hour, or two. I was completely lost to the world.
When they left me to get dressed and cozy up to go to sleep, I was a bowl of jello. I flopped down onto the couch, and we were all ready to crash. They left the table set up, put a sheet on the couch for me, and we all tumbled off to sleep.
In the morning we got up at 7:30, to have breakfast and catch an 8:30 AA meeting. The meeting way small, and all gay. It was so lovely to be in a room full of queers. Especially sober ones. Afterward we stayed to chat for a bit, and this was the first time I heard about the California Death Ride.
Did you know, that every year, a huge group of cyclists take to the Sierra Nevada's, and ride... in one day, 129 miles, including 3 major Sierra summits? I had never heard of it.... and I'm never going to do it. This was the first mention I heard... and in the days that followed as I climbed into the Sierras, I would hear about it everywhere. Evidently it's a really popular ride, and while not a lot of people can finish before they re-open the roads, a lot of people try. From this I can only come to one conclusion. California cyclists are crazy.
I also heard about the yearly AIDS ride, which I may have heard of it the past, but before I was into cycling. Thousands of queers riding from San Fransisco to San Diego to raise money for HIV/AIDS research... sounds like an amazing time. If I get the chance: I'm in. Apparently one drag queen even altered a pair of go-go boots to take toe clips. What could be more fabulous? Sponsors, anyone?
We stopped to wander the local farmers market, tucked up under a highway overpass. I smelled all the local strawberries, and ate a cinnamon roll for a treat while Joey and Maria picked up some treats. There were whispers of hitting the beach after the meeting. I was invited, which would mean taking the day off, and staying another night. I considered and then went for it. We put together some food, threw the top down, and drove out to Bodega Bay.
It was so strange to see familiar roads pass underneath us as we backtracked through landscapes that had taken me weeks to ride. I could see where my paths came and went from near the major highway, retracing my steps excitedly from the backseat as we drove. Eventually I settled into the wind and sun in the back seat, fluttering my fingers in the wind like a small child, happy and full of daydreams.
When we hit Bodega Bay we stopped in heaven. By heaven, I mean the best bakery in the world. Listen... I have been to a lot of places that locals call "the best kept secret", or that everyone swears makes the best bread in the world. I have never, however, eaten any baked goods, that rival Wild Flour Bread in Bodega Bay, California. I'm not exaggerating. Not even a little.
The place was off the beaten track somewhat, but teeming with locals and those in-the-know, lined up to taste the days marvels. I didn't have any cash on me, so I sat outside and took in the smell, not expecting a treat, but enjoying the sunshine... and checking out a really cute dyke who was out for the day with her father. Sigh.
Maria and Joey came back eating scones, and offered me a taste. Oh. My.
Lavender, ginger, white chocolate scone, anyone? I melted. The ginger had caramelized in places and the white chocolate nearly had a crunch to it, in tiny pieces throughout. The lavender permeated without being too strong or bitter. I was amazed.
We wandered through the bakery's wildflower garden, which also contained a fair amount of food, and some young fruit trees, of all kinds, not yet at fruit bearing age. Evidently the bakery is on it's way to becoming more self sustaining, as well as being just plain delicious.
Joey gave into temptation and ran inside to get two more scones. As we drove to the beach she passed me little bites from over her shoulder in the front seat. Heaven.
We parked up on the cliffs in a line of cars, and grabbed the days supplies. Food, guitar, blanket. The winding decent down the cliffs to the beach was constructed from stones and natural stairs and a tiny wooden bridge. Nearly the moment we got down to the beach, Maria egged us on to go search the tide pools for life.
Tide pools on the west coast are never what I expect. Coming from the east coast I grew up in tide pools that were teeming with life... smooth rocks speckled with barnacles and tiny crabs beneath every stone. Crayfish and starfish in extraordinary abundance. Here things are quieter. The rocks are a little harder to negotiate (or maybe that's my loss of childhood ninja-power rearing it's head again), making the few finds that much more precious. Maria loves the tide pools. She climbed way out, the first to find a starfish... while Joey stayed back to the shore, finding the tiniest sand-dollars I've ever seen, and sighting a crab. I followed Maria about halfway out, let her point me to the starfish, and then caught sight of the stunning anemones clinging to the rocks.
First I found the ugly, muddy brown green donuts. I knew they were alive, some kind of anemone, but when I found one open couldn't draw the line between them. In their defensive shape, these creatures are dull as mud, and slimy. When they open, safe and comfortable in their environment, they are the most brilliant iridescent sunflowers. I played around them like a child, lightly touching them and watching them close, feeling like the strangest Velcro on my fingers. Then I wandered back to shore quietly, leaving Maria on her hunt for life in the deep end, while Joey hung back in her own calm. I left them and wandered out to the beach, convinced that I could stand the cold Northern California water enough for one dunk.
I waded in, singing to myself as I wandered deeper by fractions. The cold hit as a deep, dull pain. I was amazed at the power of it. I chickened out. I got to about my thighs in the cold water, and then skipped out to warm my already numb legs. I sat up on our blanket and snacked a little, strumming the guitar absently.
When Maria and Joey returned, we settled into to a mix of snacking and song-singing. We sang a rousing chorus of Bobby McGee, and ate little sandwiches of sliced pastrami on fresh bread from the bakery, with mustard and cheese. Ooh and we ate strawberries.
I have a thing for strawberries. It's really very simple. Try this experiment. If you are ever feeling really sad, or careworn, and you start to feel like this universe isn't such a beautiful or well-designed place... Slice a strawberry in half, top to bottom. Eat one of the halves, slowly. Take the other half in your hand and check out the design. Drink in the way the red and the white blend perfectly, all the little intricacies both functional, and aesthetic. Take your time. Then eat the other half, and go about your day. I swear you'll feel better. It's my favorite little trick.
Eventually we were overcome by flies, and ready to hit the road back to the city. I said one last quiet goodbye to the ocean... knowing I wouldn't see her again for awhile, and jumped into the back of the car in a dreamy sun-stupor.
The radio was up loud and Maria and Joey tend to stick to the classics. It feels good, some sort of ironic American idealism... old school-style. The convertible, the rock and roll. It's a 1950's lesbian daydream.
I have a confession to make. I flirt with boys when I ride in cars. Straight girls too. I don't know why. I could try to explain it, but it'll either sound mean, or shallow, or foolish. I smile and get their attention, and then turn my head back into the wind, laughing. Maybe it's a convertible thing. Or maybe I just like making the boys smile, thinking they've caught a girls eye. They don't need to know that I'm not really interested. And the straight girls... I just like catching them off-guard.
So I was sitting in the back of the car, flirting and singing along with the radio, my hair turning into a wild nest from the wind, and American Pie comes on the radio. This song turns me into a basket case.
"February made me shiver, with every paper I'd deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep, I couldn't take one more step..."
I lost my dad in the month of February, and I know that's part of it. I also once loved a girl who used to sing this song at the top of her lungs, when we were drunk and at our most jubilant. My family also used to sing it, when my dad was still around... so there are plenty of reasons. Still, I'm not the type to let myself cry all that often. Certainly not in front of new friends, or on a sunny day in the back of a convertible. Yet somehow, that was a magick formula for me. I put on my shades, and sang along, having a good cry in the meantime. It was the best cry I had let out in ages, sweet and completely lacking in self pity, or concern. Just a good let out of those little griefs we carry with us. I love these moments. They feel like good food, fertilizer for the soil. When the song was over I felt cleaner and brighter than I had felt in awhile... and if Maria or Joey had noticed, they left me to my own devices. Perfect.
Before we went to Maria's we stopped at Trader Joes for a few small grocery items. I akwardly tried to help with the grocery costs, which ended up with me buying a few mangos and some chocolate for a treat. When we got back, Maria cooked up some great pasta with fresh basil we had grabbed at the farmers market, and toasted bread from Wild Flour. Maria's puppy was restless and crying, and I took her out for a bit after Maria and Joey fell asleep. Turned out she was crying because her best dog-friend was outside, and I talked to the other dogs owner while the pair wrestled like two sweet lovers on the lawn. The night wound down quietly, and I fell asleep hoping to wake early and get riding.
Make plans, and God laughs, or so they say. I ended up sleeping in. Maria handed me a fresh Americano first thing when I woke, and we all sat and ate fresh strawberries and toast. The breakfast toast was also from Wild Flour, a cardomon and cinnamon bread with nuts and raisins that was extraordinary. We chatted away the morning, and I allowed them to record me playing one of my newer songs. Then we all fiddled around on facebook before I finally hit the road.
On the way out the door, Hoppy the dog decided to go on a little solo adventure, so there was a short panic while we all wandered around trying to recover her. After she was back home, all sweetness and mischeif, we said our goodbyes, and I was on my way.
Luckily, they lived right down the street from REI, and I had just gotten my tax return. I went to pick up a few basics for the coming days; some tablets that turn water into an electrolyte beverage, rechargable batteries for my solar charger, and iodine tablets in case I needed to forage water. Then I jumped back on the bike path and headed towards Folsom.
The big climb was just starting. It was a gentle uphill all the way to Folsom. Not the kind I really notice so much, just a rolling stretch of bike path, slowly taking to longer inclines. It wasn't a hard ride, it only suggested the harder rides to come as I headed into the Sierras.
Along the way I got to talking to another rider, and ex-punk rocker who had done lots of bike touring. He was faster than me, however and eventually I had to let him go ahead to meet his friend. About half and hour later, he returned from the opposite direction with his friend in tow. She felt it was important to show me a little health food stop on the way to Folsom, and the two of them lead me off the path. They chatted with me for a moment at the little windowbox and bench cafe, and then headed off to their own business. The place was great, and I was grateful for the tiny detour. The spot was called Sunflower.
There were chickens and roosters roaming around, boasting and chowing on food scraps. Some of them were really stunning colors, and just as stunningly loud and hysterical. The prettiest rooster just kept crowing and crowing as if it were dawn at the farm. The whole scene was a bit spectacular. I grabbed a veggie-stuffed burrito and a fresh lemonade, and sat down on a bench. A few people stopped to ask about my bike. As one woman walked away, she slipped a 20 dollar bill into my hand.
She said, "You're doing things I've always wanted to do but didn't." and I felt akward, not really knowing how to respond. I smiled and thanked her, nodding in some way that was a mix between sage and sheep. I finished my lunch then, and struck out for the path again.
Still riding on the bike path was such a pleasure, the weather perfect and the lack of cars and danger making for an easy day. When the path starting heading uphill full time, I barely noticed. When the air started to cool, and I still hadn't hit Folsom, I was confused. A biker saw me sitting on the path, looking puzzled, and informed me that I had passed the road into Folsom about 5 miles back. I didn't feel like complaining though, it was a nice ride, meeting the lake in points, and I had enjoyed myself. The good news, he told me, was that it was all downhill from there. At that point, I still hadn't really noticed that I was headed uphill, so when I headed back down over a 6 percent grade, I was suprised. The woman who took me to the burrito stand had told me that much of the climb to the Sierras was about that grade, so the detour left me feeling bolstered.
When I got into town it was late, later than I had hoped. I checked into a hotel for the night, beginning what would be a pattern of self-indulgence, which I'm still kicking to this day. See... travelling without money is pretty simple. I know exactly how much I am willing to spend, and while I usually spend a little more, it's not possible to spend money I don't have. I'm embarrased to say that receiving my tax return changed my pattern a little. I have stayed a total of a week in hotels since that night... not in a row, but still. I went on a goverment sponsored vacation. I felt guilty at first, but I'm over it now. It ends tomorrow, anyway, as I head through national park lands for 10 days, in Southern Utah. So with that in mind, I'll continue to tell you how I encouraged myself over my first mountain range, with a heathy dose of good old-fashioned self-care.
Leaving Folsom, I ate breakfast at a local spot that was known for drawing in a bike clientele. I had a beautiful and monstrous salad with field greens, blue cheese, cranberries and nuts, chatting with a few local cyclists, and then headed up the endless hill.
I thought I would ride up in the the mountains past Placerville and find a place to camp, but holy lord was I wrong. The sun was unbearable that day, a heat wave having come in to the area. It was well into the 90's and humid as hell. There were stretches of hill that went on for a mile a piece, rolling back down and then up again endlessly. I was gaining in elevation on a derert rollercoaster. I was drinking more water than I ever had in my life, grateful for the electolyte tablets I had picked up back in the city. I stopped at a Starbucks in a town called Cameron Park, since there was nowhere else to stop. As a rule, I don't go to Starbucks. I don't like their coffee. Their politics are a mix for me, with great worker benefits, but a tendancy to push out the competition and over-franchise that I find disconcerting. Regardless, I grabbed a green iced-tea lemonade mix and sat in the sun for a bit. At this point the shade wasn't even compelling. When I stopped moving, my sweat cooled, just enough that I worried if I sat in the shade I would get sick, but not enough to put on a layer while I rested. I settled for roasting in the sun with a cold drink, and talked with a few local teenagers for a second. The conversation wasn't noteable, but the conversation I overheard them having when I came up was a worthy eavesdrop. They were talking about a friend who had gotten involved with a gay crowd and was gender-bending his wardrobe a little. The guy said "yeah... I don't have a problem with 'those people'. It's not like that. I just cant relate to them, you know...?". As much as this isn't what I want to hear from teenagers, it's a lot better than what I expect. I hate that I find myself thinking, at least he didn't say he was going to kick his ass, but that's still what we have to worry about. I finished my iced tea and kept moving, up another sunsoaked hill. I was cursing the hills at this point, more for their sun-exposure than anything else, when suddenly the road dove down into the trees and the shade. Thank god.
Placerville is kind of cool. The town is nicknamed "Old Hangtown", one of the towns that gold miners built back in the day. The tiny historic area is a run of old western storefronts. I asked a cop which hotels were cheap, and he told me where not to say... saying that one particular establishment was filled with sex offenders. The only place in the historic district was The Cary House, a great old building with a ton of character. I decided if I was going to stay in a hotel, I would rather be someplace cool, and the price was pretty much the same, so I booked in. I was in the Studebaker Suite. The room was small, with a view of the street. The hotel had an old elevator like most buildings in Greenwich Village. The man at the desk spoke of it as a great pride, and as if it might be the oldest elevator I had ever seen. I didn't tell him that I'd seen a hundred like it. He was so pleased. The lobby was full of stained glass windows, and there was an old piano sitting beneath them, well cared for, without a speck of dust.
I wandered out for dinner, which was definately not note-worthy, and then turned in for the night. They had nice shampoos, and I had been out for weeks, so I was happy to take the bottles. I also admit to raiding their continetal breakfast for extra oatmeal, tea, and cereal bars.
On my way out of town, again riding straight uphill in the heat and humidity, I saw a woman walking into a building. I drew my eye to the sign on the building, and it was some sort of recovery center. Something compelled me and I turned to the woman and asked if there was an AA meeting there. She said yes, there was one in 5 minutes. I smiled at the way the fates carry me around, and I parked my bike out back. I used the meeting as a place to rehydrate, drinking loads of water as I sat and listened, and talked. The women at the meeting found my presence very inspiring, since I hadn't meant to be there. They saw what I saw, the universe taking care of people. I guess I'm a little disenchanted... I don't get moon-eyed over that fact anymore. I just know it's true. When you ask for it, this world will give you what you need. She won't give you what you want, but she will definately give you what you need to be of service. Regardless, it was nice to see their faith stirred up a bit, and to remember that my presence in a place sometimes has very little to do with my own needs.
Oh, by the way... Did you know that Drew Carey is the host of The Price is Right these days? I find that mind-boggling for some reason. I haven't had a TV in so long, I had no idea. I caught an episode while I was packing up at the Cary House. I like it when people win things. I don't like capiltalism, or our obsession with having things, but people just get so excited when they win things. I know that little excitements and triumphs based on our aversions and our cravings are fleeting, but they are still precious to witness.
I rode directly uphill for a few hours, but it got to a good rolling pattern, up a little, with little reliefs here and there as I went. Then suddenly I plunged down out of the hills into the town of Somorset. I stopped to have a drink, and chatted with an old biker outside of the local... well... it really was the town. Another of those one stop towns, with a whole lot of nothing in one place. The biker was from New York originally, and had lived in LA while he raised his kids. His wife saw photos of one of his trips to Northern California and said... "I want to live there." So "New York Lou" found himself in a one-horse town... and he's happy there, it seems. We chatted for a bit, about my trip, and his work. He gave me his card in case I got in trouble that night, said if I needed to, I could come crash and have dinner. It was a bit off my route, so I took his card for safety, but with no plans to call. Although, he did ask that I call every so often to tell him how the trip was going, and I conceded. He doesn't have internet access.
From the moment I left Somoset, my easy hills were gone. It was all up up up, with little or no break for the rest of the day. Lou had warned me that the bed and breakfasts ahead were upwards of 400 dollars a night, definately not in my budget, so I set out with plans to camp off the road someplace.
When I felt like I was done, I just kept going. My still-strong fear of camping where I'm not supposed to kept me moving a little later than I had planned, and by the time I started looking to camp, the bugs were out for the evening. Then I had a moment with myself...
There was a house for sale on the side of the road, that it looked like the realtor had forgotten about. There were weeds out of control everywhere, and a shed behind the house was wide open to the world. I deliberated. I know it's not entirely ethical... but who will ever find me? It's already evening, and it looks like no one has been on this property for months... with the exclusion of one small detail: an open jar of peanut butter in the shed. I considered camping outside, but the insects were already driving me crazy. Inside the shed there were more bees than I could count, but very few mosquitos. The bees fussed around me as I set up a tent in the middle of the shed, and then slowly quieted as the night fell into darkeness.
And I was terrified.
People always ask me how I do this. They ask me if I am scared. They tell me they are too chicken-shit to do anything like this. I tell them... me too. I am terrified. I guess they see me as brave because I face my fears, but that doesn't make me any less scared. I was scared that raccoon would come for my food. I was scared that the owner of the peanut butter would come. I was scared that I would get harassed for trespassing. Mostly, I was scared of the raccoons. Ever since they stole my food, and I heard them fighting, north of San Fransisco... I am afraid of raccoons. I used to think they were cute, and I still do... so long as I am sleeping inside. I had a full-on attack of all of my fears that night. The place was so quiet that the mice sounded like bears.
This is what happens. My heart feels ice cold in my chest, and I have difficulty moving. I have to breath consciously and deliberately, and I pray to myself. I come in and out of it. When I calm down, something in my body tells me I am off-my-guard and I tense up again.
Finally I walk myself out under the stars, to remind me that I am still in the world I know. My heart always calms when I see the stars. Then I turn on the little mp3 player on my phone, and listen to music for awhile, singing along quietly. I set my alarm for 5 am, and eventually, I drift off to sleep.
When I woke, I felt completely safe and peaceful. I packed up quickly, before the sun fully rose, and set out riding up the mountain again. I had long passed the gentle climbing, and all there was ahead of my was maybe 20 miles rising 5000 feet in elevation, up to 8,500 ft at summit. As I got going, I found that I had travelled further than I thought the night before, hitting the town of Omo Ranch almost immediately. I had travelled 26 miles uphill. My days goal was another 20 some-odd miles.
The road wound along into the hills. Approaching the Sierras from this direction is like approaching a mirage. You don't see the mountains. Coming towards them, they never rose up in the distance. I started riding uphill, and I kept waiting and waiting for them to appear, but they never did. All I could see was giant rolling green hills, and the road rising up in front of me. I was starting to think that the Sierras had no peaks, no majesty... just a long harsh ride to test my endurance. Not that I wasn't enjoying myself, in some abstract capacity.
I ran into two cyclists out on a days ride, and they darted past me like rabbits pass turtles, one stopping to talk for a moment before climbing on ahead. By the time I hit the town of Cooks Station, I was exhausted. I had only ridden 13.5 miles.
I was thrilled to discover that not only did Cooks Station have a full service restaurant, but they also allowed camping behind the place, with laundry, and a quarter-pay shower. Cooks Station is a place, more than a town, a log cabin diner with a small market, and an RV Park behind it. It was only 11:30 am, and I realized I was done for the day. The mountain was kicking my ass.
I spent the day lazying around, doing a little journaling, and a load of laundry. I read the local papers, and watched the TV behind the bar. I took a sweet mid-afternoon nap, with the sun shining into my tent.
I don't think that there is any better way to nap than this: mid-day, in your clothes, with the sun insinuating itself into your space, after some hard excersize. It was perfectly serene. I had dinner up at the diner, which the cook decided to put on his own tab, as a kindness, and then went to sleep early, for lack of entertainment more than anything else.
I woke to a hissing sound which I knew right away to be snow. I looked out at the ground under my tent, and saw that nothing had accumulated, and I fell back asleep, assuming it would be melted by the time the sun leaned towards high, which is common of mountain snows. When I woke again I heard rain. I bundled up to go get breakfast, and found myself walking into a world of white.
I heard rain because my body heat was melting the snow as it hit my tent. There were already several inches of snow on the ground, with no sign of it stopping. The last pass of the mountain was ahead of me, and it would be impassible. I was snowed in.
I had breakfast and started to feel stir crazy right away. I had already been bored to an early sleep the night before in Cooks Station, so the thought of staying there another day didn't exactly thrill me. When a few local road workers on a fishing trip offered me a ride over the pass, I accepted.
I felt silly, not riding that last stretch of the pass... but I really didn't want to stay at Cooks Station. The bar was already starting to get that feeling, where people gather in the snow to have a few drinks and pass the time... and that's not my kind of company. I had no interest in spending a day staring at the television from the bar, and the snow was thick enough that a walk wasn't even looking enjoyable. My tent was disappearing under the snow, and if I stayed, I would flood. I took the ride. After freezing my hands packing up in the snow, and paying my tab for the campsite and breakfast, I took a seat in the truck and settled in for a slow ride over a short distance.
The snow was unbelievable. I couldn't see anything but the road and the trees nearby. The pass must have opened up at some point, but all there was to see was a great wall of white.
The guys were nice enough, we talked about their work, and the guy driving was a fairly fluent conversationalist, more open than I would have expected. There was a bizarrely misplaced line of classic cars headed over the pass illegally without snow chains, and we spent most of the ride musing on how the drivers must be hysterical, putting their precious cars at such risk. I enjoyed the ride, although I was a little sad to miss the pass, and they left me just a little way over the peak at Sorenson's Resort. They were turning off the road, and figured I could make my way from there.
Still in a flurry of snow, I shook off the chill and walked right into the resort. It looked a little over my head, but I asked about a room anyway. They offered my a room in the "bed and breakfast cabin" for a cyclists discount. The place was amazing, with tons of tiny cabins cozied up into the mountain, a wood-fire sauna... and the b+b room of course, came with breakfast. They were the cheapest roms in the place, because two rooms shared one bathroom. I took it.
A few hours later, I wandered out of my room to find the snow quickly melting, and a beautiful day setting in. I found myself feeling guilty for taking a room. The hotel manager said to me "What are you, Catholic?" and I laughed at myself a little, realized where I was and decided to enjoy it. First I grabbed a stack of books from the lending library. Then I laid around reading "The Nature of Monsters" for an hour or so. I enjoyed lunch in the resort resturant, a cozy large cabin with a fireplace. I met a couple who were there to decompress after the loss of the woman's mother, just a day or so ago. They came to spend the day away from the stress, only to head back there after lunch. We talked lightly, about music, and about karma. They were the types to be fairly convinved that everything is happening exactly as it is meant to. I agree with them, but in a very different way... I could intuit the discrepancies. I won't get into that this second though.
After a little more reading and loafing, including a perusal of "The Art of Doing Nothing", a book that the resort places in every room, I left the books and headed to the sauna. The sauna was a self-lighting wood-fire hot house. A dream come true. I started up a fire in the wood burning stove, and then meditated, laid about and fussed, while the room warmed up. It took about 2 hours to get the room hot. I was pleased with my own patience, and happy that I was enjoying some meditation excerizes with apparent ease for once. When the heat kicked up, I soaked the rocks repeatedly, and had a good sweat.
I like saunas hot. Really hot. I like to forget what time it is and sing and pray. This place was perfect for me. I went through four buckets of water on the rocks. The room was thick with steam and sweat. I found myself starting to treat the experience like a traditional sweat lodge. I can't (and will not) pour water for a real sweat, being non-native... but in my own little private world, I was able to conduct a ritual with myself that was similar in process. I prayed for people I resent, and for my loved ones. I had a nice singing conversation with my spirit guides and gods. I did yoga. It may sound silly, or you may read more into it than you like... but it was a perfect way to spend time. When I wandered out finally, the sun was down. I have no idea what time I wandered in... maybe four hours had passed.
That was where I was meant to be that day, without a doubt. By the time I had showered and dressed, dinner hours were nearly over at the resturant, but they took me anyway, the last guest of the evening. I ate happily by myself (spinach ravioli in a basil cream sauce; perfection), and then retired to my room for the night.
The manager had said I made the right decision; that the melting snow would make the ride down the mountain dangerous. I used that rational to assuage my guilt at staying somewhere so nice. Then, as I stayed up late finishing my book, there was another quiet snowstorm, telling me I was right where I needed to be. In the snow, I saw a bird fall and stay still from out my window. I didn't know why, but I was drawn outside to check on it. The moment I stepped out, the bird sprung up into the air and vanished, leaving me to a moment of stillness in the mountain air. I love snow in the mountains... it had been so long since I really appreciated it.
I slipped back inside and finished my book, and fell asleep contented.
I need to stop now... and there is still so far to go. Hopefully I can get a little more writing done later, but I definately need a rest. Till then, I hope you are all well and happy.
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