In case of zombie attack, break glass

The other night, I came home to my roommate watching Shaun of the Dead. Being a better movie than most I tend to walk in on him watching, I settled into my usual indentation on the couch. Eventually, being the people we are, we got into an indepth discussion about what we could do in the case of a zombie invasion. Our emergency zombie plan, if you will.

This is serious, people. How often are you watching a zombie movie, thinking to yourself (or perhaps yelling outloud depending on your current level of obnoxiousness) "What are you doing? Don't go there! It's not safe! And while your at it, chop off their damn heads. Everyone knows that's how you stop a zombie. Come on! Don't you watch zombie moves?!"

I've said it. You've said it. Ever since the original Night of the Living Dead ("They're coming for you, Baaarrrbbbrrraaaaa"), we have no excuse to be zombie ignorant and not to be prepared for an invasion. Even grade school kids know the quickest way to incapacitate the undead.

Go for the head. Damage the brain or spinal cord. None of this mucking around hitting them with bats or shooting them in the chest and screaming "Why won't they go down?! Oh god they just won't die!!" Duh. They're undead. A little critical thinking can go a long way people.

Anyway, back to the original topic I was to discuss, before my tangential rant (speaking of which, math related post to come soon...I know you've all been waiting eagerly on the edge of your seats for one). In our discussion, we came up with some criteria for an appropriate zombie safe house.

1. Control of all entrances and exits. This is hugely important. If you can't lockdown your hiding place, I guarantee some clever zombie will find his or her way in. In every zombie movie, if someone ever utters "this place should be safe, it only has the one glaringly large hole in security; but really, what are the odds they'll find that one way in", within ten minutes the zombies' hunger for brains has driven them to solve this particular puzzle.
   
   Following this requirement, there are a couple of things to consider when choosing a location with a known, limited number of exits. Make sure it is small enough so that you can really guarantee safety; don't be space greedy if it is going to put you in danger. However, don't lock yourself in the first garden shed or cellar you come across. You want some living space, who knows how long you'll need to tough it out until some organized effort is put forth to deal with this living dead issue. Think ahead.
   
   
2. You and your rag tag team of survivors are going to need to eat. Don't plan on delivery or being able to pop down to the local pizza joint as options. Therefore, you're safe house of choice should come stocked with food. Preferably canned or other non-perishables (electricity will most likely be spotty, at best). This leads one to think of grocery stores as an ideal location. However, considering the previous point, this may be unwise due to the number of possible entrance points and sheer size of these buildings. Also, most grocery stores won't be able to fulfill the remainder of our criteria for safety. Not to say we ruled them out, though.
   
   
3. So what happens if you need to leave your safe location for a brief period? Or perhaps you become overrun and a zombie or two happens to slip through your security perimeter (hey, it happens to the best of us)? Whatever the situation, it is inevitable that at one point or another you will be forced to have a face to face with a member of the recently risen. And just like the the popular rhyme us unpopular kids would sing to make ourselves feel better, words really won't hurt them. You are going to need something to deliver a large helping of violence, with a side of steaming ass-kicking.
   
   Now, depending on the variation of zombie you are dealing with, different levels of automation and efficiency will be required of your weapon of choice. For dealing with those annoyingly fast zombies a la 28 Days Later or the remake of Dawn of the Dead, a gun is most definitely preferable. You can't really afford to get up close and intimate with these guys. But if your flavor of zombie seems to be more Night of the Living Dead-ish (i.e. sluggish, imbecile, less dead human and more living inanimate object), a more personal or improvised weapon is acceptable; as long as it is capable of damage or removing the head. Shovels, axes, sharp bit of wood, street sign, mangled piece of metal. The key here is to be creative, since you have the flexibility.
   
   Keeping all of this in mind, your choice of hideout will need to be amended to ensure you have access to the appropriate level of weaponry. This requirement sort of rules out traditional grocery stores; however, hybrids such as Fred Meyers, Super Walmart, Super Target, and the like are still possible options.
   
   
4. One key factor to consider is travel time. The less time you spend getting to your designated safe house, the less chance it will have become overrun or that you will get bitten (and therefore doomed to cause the downfall of your party) en route. You can't be roadtrippin' it; who knows, the roads may even be blocked with debris such as traffic cones, trees, other cars, or bits of ex-people. Having a large truck, in this case, would be beneficial. However, it still may be a better idea to locate a safe location within a mile or two of your most probable situation with the invasion begins.
   
   Again, the most important point here is to plan ahead. With all the stress of having to dismember your neighbors while keeping their brain-thirsty jaws away from your person, the last thing you want to be worrying about is where you will be sleeping tonight. Also, having a goal is requisite for survival. Those who end up having a lie about, moping at the injustice of it all or other such nonsense will more than likely get eaten in the next act. While being goal-driven doesn't guarantee survival, it certainly helps keep your mind off of the depressing fact that the girl you've been crushing on for the last few weeks is probably a zombie now and dammit you really should have asked her out before this whole mess happened because seriously the worst she could have said was no and since she's undead now anyway you wouldn't have lost anything plus as a bonus if she had said yes she'd probably be with you now in your rag tag group creating the necessary romantic tension to drive the story forward.

After discussing these issues, we began brainstorming on possible prime locations. Our first thought was Home Depot. It is fairly close (probably about a mile away), and would have plenty of the construction materials needed to properly barracade any exits. Plus we could build a neat fort. Unfortunately, Home Depot severely lacks any sort of food more substantial than candy bars and bottles of soda. Also, in case of the scary fast Olympic sprinting zombies, we'd be gun-less.

My next inclination would be Fred Meyers. It is even closer than Home Depot, has much of the construction materials we could need (sans raw wood, but we could improvise), and would have more than enough canned food to last us quite a while. The large supply of food even means we could support not just our rag tag team, but any other survivors who perhaps had the same idea as us. We run into the same lack of gun problem, though, and also Freddie's is quite large; securing the location could prove problematic. Although the thought did just occur to me that we could definitely take advantage of the built in security cameras (provided we had electricity). Despite not being ideal, I don't think I'd rule it out yet.

After a while, Allen became sold on the idea of using Bimart as our fallback. All the canned food benefits of Fred Meyers, with a subset of the Home Depot construction tools, and the bonus of guns in stock. I mostly agree that this seems to be a better choice; the store is much smaller and therefore easier to secure, as well as being less popular so the chances of having to clear zombies out when we get there is lower (seriously, who actually shops at Bimart other than my mother?).

Our own apartment was ruled out fairly early due to the fact that I put very little faith in the construction of this building to withstand a wave of undead. Yes, Allen may own a sword, but in the confines of our living room I think we'd be more likely to chop off one of our own limbs while practicing our ninja moves than actually putting it to proper use.

In the end, Bimart seemed to remain our best option. It offers the most in terms of supplies, tools, and protection. So when the revolution invasion comes, head on over to our place and we'll set off on a daring escape through the streets, hacking off bits of living dead, making incredibly witty banter of course, only to reach the final showdown with the king zombie in the parking lot of the Bimart where he will force us to make either a terrible choice or heroic sacrifice in order to not only save ourselves and all of humanity, but win the girl (or guy, depending on your persuassion).

Yes, we did talk about this for over an hour. Hush.

Sidenote: So, what happens when a friend is infected? Do you immediately kill them to avoid the possibility of their eventual turn endangering your entire group? Or do you wait until the moment they turn since, after all, they're still human up to that point.

My argument was to leave them alive. First of all, do you really have the heart to kill them? Really? They're still human, you know. Could you be such a cold hearted bastard? Ok, even if you could, hear me out.

While still alive, this person can offer necessary utility to the group. Now that their life is basically forfeit, they could provide a much needed diversion or be the one to make the heroic sacrifice that tugs at the audiences' heart strings. Of course, this all depends on the turn time; the average time seems to be several hours. Considering most people don't even seem to last that long uninfected, why needlessly kill off a useful member of your party prematurely? Also, if you let them live you can get a better understanding of how the plague spreads, how long it takes to turn based on the severity of their injury, and other very important data you may need to not only survive, but ultimately defeat the king zombie.

Plus, how badass would it be to have a zombie friend? Think about it.

Things I've learned as a bicycle commuter

1. Most drivers are courteous enough, but there are still those that forget I weigh about two orders of magnitude less than them.
2. It's all fun and games until it rains.
   
3. Beaverton smells. Really bad. Sometimes it's fallow pools of water (what the locals may call "a wetland", but most sensible people call a mosquito breeding puddle), sometimes it's the piles of garbage on the side of the road, and sometimes it's just good old fashion car exhaust. At least the variety keeps things interesting.
4. You can still sweat in sub 40 degree weather. Which of course just makes you colder. Which also brings me to...
   
5. ...butt sweat. Yup, it happens.
6. There is a reason you see bikers rolling up their pants. And no, it's not just to look ridiculously hip. That just happens to be a pleasant side effect.
   
7. No roads are actually flat. However, the hills you always imagined as being torturous are usually not quite so torturous.
   
8. Planning is key: although the 10 mile ride may be fun, keep in mind you usually have to make the return trip.
9. Not oft used bike lanes = all kinds of fun sharp things to run over.
10. Yes, you can be pulled over.
    
11. Despite as much as I try to convince myself otherwise, 4 working gears out of 10 really isn't adequate.
12. My tires are exactly wide enough to fit nicely inside of the street car tracks. Unfortunately, this makes steering, and staying upright, difficult at best. Also, the best time to discover this is in front of a large group of people.
13. The best bike lane traffic signal sensor is in front of the Beaverton library. Seriously, the moment my front tire crosses over, the opposing light immediately turns yellow. Too bad such technology is wasted on one of the least busy intersections around.
14. Wet brakes + hills in Portland + trying to stop = not going to happen. (Astute scholars may note that the derivative of this is "nearly crapping my pants").
    
15. It's farther than you think.

Chronicles of Public Transit: Chapter 1

I take MAX into and out of Portland about four times a week. On my way home, I usually board during rush hour (anytime between 4 and 7 really). The newer trains have four hooks to hang bikes on, so I try my best to maneuver myself towards those. Unfortunately, this means I usually have to 1) shove my way through the crowds, knocking over old ladies and small children with my two wheeled monstrosity; and 2) stand next to my bike, staring aimlessly and uncomfortably at my fellow commuters.

Spending this much time on public transit, given the distribution of nutty people, the probability of "interesting times" is high.

To begin, three stories.


The pick up.

About two weeks ago, I boarded MAX downtown near the Pioneer Place mall. I'm pretty sure it was a Thursday, which meant it must have been around 4:30 by the time I grabbed the train, coming from a grueling session of Differential Equations (math with numbers, not my favorite; petition to keep numbers out of math!). To keep myself occupied I usually bring along my iPod, which serves the two additional purposes of keeping my glasses from falling off while biking it up and lets me ignore most of the crazies mulling around.

On this particular day, I had left my precious headphones at home. Mistake number one.

A few minutes into the ride, the man standing next to me asked me a question; I answered it. Mistake number two.

What started out as an innocent enough conversation began to get a little unsettling. I'll try to recreate as much as I can remember. Enjoy.

Him: "So do you work downtown?"
Me: "Uh nope, go to school."

[3 minutes of silence]

Him: "What do you go to school for?"
Me: "Math"

[2 minutes of silence followed by another couple unrelated questions and increasingly personal questions]

Him: "Do you go to a gym and work out?"
Me: "Nope, just ride the bike."
Him: "Oh, well you have nice mass" as he motions to my chest/back region.
Me: "Uh....thanks?"

[4 minutes of very awkward silence]

Him: "So what are you doing tonight?"
Me: "Just going home."
Him: "Where is home? Who do you live with."
Me: "A friend"

[Why oh why did I forget my headphones today, I think to myself]

Him: "What are you doing for dinner tonight?"
Me: ".....Not sure yet. Eat at home probably."
Him: "Do you like to dance?"
Me : "....."

Me: "No."
Him: "So you have a girlfriend?"
Me: "Uh, yup." Pretty much a lie, but it seemed like the right answer.

The last few minutes before my stop were spent in more awkward silence, with myself attempting to do anything except make eye contact with this very persistent man. The train finally pulled into my station, I grabbed my bike, and realized he was also getting off at the same stop. As I jumped on my bike and began peddling like mad, I looked back and noticed him crossing the platform to board the eastbound train back into Portland.

I have a new found sympathy for the ladies who are constantly accosted at bars.


The botched bike theft.

This happened a few nights ago. I had just taken a Group Theory midterm, after which myself and two friends from the class met up at the Market St. McMenamins to drink and commiserate. Much beer and tots were consumed, with a healthy dose of bitching and griping.

Afterwards, two of us walked down to the 10 st. MAX stop, mostly engrossed in slightly too loud conversation. While standing around waiting, a man and a woman walked up from behind us, stopping a few feet to our left. It wasn't entirely clear if they came together, or just happened to arrive at the same time. I'm not sure which would be more disturbing, considering what the man said next.

"Hey, you two, stop being such big losers and talk to this woman. Don't you want to talk to this woman instead of standing around like losers and watching this bike here? Go over there and talk to her and leave this bike here. Stop being such freaking losers, seriously. Just leave this bike here."

Really? That's the best you can come up with? I honestly expect better from crack-head would-be-thieves that hang around MAX platforms.


The typing teacher.

I saw Mr. Bristow, our high school keyboarding/journalism/yearbook/probably something else teacher, get on today at Pioneer Courthouse square. He looks exactly the same. I don't think he recognized me.

True story.

Obama wins, country heaves collective sigh of relief.

The outcome was expected, but I didn't want to get my hopes up until the moment we knew for certain. Congratulations to America, lets move this thing forward now.

Also, I have to mention that after watching John McCain's concession speech my respect for the man has been resurrected. He seemed to return back to the McCain of 2000 and 2004 who actually stood apart from his party affiliation and spoke with integrity. I'm sure many of his flipped positions in this election were due to a need to please the Republican base, despite McCain's history of moderation. It is a shame he had to run the way he did, but I suppose politics will be politics.

I nearly convinced myself today that maybe McCain was running a subpar election on purpose; in some kind of underhanded way to backstab the Republican party. Like he was a secret Obama supporter, and really wanted him to win, but had to make sure it wasn't too obvious. Sounds like a good movie idea...

A few of us got together tonight to watch the results, either to celebrate or commiserate the results depending on the outcome. Like many others, I'm sure, we decided to make a drinking game of all the coverage. The rules went like this.

1. Every time the electoral college map was shown, take a drink.
2. Every time an American flag was shown, take a drink.
3. Every time someone in a suit made a prediction or analysis, take a drink.
4. Take a drink to celebrate whenever a state was called for Obama.
5. Take a drink to wash away the pain every time a state was called for McCain.
6. Whenever blah blah blah, take a drink
7. Blah blah drink blah blah blah blah.

I think we all won this game.

Now for two months of everyone insisting this will be the most important election of all time and the insurmountable wall of obstacles Obama will face upon inauguration. Oh well, a step forward is a step forward. The news channels need something to talk about I guess.


Yes we can? I think we just did. Go us.

Epilogue Part I: If we could only see us now...

Note: I've been writing this post for a few days. Not that that indicates any increased level of editing or proofreading, but just that it has been somewhat difficult to write. I find that writing light-hearted or humorous posts much easier than serious and personal ones (surprise). I almost didn't post it, but figured it would be a waste of keyboard wear and tear if I didn't. Enjoy.

---

Thirteen thousand and ninety-nine miles.

Fifty days.

Thirty-three states (and two Canadian provinces).

Countless bottles of water and Naked juice.

It's been nearly three weeks now since the end of my journey around the country, and if it weren't for this blog and a few hundred photographs (not to mention an increase in my Visa debt), it would seem like it never happened. Almost.

Origins.

The idea to take this trip came from a conversation I had with friends of my parents when we visited Scotland for Christmas of 2005. The couple, being retired and with all of their children out of the house, took to excursions around Europe, collecting fine wines and cheeses from across the continent. The places they had seen sounded amazing; the history and culture, the food, the spectacular vistas. My desire to travel and explore, which up till then had really only fueled my tendency to take long ways home or explore back roads around where I lived, intensified. The great European vacation from so many books and movies would be mine, I decided.

But really, I thought, why Europe? What had it to offer in terms of unexplored territory that my own continent didn't? I have lived my entire life on the West coast, venturing north and south of Oregon, but rarely further east other than layovers in Newark or Chicago. There was so much to see without even crossing an ocean, why not take advantage of what is in my backyard first. Because honestly, I knew next to nothing about what the United States really felt and looked like outside of TV or movies.

And so, I began planning. I graduated that June and took a mini trip with Scott for a week; a blazingly fast, week long tour of a couple states close by. From that trip, I learned one of the most important rules for an enjoyable roadtrip: don't rush it. If you are always in a hurry, always trying to get to your next location, you'll miss a lot of the country at 80 mph.

The idea for my own trip took a backseat in my mind for more than a year afterward. In the fall of 2007 I was working at an internship at Intel and began to feel antsy again. Maybe it was the sterile corporate environment, or perhaps the frustration of driving the same 10 miles of highway day in and day out; the stagnation, the overwhelming feeling of uncertainty about my future or what I really wanted, feeling stuck in a rut. I desired to break out, explore, drive miles of empty road. I desired to get away. So I sat at my computer one afternoon and haphazardly plotted a course across the country, choosing destinations that I always wanted to see, or had heard about, or just sounded interesting. The exact route was unimportant, the idea was to improvise if necessary.

I started tossing the idea around with some friends and family, getting reactions and advice. Winter was approaching, and considering I was scheduled to work until mid-January as well as not wanting to get stuck in the snow crossing the Rockies, I decided I would leave in the Spring.

For the next few months, I refined my plan, talked some more about it, and above all just waited. It began to feel like one of those amazing ideas you have that simply would never materialize, whether due to lack of opportunity, lack of resources, or a lack of will to really follow through. March rolled around, and then April. I left for another trip to Scotland for yet another wedding two years after the first, my dream still unfulfilled. By the time I returned home, I had less than two months remaining on my lease. Another excuse to for me to wait. June, I thought, I can leave right at the beginning of June after I move.

Near the end of May, tightening funds and a new romantic interest forced me to reconsider a June departure. I've waited this long, I thought, whats another month of two. Plenty of time to save up enough to comfortably cover the trip.

Summer came, and summer slipped away like so many other things. I found myself in the last week of July with no more reasons to stay, no excuse to put off leaving any longer. I had made the decision to return to school in the fall, so my window of opportunity was ever shortening. Without really realizing what I was getting myself into, on August 2nd I packed my car and turned east.

Reasons.

I don't think I was ever really sure what I would accomplish on my trip. I can throw around cliches about finding myself and discovering America, about the great American Road Trip or a quarter-life crisis. They're all true in their own ways, but were more so as unintended results rather than reasons to go. When I try to be honest with myself, I think it was mostly a desire to escape for a while. With no creative outlet or focus in life it is easy to become bogged down; with nothing to work towards or particular reason not to it is easy to stop moving. I felt bogged down, slowed down, from the past two years.

My solution was to drive away. I've always felt at home in a way out on an empty road, even driving alone. I find it relaxing, almost comforting. Call it a consequence of introversion.

I was in a place I didn't much like and needed change. What better change than a new city every night? What better escape than to put thousands of miles between me and where I'd been? It may sound horrible, but we all escape in our own ways every day. Getting lost in music, a TV show, a book, movies, video games, hikes, alcohol, drugs. Some are obviously more productive or destructive than others, but each one offers us time to forget for a while, to be somewhere or someone else. I would get my escape, and as a bonus I would see the country I had lived in for 24 years and perhaps discover some things about myself along the way.

Results.

I've seen mountains so beautiful no words I write could describe them. I've been in uncomfortable situations, maybe even dangerous situations, lost and alone. I've stayed in hostels, hotels, motels, and guest houses; slept in my tent and my car, on couches, air mattresses, floors, and friends beds. I arrived in Sturgis during Bike Week and New Orleans during Southern Decadence. I've watched sunsets that took my breath away and others that I barely noticed. I've seen a full moon rise over the Atlantic, red as blood. I've fled swarms of insects in Montana and Mississippi and I've been bitten more times than I can count. I've seen the Milky Way on a night so clear I could swear there was naught above me but open space. I saw friends I hadn't seen in years, and met some for the first time. I've tried to remember, and tried to forget.

It seems that I, as well as most I talked to, had the idea that I would have passed through a fundamental, material change upon returning. I've been back for more nearly weeks now, time enough to try and digest my experiences and perform some serious introspection. And to what conclusion did I come to, you may be asking? ("Of course I ask that," you say, "why else would I be reading your epilogue?"). Am I better off having spent the better part of two months crossing the country? Am I different now than before?

Well, yes and no.

My trip served the purposes an extended absence can, answered the questions I had that it was able to. A part of my motivation was to search for any other place in the country that could feel like home. I traveled through a wide variety of environments; sweeping open lands, mountainous regions, the farmlands of middle America, big cities, small towns, tourist traps, holes in the wall, deserts, urban jungles. Could I picture myself living in these places? Mostly, yes. I was hard pressed to not find at least something appealing about everywhere I went. But was it home? Did I feel that indescribable feeling of comfort and belonging? Why not? What was it about Portland that kept drawing me back?

The saying is tired and cheesy, but there is truth to it; home really is where the heart is. After you stop groaning, stick with me for a minute while I explain what I mean. Sure, Portland is great, there are lots of things to love about it. But Boston was great too; Austin had an amazing atmosphere; Nashville was more fun than I expected from the capital of country music; Portland Maine, Cleveland, Bozeman, Whitefish, Santa Fe. I could go on, listing (nearly) every city, town, or village I stopped in and come up with a reason to stay. But home is more than a place, more than your address or where you sleep each night. Home is a state of being, home is your friends and your family. Without that, you're never truly home. That is what I finally figured out on this trip.

"Is that it? That was all you got out of seven weeks of driving?"

Of course not. I also learned that this country is giant. Hell, driving across Texas alone took me about four days. On a less facetious note, the time away alone gave me more than ample opportunity to think, to reflect, to let my mind wander. I mentioned this in a previous post, but it deserves repeating: when you're mind wanders, it rarely wanders the direction you want it to. The world is full of triggers to memories; a car, a song, a town, a name. Even single words can stir up thoughts you'd rather not have again. And eventually, all of my thinking of thoughts converged to conclusions. Perhaps not resolutions, but conclusions that are more satisfying than questions.

This may sound like the vague babbling of a madman (and that it may be), with talk of thoughts and triggers and wanderings. The important part is not what particular conclusions I came to about particular thoughts, rather that too often I don't take the time to truly reflect. I push down thoughts or feelings to "deal with" at a later date that rarely comes. I doubt I'm the only one that does this. Sometimes it is necessary to get away from the distractions and activities we do, force yourself to be truly alone with nothing to do but think, no one to talk to but yourself.

You can call it finding myself if you like. I'm not sure I'd go that far.

Which, of course, brings me to the latter part of my answer about whether I have changed or felt different. Early I talked of feeling a need to escape for a while, and how this trip was partly a result of that. The problem with a circular route is that eventually you come back to where you started. And everything I had left behind to escape from was waiting for me, slightly annoyed for being ditched.

This is where I make some grand revelation about not being able to run away from problems and all that good jazz. We all know it, we've heard it untold times before. I'm going to skip it. I have nothing new to bring to that table, there is no easy solution there. I may have returned with new perspectives, new experiences, renewed feelings and hope, but that doesn't change what I left behind (both mentally and physically). It does, however, help me now with doing what needs to be done.

As well as all the mental turmoil I seem to have gone through (and I must apologize to you, poor reader, for you must feel at this point that my trip is turning into a bad emo song), I also learned some fun facts along the way. Behold, the List of Facts!

1. Internet is everywhere. EVERYWHERE. When even the podunk motels in the podunkiest towns are offering free wifi in every room, thats when you realize the future is now (queue the booming voice over "In the twenty-first century, the future has arrived!").
2. Planning a trip spontaneously is fun and all, but for some activities you really just need to be prepared. For example, you can purchase a National Parksannual pass for only $80. Yes, this would have saved me money.
3. Tourist traps are called so for a reason. Beware the boring, overcrowded, overpriced monuments and museums (I'm looking at you Mt. Rushmore, and runner up Rock n Roll Hall of Fame).
4. Sturgis: Leather chaps + bikinis. Enough said.
5. Motel prices rise on Friday and Saturday nights by an incredible margin. Avoid if possible.
6. Sometimes toll roads are just a fact of life. Carry spare change and a couple of bucks just in case.
7. If you're tired enough, you can sleep just about anywhere.
8. Good microbrew beers can be found just about everywhere, although sometimes they are referred to as craft beers.
9. French Canada is seriously French. Seriously.
10. Portland, Or > Portland, ME
11. Driving in major metropolitan areas leads to high blood pressure.
12. Motel 6 provides exactly what you need, is usually the cheapest, and actually less sketchy than you may think.
13. Museums in DC are completely free. They got something right there.
14. Pumping your own gas > Having someone else pump your gas
15. Wikitravel is your friend on the road.
16. Music is always better live.
17. Insects are always better dead.
18. My blood tastes better than Graham's to mosquitoes.
19. Waffle House is never a good idea. Never.
20. Blogging is easier to do regularly than journaling because you have the illusion of writing for a captive audience.
    

Conclusion.

Was it worth it? The time, the money, the misadventures? Had I a time machine and could deliver myself a message three months ago, would I still advise myself to go?

Absolutely.

Would I do things differently, knowing what I do now? Perhaps, but for all the mistakes I made and missteps I took, the least I can say is that I learned from them. They also make for good stories.

The title of this post, "If we could only see us now" is one of my favorite quotes, and comes from a Thrice song (those who know my musical tastes will probably say "what a surprise" with very sarcastic intonation). It has stuck with me over the years because it always feels relevant in my life. I've interpreted it as a comment on how we never really know where we will go in life, and often wouldn't believe where we end up until it happens. If we could only see us now, would we still act how we do? If we could only see us now, what would we have changed?

If we could only see us now.

Memories.

The sunset on the first day of my trip. It was beautiful.

First experiencing the feeling of not knowing where I'll be sleeping that night.

Walking through a field in Montana with the Linns at dusk, the grasshoppers springing up around our ankles.

Feeling disheartened and overwhelmed after Glacier, being less than a week in.

Driving through the night, under a cloudless a moonless sky.

Feeling truly lost for the first time.

Company after a week of solitude.

Remembering, and it being a good thing.

The bartender at the Harbor Inn in Cleveland.

Poutine.

Discussing the origins of altruistic behaviors, among other topics.

Watching the moon rise on an Atlantic beach.

Getting no sleep whatsoever at a hostel in Boston.

Being alone again, on the opposite side of the country.

Seeing a police officer smoking a cigar, on the job, in New Orleans.

A Texas shaped sink in a Texan McDonald's.

Sunset over Whitesands.

Realizing that Death Valley may actually defeat me.

Driving on familiar roads for the first time in six weeks.

Arriving home.

Future.

I'm working on the final two installments of the epilogue. The next will be a collection of photographs, most of which haven't been seen yet. It'll be done "when I finish working on it" (hopefully less than another three weeks).

After the epilogue, I plan on continuing this blog. Life is interesting, and interesting (and odd) things seem to happen everyday. Or maybe I just attract interesting (read: odd) people. Either way, I can't help but feel there are stories there.

Day 50: Tripping on the last bit of road

I arrived in San Francisco Tuesday night and made my way to Devin's place, which is really his girlfriend Jasmine's place as he is just staying there until he moves back to Oregon to start school. He all ate some pizza and caught up whats been going on in life since the last time we hung out (which was two years ago, during the last roadtrip).

In the morning after waking up and showering (not necessarily in that order), Jasmine's roommates cooked up some loco moco; this amazing breakfast feast consisted of rice topped with a couple of ground meat patties, two fried eggs, and covered with some brown gravy. The proper way to eat it is to mash it all into a big ol' mess, cover it with your choice of topping (ketchup apparently being a Hawaiian favorite, I used hot sauce), and dig in. It was, to say the least, a very fulfilling meal.

After breakfast, Devin and I headed out to tour around the town. The first stop we made was a place called twin peaks, which is really just a hill in the middle of the city. However, from that vantage point you are able to get an amazing view of nearly the entire downtown and surrounding areas. The weather didn't want to cooperate, unfortunately, so it was a bit hazy and overcast, so subsequently photos don't quite do the view justice.



From there we drove down and parked near Haight street. We wandered around for a bit, brushing off pleas and songs for change from street folk, imagining that had we been the type that enjoyed shopping we would garner more pleasure from the district. Even without spending money, it was fun to just walk Haight and imagine what kind of crazy hippy activities had taken place there thirty or forty years earlier.

From the fields of Denmark

The rest of the day was we bummed around, doing a lot of mostly free things; hanging out in Delores park (normally a very popular place for the apathetic young twenty somethings of the city, but was emptier than usual due to the overcast skies), eating delicious ice cream, checking out a windmill, scaring seagulls at the beach, and finally getting a beer at an amazingly dive-y bar called Zeitgeist.

After resting a bit at the apartment, we went to pick up Jasmine from work and get some lamb schwarma for dinner, after which we promptly dropped her off again for class.

That night Devin's dad Frank came into town, and Devin, Frank, Jasmine, and I went to this jazz club called Yoshi's to see a performance by Vieux Farka Touré. Touré is from Mali, and plays a mix of traditional, jazz, blues, and rock guitar. The show was absolutely fantastic, really a treat to see such an artist perform live. For part of the show, a guest slide guitarist came out and the two of them played amazingly off one another.

The next morning I headed out, back on the road. My plan was to get all the way to Ashland that day, which at first seems completely reasonable. However, my chosen route would be a combination of highway 1, US-101, and some windy freaking road connecting Eureka to I-5. But if I had to drive I-5 between San Francisco and Oregon one more time I would have stabbed myself in the eye.

The requisite cliche photo of the Golden Gate bridge

The drive, as always, was beautiful. I also was able to continue my tradition of being able to find the most expensive place to eat in a given stretch of 100 miles of highway; I was starving (having not had much for breakfast, I was hoping to get a bagel or something at a Safeway I never passed), and decided that the next little town I come to along the way with a diner or restaurant of some sort I would eat at. Unfortunately, the next thing I found was the Sea Ranch. The food was decent, and really not much more than your typical establishment. I was, however, the youngest patron by a good thirty years, and felt that my scruffy look and attire didn't go over all too well with the wait staff. No worries; I ate my panini, paid, and was on my way.

Cloud formations make sunsets ridiculously better.

I finally arrived in Ashland a little after 10pm, where I met up with Crystal Gero who is back in Ashland to continue her education (lets hear it for the second bachelors club!). We got some drinks and caught up at my favorite bar, the Oak Tree. In the morning, breakfast was provided by Morning Glory cafe. If you've never been there, or heard of it, you are missing out. It is a local favorite for a reason; they have interesting food combinations and a nice friendly atmosphere. Personally, I had the bacon filled waffle with almond butter (mmm delicious), as mentioned in the LA Weekly.

Now finished with breakfast, we walked across the street to the Southern Oregon University campus so I could obtain a transcript, and subsequently have them unlock my online account (which will make my transition to PSU immensely easier). I tried to stop in the photo lab and apply for a job as a lab monitor, but unfortunately my old photo professor Erika was no where to be found (not unusual for a Friday afternoon).

After a quick stop at 7-11, I said goodbye to Crystal and headed north to Medford, where, after wasting a couple of hours at Starbucks, I met up with another friend from Ashland, Crystal Hess. Again, there were drinks and catchings up. A couple of hours later, I began one of the last legs of my journey.

My original plan called for me to return to US-101 and make the trek up Oregon on the coast. By this time, however, I was over it and really just wanted to get on with the good times. I-5 ended up being good enough for me, and I rolled into Corvallis around 10pm on Friday. I called up my old roommates Jeff Briggs and Brian McFarlane and warned them they had 20 minutes to prepare for debauchery. We gathered, and walked down to McMenamins for pool, beer, and cajun fries. The times, they were good.

I crashed at Brian's apartment last night (as someone had already claimed Briggs' couch), and ate breakfast with him this morning before he had to run off and work on his impending thesis presentation for this week (good luck Brian, and don't worry about it). After meandering around the town and lunch with Briggs, I once again waved goodbye and turned onto highway 99, heading home.

Blog status: This is the last day of the trip. However, don't stop reading yet. Look for the upcoming three part epilogue:
Epilogue Part I: If we could only see us now
Epilogue Part II: Roadtrip through the lens
Epilogue Parth III: Thank you's and No thanks to's
Miles: Over 13,000. Exact figure for the final trip will come in the epilogue.
Sounds of the end:
Thrice - Vheissu

Day 46 pt II: Pacifica

While on my way up highway 1, I passed through a small town by the name of Pacifica, just north of the famous Half Moon Bay. In Pacifica, there resides the most interesting of Taco Bells I have had the fortune to encounter. It is constructed on the edge of the beach in a style that is reminiscent of 70's beach culture, with a "walk thru" window in the back on the beach itself. It is quite the site to behold. Astute followers of my previous roadtrips will recognize the structure as one I previously visited on my 2003 journey from Santa Cruz to Oregon with Graham and Moose.



Obviously Graham had to fly out to meet me here, but the cost was well worth the repeated experience.

Day 46: City on a Hill

I arrived at Scott and Rachel's Saturday evening. Scott cooked an awesome dinner of chicken with a cashew sauce over rice for the three of us, plus Rachel's friend Rebbecca. After dinner, the consensus was to find dessert somewhere and possibly some brews for Scott and myself. There were a couple of shady dive bars Scott had in mind we could try depending on how adventurous we were feeling later on.

We headed to downtown Claremont and wandered a bit, deciding where to indulge at. We settled on the Press, a fairly upscale looking establishment that probably charges too much for its beer and other drinks without even offering an amazing selection. I had a slice of cheesecake, which was extremely average at best; the girls split some cake and ice cream, Scott had a beer. Afterwards, we decided to try our luck at a bar more focused on beer. It turned out to be almost exclusively imported draught beer, which in itself is not a bad thing at all, but as a consequence was far too expensive and trendy for us.

Not so easily defeated, we had the girls drop us off at one of the suspect bars on the way back; we were close enough to Scott's apartment to walk back when we had had our fill. The pub was called something like the Black Watch something something. I forget. It's not terribly important anyway, as the place turned out to be pretty tame. We bought a pitcher of Boddington's, sat down away from the bar to chat whilst drinking, and were almost immediately drowned out by the live band playing that night. It wasn't a complete shame, though; they turned out to be alright. The drummer had an amazing mullet going on, complete with 80's style 'stache, and the older gentleman on lead guitar was pretty fantastic. We finished off the pitcher, chalked another one up to experience, and walked back.

Back at the apartment we cracked into some Dublin Dr Peppers. The glass bottle makes this drink about a million times more delicious.

On Sunday Rachel had a job being an assistant for some old artist downtown, so I tagged along with Scott to drop her off so we could bum around the beaches all day. First we explored Santa Monica. Down 3rd street on either side of Santa Monica Blvd for a couple of blocks is the promenade, which amounts to an outdoor shopping mall with a handful of street performers attempting to get discovered. We walked about half of the promenade before making our way to the pier. Like many piers or boardwalks in California, the pier at Santa Monica has a perpetual carnival going on. On the beach itself, adjacent to the pier, is a monument maintained by Veterans for Peace called "Arlington West". In the sand, they have a cross for each solider who has died in the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. The view is quite sobering and a reminder that even in a place of perpetual fun like the beach of Santa Monica, you can't escape the consequences of war.

We walked along the water for a bit, making sure to avoid any needles in the sand, before heading back inland (across the widest beach I have ever see, by the way). By now we were getting a bit peckish, so we stopped on the promenade again to grab some mediocre pizza by the slice.

Not really being much for shopping, Santa Monica wasn't really impressing us. We decided to head south to Venice beach, since we still had a good two hours at least to kill before Rachel had to be picked up. We drove down, parked in a lot where the fee machine was broken (free parking!), and walked the boardwalk. That place is brilliant; the pavement is lined with street vendors peddling art, crafts, political messages, sub-par entertainment, amazing entertainment, and just about anything else you can imagine. The day had started off overcast, but was beginning to clear up as we walked down Venice. We stopped for a while to watch some guy attempt to perform comedy and stunts at the same time, but moved on pretty quickly when we found out he was extremely lame. However, further down the boardwalk our craving for excitement was satisfied. For a good 20 or 30 minutes, we watched a group of break dancers. They were a group from LA and Chicago, and not only were they fantastic dancers, they were also very good entertainers when speaking to the crowd. They also claimed to be followers of true hip-hop: Healthy independent people, helping other people. For the finale, one of the members did a flying leap/flip over about five audience members who where kind of bent over. Very impressive.

After the show, it was time to go. We navigated traffic (ugh), picked up Rachel, and now exhausted, headed home. We decompressed for a while watching some classics (Old School and Wedding Crashers was on TNT). Before sunset, we drove over to the Claremont colleges to experience one of James Turrell's skyspace sculptures. You sit in an outdoor space under a white ceiling with a large square cut out of the middle. The show begins when the sun sets. Color changing LEDs light up the ceiling, gently changing the color through a wide array of colors. As the color of the ceiling changes, the way you percieve the color of the sky through the square changes too. A sky that appeared a deep purple one moment will suddenly seem as blue as the midday sky. The experience is amazing, one that I would highly recommend to anyone in the area. I'm not sure if his other skyspaces have similar light shows. As a side note, I have actually unknowingly seen a Turrell skyspace before. While in England this last spring, we visited the Yorkshire sculpture park where he has another skyspace installed in the side of a hill.

After the skyspace, we came home to scrumptious gumbo. Mmm. Scott, I'm going to visit more often.

The next day was Monday, so Scott had to take off early to make the hour and a half commute of 30 miles into work. Unfortunately, when he left, he locked one of their cats in the same room I was sleeping in. This usually wouldn't be much of a problem; I'm not allergic to cats or anything silly of that nature. It seems, though, that this cat has a particular habit I was unaware of: when he gets hungry he will chew on your fingers and toes. Needless to say, I was awoken to the feeling of a cat first rubbing his head against, and subsequently gnawing at my feet.

I got the the hint and got up. After breakfast and packing, I said goodbye to Rachel and drove into Altadena to meet Scott for lunch. After some good Japanese, I said goodbye to him as well and headed out on the 134 to the 101. The plan from here on out was to stick to the coastal highways all the way through Oregon. I love this drive, and when I have the time I will choose to do it ten times out of ten rather than taking the mind-numbingly boring I-5. The views are spectacular, and the landscape varied and interesting. Obviously weaving in and out of coastal cliffs a hundred feet above crashing waves takes a bit longer to navigate, but the experience is more than worth it.

I still don't care if it is kitsch

I spent the rest of the day and a good portion of the night heading up highway 1. I arrived in the Monterey Bay around 11pm and decided to grab a motel for the night. I had been hoping to simply camp on the side of the road somewhere over looking the ocean, but the condition of my back coupled with the fact that I knew my air mat would offer absolutely no support led me to decide against that. It should be the last room I have to pay for on this trip, anyway.

In the morning I headed around the bay into Santa Cruz. I'm pretty familiar with Santa Cruz, having spent my first year of university here. I drove up to the UCSC campus, parked, and walked around. It was great to see the place again, it brought back a lot of good memories. I went by the bookstore up to my old dorm building (College 10: The college with no soul!), down across the Science library bridge, and around some of my old lecture buildings. I wondered what life would have been like had I stayed. The campus is definitely beautiful, and amazing to walk around (although kind of a pain because of the hill it is on). Things would have been pretty different; I most likely wouldn't be on this trip, living who knows where. But, had I not gone to Southern I would never have gotten as heavily into photography, and probably not math either. Its hard to say, and really there is no use dwelling on past decisions. Learn and move forward, make the most of where you are.

After coming down from the campus (it is located on a hill overlooking the city), I parked downtown and strolled the street. I couldn't resist eating lunch at my favorite pizza place, Pizza My Heart.

Now, I'm on my way up to San Francisco for a day or two to see my friend from back in the old swimming days, Devin. I'm nearly finished with the trip, but there are some good times that need to be had before I'm done.

Weather: Mostly cloudy north of Santa Cruz.
Total miles gathered: Exactly 12200.
Playlist:
Sea Wolf - Leaves in the River (I didn't realize how good this was, I would have listened to it earlier had I known)
Pink Floyd - Wish You Were Here
Chevelle - This Kind of Thinking (Could Do Us In)

Day 45: Holiday from the real

On Thursday during the day I was on a mission do get some work done, and do some old fashion 'sploring of the area around Toluca Lake/North Hollywood/Burbank. I drove around for half an hour or so looking for some breakfast; I was hoping for a bagel shop. No such luck (I ended up at one of the many Starbucks in the area). After pretending to look important with my laptop reading Slashdot for about an hour, I didn't feel like I could justify taking up their space anymore (I had only bought a muffin or something), so my mission continued. Laura had provided me with directions to the local Burbank Public Library, which I followed more or less (meaning I missed the intersection the first two or three times I drove by it, but found it eventually).

Not pictured: my eyes burning from cutting
up chilies.

The library was amazingly productive. I spent a good couple of hours working and blogging, only interrupted for an hour or so for me to hit up In-n-Out for lunch and read the LA Times.

I met Laura back at her apartment after work, where we planned the evenings itinerary of debauchery. First, dinner; we hit up a Thai grocery store and Ralph's for some ingredients, Twinkies, and Tequila. The plan was to cook up some fried chicken and rice with chili pepper infused soy sauce. The Twinkies were bought on a whim; with the oil ready to fry the chicken we thought "Hey, why not try and deep fry a Twinkie or two before we much it up with chicken and batter! It has always sounded like a delicious and absolutely not a nutritious treat!" As the oil came up to temperature, I looked up the actual Twinkie frying recipe on Laura's phone. Reading Wikipedia, I realized the consequences we would unleash were we to continue our plan of just dropping the Twinkies in hot oil.

"STOP! This will be a horrible error!!" I yelled.

Apparently, to properly deep fry a Twinkie, you must first freeze them for at least a day, then batter them in some sort of egg based batter. Otherwise, the cream filling will melt and the whole thing will fall apart in a gooey, bready mess. We were not prepared.

Chicken and rice were sufficient, in the end, with normal slightly cold Twinkies for dessert.

We now had been fueled for the main event: a night at a karaoke room. Now, for those who are unfamiliar with the concept of a karaoke room, like I was, let me elaborate. A karaoke room is an establishment which is really just a collection of rooms (this one had about 10 or so probably), each one has its own TV, karaoke machine, pair of microphones, pair of tambourines, and apparently sometimes a fog machine.

"This is just a tribute"

We met up with Laura's friend Pam, her sister Jenny, and Jenny's boyfriend, who I had been led to believe hated everyone and was extremely infatuated with Jenny. This turned out to be not entirely true, the guy was actually pretty nice; although for most of the evening the rest of us were just background to the couple as he swooned over her, implicitly dedicating every song he, or anyone else for that matter, sang. He did kind of look like a member of the Aryan nation, though, and he completely threw me off everytime I sang with him. Not that I am any kind of an amazing singer or can even keep a pitch, but come on, give me something to work with.

For four hours, we sang our hearts (and voices) out. Rest assured I sang the crap out of the likes of Tenacious D, Radiohead, 80's butt rock, and many R&B/pop songs that I don't actually know. However, don't assume that this is some sort of indication of future forays into the world of karaoke...

Friday rolled around, and the day itself was much like Thursday; Starbucks for breakfast and the library to pretend to work.

For dinner that night, Laura and I went to Pam's mom's Thai restaurant. Needless to say, it was fantastic; Thai Orchid eat your heart out. After stuffing ourselves, we hung around drinking the free-refills of Thai ice tea while waiting to be able to move again.

We finally got moving again after a good hour at least, heading to a bar called Bar One to meet up with some ex-coworkers for drinks. The bar was a neat hole in the wall kind of place, specializing more in wine than beer but still having a fairly decent selection of brews. There was a live DJ, although we didn't really notice the fact that it wasn't just a jukebox until actually seeing him (in other words, not so impressive).

The last stop for the night was a birthday party for Laura's roommate's boyfriend. So I don't have to type that ridiculous identifier anymore, here is a reference list of names to people so I can just use names.

Name	Relation
Laura	My friend from Santa Cruz
Dre	Laura's roommate
Aaron	Dre's boyfriend, the birthday boy
Chad	Friend of Aaron's. His real name wasn't Chad, but thats what everyone called him. I think it was Dan.
Renaldo	Another friend of Aaron's. May or may not have eaten some soup when he wasn't supposed to.
Joe	The last friend of Aaron's, his real name isn't Joe but for the life of me I can't remember now what it was. Sorry Joe.

The birthday party was quite fun, filled with some Santa Cruz beer (almost all of us there had gone to UC Santa Cruz), sopa, funfetti cake (which Dre had made the night before while we were cooking dinner; it took all of our will power not to eat it in its entirety when Dre left), and a game of Taboo. I was on Aaron and Joe's team, with Laura, Dre, and Chad on the other; I think Renaldo had passed out on the floor by this time. Taboo, apparently, is not Aaron's strength, a fact I found out while playing and which was later confirmed by Laura later with an amazing anecdote. We lost, but not badly.

Interesting side story: It seems the guys living in this house (Aaron, Joe, and another who wasn't present) either don't believe in washing their hands after using the bathroom, or they don't believe in using towels for this purpose. Despite which it is, I found myself with wet hands and nothing to dry them on while there. Looking around I realized I had three viable options.

1. Use my own clothes, a popular trick among males but one not taken to lightly
2. Use the shower curtain, it seemed to be made out of some kind of cotton product; should be absorbant enough
3. Use the floor mat, I'm not sure why I thought this might be a viable option

I ended up deciding on option 2.

We eventually ended up back at Laura and Dre's studio around 4 am. Saturday morning came, and went; we arose around noon. That day we had to head out to Santa Monica to pick up Meghan, then down to Redondo Beach to meet Scott for lunch.

We arrived in Santa Monica and quickly found absolutely no place to park. Meghan was having tea with her boss, but said she'd be good to go when we got there. Circling the block, Laura dropped me off in front of the Tudor House, instructing me to be charming to Meghan's boss, flashing my biggest smile, and then retrieve Meghan. I walked in what turned out to be a side door, and stood for a good couple of minutes looking around. I must have looked quite the creep, bearded and scruffy, scoping out the scene. I finally spotted Meghan chatting with her boss. For some reason, it seemed to me that the conversation looked quite important and uninterruptable, so after fidgeting for a few minutes hoping to catch her eye, I just kind of wandered back out. This made for a humorous story the rest of the day.

Luckily they finished soon and departed of their own accord, and we were able to pick up Meghan and book it down the coast to Redondo Beach.

The spines were still moving...

The three of us met up with Scott who was already waiting there (sorry Scott), and headed down the pier to the fresh fish market. This place was amazing; every kind of shellfish, fish, and even strange edible sea creatures you could imagine were ready to be bought and cooked (most were still alive). I was strongly advised to get the crab, as the experience was pretty phenomenal, not to mention the taste. Laura and Meghan split a smaller crab, Scott was more adventurous and purchased a sea urchin, and we all shared about three dozen oysters.

Now, I have never been one for shellfish, or really sea food in general. I had certainly never had freshly steamed dungeness crab which not 30 minutes ago had been alive and kicking. Setting my thoughts and preconceived biases aside, I dug in; tearing limbs and claws from the de-shelled body (I received helpful advice from Laura and Meghan on the proper techniques, and Laura kindly ripped the things top shell off for me). My conclusion for crab: not too bad of a taste, extremely messy, not convinced it was worth the cost (well, maybe the first time for the experience as well).

Removing bits of crab and "ancient Chinese secret"

Scott had to head back to downtown LA to pick up a painting for Rachel, so he left us to finish off lunch. Also, to get the full Redondo Beach experience, I still had to do three more things: win a plate with a roster on it, win a mystery box, and eat a churro. We headed to the arcade that Scott had described as "very scary, I felt like I would get an STD from a child there", and played the easiest game to win prize tokens. In the end, we had enough for 13 plates and a mystery box. We purchased the box and went to get churros. These boxes are notorious for containing completely random crap, used or new. Previously, Meghan and Laura had received such prizes as used makeup, broken toys, trinkets with bits missing, and other such gems. Before opening, we registered our predictions about what ours would contain. After shaking the box, I guessed an article of clothing and a pencil sharpener. The actual contents:

• A small fake Christmas wreath to hang in your car, complete with cigarette lighter power cord
• A half bandana
• A bottle of nail polish (seemingly unopened)
• An American flag with suction cup to attach to a window
• A bracelet with the name "Angie" on it
• One of those wooden ducks you hang up and the wings spin in circles with the wind, except one of the wings was completely rusted and wouldn't spin.
• Two plastic coasters
• An unidentifiable round bottle

It was like Christmas in September. After finishing our churros, we headed back to the arcade to purchase the cock plates, then headed out. Back at Laura's, I packed my stuff, said goodbye to Laura and Meghan, and drove on over to my last LA destination: Upland, to stay for a few days with Scott and Rachel.

Back status: It hurts, I think I tweaked it this morning. Good thing I'm just going to be mostly driving today.
Miles: Somewhere around 12000.
Music:
Jack's Mannequin - Everything In Transit

Day 44: Too tired to be creative

So just enjoy this picture of me enjoying Redondo Beach and crab. Update coming tomorrow, I promise.

Day 42: Out of Fire and Death, into the City of Angels

As darkness fell over Death Valley, I was beginning the journey from the south edge towards my campground. When I say darkness, I really should note that it was never total. The moon was out, and just over half full, which cast an eerie glow over everything; and the lightning storms, which had yet to let up, continually flashed in front and behind me.

Like most National Parks, Death Valley has an entrance fee to drive through. However, unlike most other parks, there was no range booth on the edge of the park from the direction I came. Rather, you were required to stop at one of the kiosks along the route and purchase a pass from an automated machine. I finally arrived at the first of these machines nearly an hour after turning from the highway. Up until this point, I had yet to leave the confines of my car inside of the valley; I had no idea what to expect from the atmosphere. I arrived at the completely unlit Bad Water kiosk and parked my car so that my headlights could provide illumination. I refrained from turning off the engine, however; I didn't anticipate a long stay.

I opened the car door, and was immediately hit with a blast of 106 degree wind. The storms raging around the mountains were causing a ferocious wind to gust from more than one direction, blowing sand and hot air into my face in an unpredictable manor. I ran over to the ticket kiosk, quickly read the instructions, inserted my $20, and waited for my pass to print. Suddenly, an enormous gust came blowing down from the north, hurling dirt and dust at me. In order to save my poor contacts from further abuse, I turned my back and hunched over to shield myself. At that exact moment, my ticket finished printing and before I could react was blown from the machine and off into the rocky bed below the parking lot. I stood there for a few seconds, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The little piece of paper, which had cost me $20, had just gone flying off into the dark unknown, on the back of a gust of wind which probably measured 40 or 50 mph.

You have got to be kidding me, I said out loud. You have got to be freaking kidding.

I snapped out of my intense disbelief and ran to my car to get a flashlight. I went around the back of the pit toilets (which smelled horrendous, let me tell you what; just imagine the effect of all that waste sitting in 115 degree heat all day, and then having the stench blown at you in hot waves; not pleasant), and began searching frantically for my little receipt. Winding my hand crank flashlight, furiously trying to increase its area of illumination, I continued my futile searched for about 5 minutes. Every now and then, I would stop and listen, hoping to catch the sound of rustling paper. Unfortunately, I had to give up. The wind could have carried it any of at least 5 directions, and by this time far away. I would have to just pony up the cash and buy another one.

This time, I covered the opening with my hand while waiting.

I got back in my car and blasted the A/C for a good 5 minutes cooling off. I eventually arrived at the main village in Death Valley, Indian Village (over 70 miles from the entrance). Luckily, they had a gas station so I could stop worrying so much about saving fuel to be able to leave in the morning. My campground (and the only one in the park open at this time of year) was just up the road and had the charming name of Furnace Creek.

I pulled in, paid my camping fee (again making sure to place my hand over the opening to prevent losing another $12), and began driving around looking for a decent camp site. Furnace Creek is quite large with over 100 campsites, although many of them are place right next to one another in typical "camping out of a car" fashion. I finally settled on one far enough away from others, with a decent view of the eastern mountain range and thunderstorm still in progress.

What followed was an exercise in frustration as I attempted to set up my tent in high winds, while being blinded by sand being thrown into my eyes. When I finally was able to get the tent up (using rocks on each of the corners to weigh it down), a sudden gust of wind essentially turned it into a big kite. For a few minutes, I desperately held on as the tent rose about six feet into the air and pulled me forward. I prayed the straps holding the posts wouldn't rip from their stitching, or that the posts themselves wouldn't break. Finally, I wrestled the tent to the ground and was able to sit on it, preventing it from becoming airborne again. I sat there contemplating my next move. I took the tent apart, shoved it back into my car, and gave my eyes much needed rest and lubrication.

My next idea was again to weigh down the tent as I erected it, but this time from within rather than without. The theory was that once the poles had been connected, the weight would still be inside the tent holding it down and it wouldn't lose anchor like it previously had. I rummaged through my trunk, searching for items to use as ballast. While still in my backseat, I stuff the tent with anything I could find with substantial weight. With faith in myself, I brought it back out to try again.

This is how I lost my tripod, shovel, sleeping bag, pillow, sleeping mat, and extra blanket all at once.

Just kidding. It actually ended up working out fairly well (especially when I used four large rocks to anchor each of the corners inside). I finally set the tent up, threw my water bottle inside, and dove in to escape the pelting winds. After setting up my sleeping arrangements, I stripped down to my boxers and laid on top of it all. The temperature was still over 100, and my gallon of water was quickly running low. Between tent cave-ins, lightning flashes, and the oppressive heat, I spent the longest night of my trip. Oh, and my rudimentary fixes for my leaking sleeping mat failed.

Death Valley 2, Colin 1

I arose just before sunrise to the proverbial calm after the storm. The sky was mostly clear, the wind gone, and even the heat was down to an acceptable 85 or so. I packed up my belongings, got dressed, watched the sun rise, and headed back into the village for overpriced breakfast buffet.

I left Death Valley partially conquered, but partially victorious.

For most of the rest of Tuesday, I crossed the barren wasteland that is south-eastern California. After hours on the road, I descended the San Bernardino mountains and into the smog filled valley. For those who haven't driven into LA by car, the change is very visible; a think layer of brown haze permeates the view into the distance. My first stop in LA was to be with a friend from Santa Cruz, Laura Kim; I'd be staying with her for a few days and getting exposed to some lesser seen parts of life in the Valley. I arrived in Pasadena around 2pm, which meant I had a few hours to kill before she got off work. I bummed around, bought a CD from a used record store, and settled down in a coffee shop to read a local news paper.

That night, we met up with two of Laura's friends for happy hour at Bar Celona, a fairly fancy bar in old town Pasadena. The happy hour menu consisted of a selection of food items such as shrimp, buffalo wings, meatballs, and other such finger food for $5 each. Not too bad, we thought. That's when we found out that for $5, you get four meatballs, or four shrimp, or four wings. We ate a couple of plates between us, drank down some pints, and headed over to King Taco for more substantial food. Another bar (where they had Stone IPA on tap!), then some delicious frozen yogurt from a self-serve yogurt bar. This place was very interesting; you chose the size of dish you want, pour as much yogurt of varying flavors, then top with fresh fruit! Very tasty and in fact quite healthy. I imagine places like this will begin popping up in Portland within a year or two (behind LA as we usually are in these kinds of things).

Wednesday morning, I got up around 9am so I could navigate the interstate traffic down to Disneyland to meet up with my sister Kirsten and her daughter Natalie, as well as her friend Kari and her son Rowan, who just so happened to be vacationing at the same time I arrived in the area. Talk about good timing. Amazingly, the park wasn't all that busy (being after Labor Day, and the middle of the week); we never had to wait more than 5 or 10 minutes for even the busiest rides.

Contemplating my situation.

I spent the day with them wandering around the park, getting shown around Minnie Mouse's house by Natalie, and getting completely saturated on Splash Mountain. In reference to that last point, let me tell you, I think the ride seater was conspiring against Kirsten and myself, as he sat us in the front (myself in the very front), with a smaller child behind. We obviously weighed down the nose of the boat, so any and all declines caused the nose to dip lower than usual into the water, resulting in more pronounced waves invading the sides. I was soaked before we even went down the last drop. I thought about how best to shield my poor backpack (with camera inside) while plunging down the last free fall. Good thing it was a nice day (although I still didn't dry off before going to bed that night).

We parted ways in the evening and I headed back to North Hollywood to meet up with Laura and Meghan, another friend from Santa Cruz. I met them at Porto's, a delicious bakery restaurant and ate some leftover scraps of food they had ordered (well more than scraps really, but that's what it felt like; I had a good portion of a beef sandwich, two potato balls, and half of a cheese and jam filled danish thing). That night, the three of us went bowling at an amazingly hip and "indie" kind of bowling alley. With complete modesty, I can say that Moobs dominated. Okay, dominated is a bit of a strong word, and in fact quite incorrect. But we had fun.

Thursday rolled around, and set in motion events that would culminate in an amazing trip to a Korean karaoke establishment...

Beard status: getting quite full and fluffy. White hairs becoming more pronounced, though.
Total trip miles: 11652. Unbelievable.
Listening to recently:
Eye Alaska - Yellow & Elephant

Day 41: Daylightning

When last I posted I was setting off from Utah on an adventure that would bring me through the corners of Arizona and Nevada, into the barren wasteland that is south-eastern California.

After passing through the little bit of Arizona and back into my beloved Pacific Time Zone, I made my first stop of the day. It is here that I discovered two amazing things:

1. Red Bull Cola
2. Valley of Fire State Park

First, the cola. I've been more or less a fan of Red Bull since my early days of drumming; it (along with the sadly absent Surge) fueled many a long jam sessions with various friends over the years. I find the taste to be far superior to any imitators that have come after (I'm looking at you Rockstar), and its smaller can size much more manageable. Other than a sugar free version, Red Bull has up until now offered no other variations on its product line. To say the least, I was surprised to now see a cola alternative. My initial thoughts were tempered with memories of the rather vile Rockstar Cola, but my curiosity won out in the end and I purchased a can. I cracked it open, drank it down, and came to the conclusion that I couldn't form a decisive opinion one way or the other about it. It was deliciously Red Bull in flavor, with a nice kick of cola; and yet at the same time just as horrid in flavor as previous energy/cola offerings. Quite the contradiction in a can. Further tests are necessary.

Every park needs an arch.

Either way, I didn't let the Red Bull Cola uncertainty distract me from the second amazing thing I discovered in Nevada; Valley of Fire State Park. On a recommendation from my friend Devin Saez, a former resident of Las Vegas, I took a detour from the interstate to check out this park. The day was beginning to become a scorcher, and time was not something I had in abundance, so I regulated myself to simply driving through the park. Even so, I was able to experience much of the fantastic sights the park has to offer. The site of an ancient inland sea, plate movements have forced enormous amounts of jagged, fire-red rock formations through the surface. The visitor center offered an extremely informational time line explaining how exactly the valley was formed over millions of years, and the processes which caused the brilliant landscape.

One area of particularly amazing formations was the Painted Valley (or something to that effect). Here, different compositions of stone had been pressed together and exposed in such a way that contrasting colors come together, giving a kind of rainbow or painted effect. It was all quite stunning and very fun to drive through.

On my drive into the park, I had noticed a gathering storm off to the east over much of the Lake Mead area. It looked pretty nasty, even to the point of becoming a thunderstorm (as a side note, lightning during the daytime is fun to experience, albeit still a little unnerving when it gets closer). After a while in Valley of Fire, I realized that this storm was heading directly my way. Time to boogie, I thought, not really wanting to get caught up in a nasty storm. I stopped just outside the park to photograph the entrance sign, and was nearly blown over by the powerful winds preceding the storm. I felt sorry for the wedding party that was just beginning to arrive for their afternoon ceremony.

Once back on the highway, I discovered that while running away from one storm, I was heading straight into a second. It seemed the weather systems had conspired to surround me, opening up the sky and letting fly crazy thunderstorm rain right as I pulled into Las Vegas. The storm was pretty nuts, to say the least.

The deceptive beauty of Death.

After stopping to get food and get lost in the suburbs of Las Vegas, I continued on my way to Death Valley. I wasn't sure exactly where the campground I was to sleep at was located within the park, and really wanted to arrive around or right before sunset to ensure I could get a spot. It turns out Death Valley is a bit further from Las Vegas than I had initially suspected. After driving for a couple of hours, I finally crossed the border into California and began the ascent over the mountains bordering the valley on the south-eastern edge. While still on the eastern face, the sun began to set over the western range, the temperature outside a pleasant 85 or so. I crossed the summit and began to descend into the park. It was around this point that a series of facts, once connected, began to worry me.

1. All of the elevation gain for the last 20 miles or so had not been kind on my fuel efficiency.
2. My odometer I use for my current tank of gas was just below 300 miles (I usually average at or just below 400 when I fill up), and my fuel reading was quite a bit lower than I expected it to be.
3. I was enter Death Valley from the south. It is a large park, with the main village close to the center. Also, there aren't really many towns of appreciable size close by.
4. The temperature was rising. Quickly.

I went into extreme fuel saving mode. Despite the fact that the outside temperature was now over 100 degrees, I turned off my air conditioning. Now that I was descending the slopes of the mountains, potential energy became my friend; I put the car into neutral and used gravity to take me down to below sea level, performing what amounted to a controlled "free-fall".

Needless to say, it got hot in the car; every 15 minutes or so I would turn on the A/C for a few minutes to cool off. Due to these fuel saving measure, I was able to travel quite far into the park without affecting my level of fuel much at all. Around 100 feet below sea level, the road more or less leveled off. I was well into the park now, and losing light. No turning back...

This story to be continued (its time for karaoke).

Day 38: Into the Valley of Death

Lota-imitations

Fast Food Report
Blakes Lotaburger - I first thought this was just a local one-off, having the look of an old burger joint/drive in. However, when I started to see these cropping up all over the place in northern New Mexico, I began to become suspicious. The name, obviously, is very similar to my previously mentioned Whataburger, and unfortunately the food wasn't much better. Although score one for having such burger names as the "LOTA burger" and the "ITSA burger" (guess which one is bigger). As an aside, I also found a place called "Thatsaburger", although I didn't eat there. Interesting...

In-n-Out Burger - Known as the best for a reason. All fresh ingredients guarantee a delicious burger experience. A lack of frilly options means they do what they do, and do it very well (your choices are burger, cheeseburger, or double cheeseburger). Really not much has to be said about In-n-Out; if you haven't yet partaken in this pinnacle of fast food achievement, get yourself to a more enlightened state and treat yourself.


The last few days have consisted of a lot of driving, mostly. I left Santa Fe Saturday morning and began my journey north. My first destination was Four-Corners national monument. Unfortunately, there was no real direct way to get there from Santa Fe; I had to first drive nearly to the northern border, then west. In the end though, I'm glad I was forced to drive that route because the scenery of northwestern New Mexico is quite amazing. I suppose you can call it "high desert", although it is far from barren. Unfortunately, like a dope, I neglected to stop and take any pictures, and I'm having a hard time describing it. Just take my word for it.

As I got closer to Arizona, the landscape began to change into a more typical desert. Interesting but not quite as beautiful.

Exciting.

Four-Corners is an interesting place. I don't think I was expecting much, so I can't call it a let down. It sits on the Navajo Reservation, and has a selection of merchant booths around the monument selling jewelery, crafts, and souvenir t-shirts. The monument itself is a plaque in the ground marking the actual corner set in a concrete deck with the seal of each state in its respective section. There is an elevated deck where you can get a better view of the corner. The best part was the Navajo Frybread I ate while looking at the corner. Think elephant ear, with honey instead of the cinnamon-sugar mixture. Yum.

From that exciting adventure I drove northeast through the lower bit of Colorado. I had thought about stopping at the Canyons of the Ancients national park there, but my time was beginning to grow short if I was to make it to Arches before sunset, so I settled for simply driving by it. Unfortunately there wasn't much to see from the road.

I arrived in Moab, UT right around Sunset on Saturday. I had no idea, but this town just outside of Arches is quite the outdoor adventure town. It reminded me a bit of Whitefish, MT in its size and popularity with tourists. When I finally reached the entrance to Arches, I saw the following sign in the ranger station window:

Campground Full

Drat. Figures, though; I hadn't really thought about the fact that it was a Saturday. Driving back through town, I stopped at motel after motel only to find them all completely booked. Double drat. I talked to a man outside of one motel who told me that unless I wanted to pay $150 for a room (not unless I'm in Canada), I was probably out of luck. Nothing I can do about it then, I thought to myself, and decided to get some grub and drink at the Moab Brewery I had passed on the way in. The food was pretty good, the beer was nothing too special (at least the one I had). I bummed around the town for a bit, wasting time on the internet, reading, wandering the grocery store, until I felt tired enough to attempt the car-nap. I must say, I'm getting better at this sleeping in my car business. It's still not the best nights sleep, but it's more than adequate to get me through the next day.

I woke a little after the sun rose, ate a banana, and headed into Arches. Being early into the park had two major advantages:

1. Beat the heat
2. Beat the rush

The only named arch I wanted to ensure I saw was the famous Delicate Arch; everything else was just bonus. The trail leading to the arch is about 1.5 miles each way, and rises about 500 feet. It doesn't sound so bad, except that the altitude rise is almost all encompassed in one stretch of the trail that goes up an exposed rock face at a nasty angle. Add to that the fact that my calves were still recovering from Carlsbad, and you get one gnarly hike. Thankfully it wasn't over 80 degrees yet.

The famous delicate arch...just kidding, click for the real photo.

At the end of the trail, you round a corner carved out of a rock face with a rather steep drop off to your left, and there in front of you is Delicate Arch, set in a natural amphitheater area. The view is more than worth the hike to get to it. I sat around enjoying the view for a while, then walked around the arch itself before heading back down the trail.

The rest of the park was truly fantastic. There is a lot to see and explore, I spent more than an hour simply driving around and doing short hikes to other lesser known arches. As the day wore on, however, the crowds began to irritate me. I think a late fall return to the park could be well worth the trip; less heat, less crowds, and hopefully a camping spot.

I left Arches behind in the early afternoon, and began my long drive down to St. George, UT. Although quite lengthy, the drive was made interesting due to the landscape. The southeastern quarter of Utah has amazing views; canyons, mountains, jagged rock formations pushed at odd angles out of the earth. It's also mostly empty (there was a stretch on I-70 that had no services for over 100 miles). If I have to spend six of seven hours driving, I'll take that kind of a drive.

When it was time to head south, I took US-89 instead of I-15 for two reasons. First, I've been trying to conserve fuel so I don't usually drive faster than 65 or 70 (no need for the interstate speed limits of 75+); and second I-15 is pretty boring, having driven it on my last roadtrip with Scott. My plan was to head through Zion National Park, but not to actually stop in it this time. However, as I found out, it costs $25 just to drive through. Forget that, I thought. Unfortunately, the next passage between US-89 and I-15 was about 20 miles back the way I came.

I finally arrived in St. George around 8pm. I checked into my $26 motel (new record!) and realized I'd better do laundry so I don't offend my hosts in California. As you can probably guess, it was an exciting night.

Today, I'm off to Death Valley, via Las Vegas. I'm not anticipating a problem getting a campsite this time (being Monday, and the fact that there are over 100 sites at this particular campground), although it may be a bit on the warm side. I'd better pick up some water.

Reason for the short blog: I need to get on the road and put off writing this
Odometer reading: ~1000 (it rolled over after 9999).
Musings:
The Honorary Title - Anything Else But the Truth (pretty decent album, thanks Lynsey)
Pink Floyd - A Momentary Lapse of Reason and Wish You Were Here (the former being quite good, I'd never really listened to it before)
Coldplay - Parachutes and A Rush of Blood to the Head