Seedy Trains and Rice-Filled Plains

The rising sun of the Japanese flag flew proudly aboard the Su Zhou Hao ferry as we bid farewell to Osaka. We were at sea long enough for the sun to set and rise twice more before a leathery crewman clambered to the top of the bridge to lower the Japanese colors and hoist China’s bright red, yellow star-studded banner. Our landing in Asia proper was nigh. The individual “chugs” of the low rpm engine could be heard as the Su Zhou Hao slowly, but unrelentingly moved out of the swelling Pacific and into the mouth of the Huangpu River to Shanghai.

As we approached the dock an astonishing cityscape peaked through the smoggy haze. On the Huangpu’s Northern bank lies the Bund, a massive but carefully tended walking thoroughfare along the river. Cascades of pink petunias hung from every light post along the wide stone walkway. The Bund lies between the river and Shanghai’s old European quarter where merchants of colonial days have left telltale architectural fingerprints.

The newest and biggest skyscrapers are across the river, both they and their dancing reflections in the river are clearly visible from the Bund. In the past 30 years more skyscrapers have been built in Shanghai than New York City has ever built. The city’s crowning architectural gem is, as ought to be expected here, actually a pearl -the Pearl Tower. The tower is something like the Seattle Space Needle’s big brother. However instead of a saucer on top, the Pearl Tower has two enormous globes (pearls), one on top of the other, adorning its slender frame.

It was in Shanghai that Jeremy and I first encountered the baffling Mandarin language. So far this is what I’ve learned: The word for “horse,” ma, is also the world for “what” and “mother.” Subtle tonal differences allow the trained ear to distinguish between words. You would think context might help convey meaning when foreigners inevitably blunder. If you’re ordering a dish at the corner restaurant, “horse” could likely be found the menu, but “mother” would probably not be offered. The funny thing is how bad the Chinese are at cross-tonal guessing. If you don’t get the tone right it just doesn’t register.

It’s not fair for me to say they’re bad at it, it’s their language after all and for them there’s never a need to guess. Tones positively distinguish one word from another. It just that when you climb into a cab and ask to go to qingwa (a nearby university), it seems like the cab driver should be able to figure out that you want to go to the university and not to “frog” which is what you inadvertently said as a result of mismatched tones.

I memorized a few Chinese phrases that I hoped to use when ordering food, but when I tried to say them the confused expressions I received told me my tones were wrong. I had to revert to the Russian roulette method for ordering food -pointing to something on the pictureless menu and praying. Finally I struck upon a good idea. My IPod can record voice memos so I had a bilingual friend record a few Chinese sentences for me that I anticipate may come in handy. Now I have two sentences to play back in perfect Chinese: ”May I please have my noodles with eggs or tofu instead of meat?” and, “Hi, I am Barack Obama, President of the United States, nice to meet you.”

“Seedy.” That’s the best word I can think of to describe the railway passenger car Jeremy and I endured for 20 hours between Hangzhou (our first stop after Shanghai) and Guilin, where we arrived yesterday. I looked up the word seedy and sure enough they actually had a picture of our railway car right there in the dictionary. Further etymological research confirmed my suspicion as to the history of the word. Sunflower seeds are the snack of choice onboard Chinese railways (I think they help with boredom and motion sickness). People eat piles of these seeds on the train, and thus produce even bigger piles of saliva soaked husks. Very little effort is dedicated to helping the shells find their way to a garbage receptacle. The shells litter the benches and tables; shells on the floor stick to shoes, dirty diapers, and every manner of neglected garbage. So it was here in China that “seedy” came to be associated with general filth and degeneracy. Words are fun, huh?

I have developed what I think is a worthy criterion by which to judge the places I visit. It’s called the smile quotient. Chinese people are quick with smiles (even on seedy train rides) and have earned a high smile quotient. Japan is ahead of China when it comes to automobile manufacturing. So the “miles per hour” award goes to Japan, but China is the clear leader when it comes to “smiles per hour.”

Flags

Bjorn’s Blog

Flags

“You going see many flags.” The hostel manager explained to us over the phone in her broken English. Great, it should be easy to find then right? I quickly became frustrated with the directions, it was my understanding that these flags, which allegedly adorned Tokyo’s JGH hostel, would pop into view and guide our weary souls to the beds and showers we badly wanted. Even after retracing our steps we’d spotted no such flags. When we finally stumbled upon the doorstep I was ready to share a piece of my mind with the manager, but I realized the description of the flags had been correct. She must have meant “mini flags” not “many flags.” Had we been more attentive we easily could have spotted the flags from the road with an average pair of binoculars.

Tokyo, the big city of little flags, is not my favorite place. It’s a massive conurbation of cities (I think it’s the biggest metropolis in the world). Aside from a few parks there’s nothing like countryside for a long way in any direction. We did find hospitality. We were very lucky to be given a tour, and treated splendidly, by one of my dad’s classmates. Certainly Tokyo has a rich history and unique sights, but I’m finding it to be a sad place.

The desire for material wealth and career success seems to have a strong hold on the Japanese psyche. The job market in Tokyo is uber-competitive. Professionals and students struggle under colossal workloads and massive amounts of stress. The speedy Subway trains are frequently delayed by people looking for a way out. Jumping in front of the train is the preferred method of suicide.

As I travel I’m always looking for cultural elements that have value; I like to live eclectically, so I’m always looking for ideas that are worth borrowing. Latin siestas, sauna bathing like the fins, and the bidet method for post-fecal cleansing (our smear method is quite primitive when you think about it) are examples habits I think are worth adopting. Now I’m in Japan, trying to figure out what these folks do right. The public baths and simple floor plans of years gone by seem beautiful to me. But sadly the current state of affairs leaves little room for human interaction. Ear buds and smart phones serve as the only companions for hoards of lonely strangers on commuter trains during short trips home between long work days. Hopefully escaping Tokyo will revitalize my outlook on the country as a whole. We’re taking a bus to Osaka tonight.

Our flight to Japan included a 15 hour layover in Seoul, Korea. Even though we arrived in Seoul in the evening, we had an eventful, if short, Korean foray. You could call us “lucky scuzzes.” (Turner, Jessi)….(MLA way of giving literary credit where it’s due). As it turns out the night of October 9 is Seoul’s annual fireworks festival. The city was charged; millions lined bridges and streets, jostling for a better vantage point from which to see the shimmering display.

After the show we caught the tail end of a bustling evening in Namdaemon market. The market is the place to get right into the think of the culture, and to expose your palate to local flavor. Unfortunately for me, Korean food is my least favorite of the Asian collection; however the friendliness with which it was served makes up for what I think is a major lack of deliciousness. We ate in a tiny restaurant and watched a Korean soap opera with the three other patrons. I’m sure the consternation on my face, as I muscled down pickled vegetables, rivaled that of the unlucky lady on the TV screen who’d been betrayed

A kind, enthusiastic, slightly chubby 19 year old named Kim Taehyung was our volunteer guide on the way back to the airport. We were in trouble, unable to read the transit schedule in Korean and also unable to understand Kim’s well intended advice which came in the form of an epic Korean monologue. Jeremy finally managed to convey our urgency; our plane was leaving first thing in the morning, and the transit system was about to shut down for the night. Kim decided he better just go with us. We didn’t make it all the way to the airport before the transit system closed, but Kim made some phone calls and had us stay at a Jim Jil Bong (Incredible sauna/spa that has a sleeping area and makes a great place to spend the night). Kim insisted on paying for our night at the spa and wrote down our travel needs (in Korean) so that we could hand the instructions to a cab driver in the morning.

Nudity is mandatory at Jim Jil Bongs. There are separate areas for men and women. A troop of boys (8-14) years or so joined us in a steamy tub and gigglingly practiced their English on us. We were having too much fun to sleep. I finally laid down in the sleeping room on a small matt, but when I got up to pee somebody stole my matt. I ended up sleeping for a couple short hours on the wood floor with a stack of books for a pillow; eventually I opted to skip sleeping and headed back into the sauna.

So that’s how it’s been. Three more days in Japan and we’ll be ferrying to mainland Asia. There are ferries from here many Asian ports, including Vladivostok, Russia which is the city through which we originally planned to enter Asia. Since we’ll inevitably visit Russia in two months or so, catching the trans-Siberian railroad, we’re thinking of heading to Shanghai and seeing South East Asia now rather than starting in Russia only to retrace our steps.

Straits: Financial and Bering

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I’m in Sitka Alaska, the Russian capital of the Americas until the U.S. purchased Alaska (19 cents per acre) in 1867. 150 years ago there was regular ship traffic hauling payloads of otter pelts between here and Russia. At that time it was, of course, impossible to cross the Bering sea by plane, these days it’s quite a trick to cross without a flying.

Ten days of “shaking the bushes” up and down the Alaskan coastline, and we are well oriented with the challenges of floating to the Orient. It’s like this: After 9/11 cargo ships have very stringent security mandates and only a handful of freighters in the world are licensed to carry passengers, exactly zero of these visit Alaskan ports. Occasionally cruise companies run trips from Alaska to Japan, but these are prohibitively costly, and long gone by late September.

I made my best effort to leave no stone unturned (no number uncalled), but every time the search would slam to a stop against someone’s utterance of the word “impossible.” Nearly at my wit’s end I finally caught word of a fishing company out of Dutch Harbor (the port from the show “Deadliest Catch”) that dry docks a couple of boats in Yokohama, Japan after the Aleutian Cod season. I managed to reach them by phone and was elated when the crew manager enthusiastically suggested we hire on for the trip across Pacific.

The Cod season lasts through October, so those boats will cross in early November. The thought of waiting for more than a month is a bleak one, especially as the first snows are falling. The year’s last ferry to Dutch Harbor from mainland Alaska (a four day chug) leaves right away, so waiting in Anchorage (land of friends and warm coffee shops with internet) is not a possibility.

I was busy getting my courage up for a bone-chilling, lonely, expensive month in Dutch Harbor (wondering if we’d be able to find work on a fishing boat in the mean time) when the crew manager emailed me. They were already overstaffed so the owner regretfully said he wouldn’t be able to hire us. They, like freighters, are not insured to take passengers, so our invitation was withdrawn. This was our last good lead. Upon receiving the news we surrendered and decided to fly. The relief to not be spending a grim October in Dutch Harbor took the edge off of the disappointment of having to fly.

I reckon what we wanted to do could be done. But especially this late in the year it’s no longer worth the time or money to us. However, we were close, both figuratively and geographically: We visited Sarah Palin’s home in Wasilla and were able to catch a glimpse of the Kremlin from the veranda. Haha, I mean that kindly though. If anyone is sympathetic with her for that statement it’s me. Alaska and Russia are dang close. We drove the Sunbeam to Denali Park’s Wonder Lake, where we were only about 600 miles from Russia. Private vehicles aren’t allowed in Denali; that’s another good story.

Visitors to Denali are prohibited to drive their own cars into the park, they must climb aboard clamoring Park Service buses and take in the sights through little glass rectangles. We unwittingly arrived at Denali’s gate too late in the season for tourist buses. The tourist season had already ended. They told us we were out of luck, but they also told us about the Denali CarPass Raffle. For a few short days the whole park was open to winners of that raffle. All we needed was to win a raffle that had taken place months earlier.

Evie (the dreaded girl from the last blog ) was still with us in Denali. Back in Seattle, when she had joined us, I remember wondering if her arts and craft kit (markers, giant drawing pad, and even ceramics for us to paint) was really a necessary item considering there were three of us (two of us quite tall) traveling in one compact car in which we planned to sleep. I remember expressing my concern as I was wedging myself into the driver’s seat while simultaneously performing a churning act with my legs in an attempt to unearth the accelerator so we could go. Evie is too sweet to discriminate against any of her belongings, so she brought all of them, but this time it payed off. The craft kit included everything we needed to get our raffle pass. We began sign production.

The signs were to ask for people’s raffle passes as they were exiting the park. “What rhymes with “pass?” we asked ourselves, trying to come up with clever lines for our ad. We tried hard to think of how donkeys were relevant to Denali park, but in the end we went with a great line Jeremy thought of. “We’re low class, give us your pass!” And it worked. We gained full access to the park and had a great day among the moose and grizzles in the shadow of North America’s grandest peak, Denali (20,320 ft).

From Denali we headed to Anchorage, the last leg of the trip for both Evie and the Sunbeam. We pulled into Anchorage thanking God that our little $800 car had been such warrior. Jeremy listed the car for sale on Craiglist.

Jeremy, a horse trader at heart, had seen online (back in California) that cars sell for a lot more in Alaska than they do in California. This was part of our reasoning for buying the car, we hoped to offset some of our costs by profiting on its sale. We sold the car (on the way to church, incidentally….our ass was in a ditch) for twice what we payed for it. The profit from the car covered, nearly exactly, the cost of the gas we burned between Los Angeles and Anchorage. We actually underestimated what the car would be worth up here. Jeremy hasn’t had time to remove the Craiglist ad so he’s still getting calls everyday. The girl we sold it to offered us more than we were asking and flipped out with glee when we finally made the exchange.

We are over budget for the trip, but between Jeremy’s horsetrading skills, the generosity of friends, family, and our “store” visitors, we’re still crossing our financial straits (all but the Bering). Church members have been forthcoming with meals, beds, and cheerful smiles. Two Alaskan brothers, who we met on the way through Columbia, gave us a free ride from Anchorage to Haines (where I, of course, changed my underwear). Some kind folks payed for our auto insurance, and more recently a very gracious couple bought us ferry tickets all the way from Alaska to Washington (all the flights to Asia go through Seattle anyway, so flying from Seattle is cheaper and means we’ll only fly once).

We’re sitting on the ferry now, a few hours south of Juneau. We just saw a pod of humpbacks, one narrowly escaped being struck by the ferry. Some Dall porpoises are chasing us. I love it!

Long But Worth It…Kinda Like This Trip

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A duo drove into Seattle, but a trio left. Evie Barnes of Boulder Colorado, a friend of friends from Southern, has joined us for the drive up to Alaska. Evie has dreadlocks and a long list of food allergies. One way she gets protein is by drinking chia seeds with her water (you remember “cha cha cha chia…the seeds that so easily sprout into thick green grass). I’ve petitioned Evie several times to plant the seeds in her dreads, thus achieving a truly unique style. Evie is closed minded when it comes to my ideas.

It takes only three hours to drive from Seattle to Vancouver, B.C., so we made it to Vancouver in time to spend the evening in Gastown. Gastown is the historic and touristy part of Vancouver. Gas lights illuminate the narrow cobblestone streets. At the heart of Gastown a giant steam powered clock billows and ticks the hours away.

I’ve always felt indebted to the people of Vancouver. Once I snuck into a spinning restaurant atop a skyscraper a few blocks from Gastown. I wanted to see the panoramic view without paying $15 dollars to visit the tower’s observation deck. A dapper young man introduced himself in the elevator. Jason was a dump truck driver by day, and philanthropist of his family’s fortune by night. He had three underprivileged Chinese boys with him (Big Brother program) and he invited me to join their dinner party. The boys had trouble pronouncing and understanding the fancy names on the menu (so did I to be honest). Questions arose about many dishes, and Jason would graciously describe each dish, but he also ordered ever single dish in question (at $30-50 a plate) so that we wouldn’t have to take his word for it. He treated us like kings, and as I revisited Vancouver I was eager to return the favor. I found Mike, a hungry heroin addict. We went grocery shopping. Maybe Mike will blog about it someday.

From Vancouver we went up to Squamish to spend a couple of days climbing B.C.’s world class granite. In Squamish the Taco Bell is expensive, but the rock is incredible! We saw one of the hardest routes in the world, Chris Sharma’s “Dream Catcher” (5.14d, it’s only been climbed twice). The rain held off long enough for us to soundly abuse our underused climbing muscles. On the afternoon of our second climbing day we headed North and East to Kamloops.

It’s a bit of a thrill to call people you’ve never met and ask if you can stay at their house. There is potential for awkwardness, but there’s also the potential to encounter greatness. I’m so happy we didn’t pass Kamloops without calling Andy and Inge Anderson. We went to church with them, feasted on all manner of goodness from their garden, and listened to yarns of a couple who, as we do too, live life as a great adventure. It must be the garden food that gives Andy, at 70, a fire in his eye and indefatigable story telling energy.
The Andersons took us for a hike along the Adams river where we watched the Sockeye Salmon spawn. At the confluence of the Adams and a brisk mountain tributary Andy stopped us and pointed to a Sockeye in the midst of making a decision. The fish sampled the two currents, deliberated for a spell, then took off decidedly in the direction from which he had come four years ago and from which his ancestors have come for millenia.

Andy, the old story teller, marched with a large cedar walking stick straight up hills, over logs, and through thick undergrowth. His stride never faltered, nor did his stories. He told of a time he’d gone to the Ukraine to build a facility for the Adventist church. He drove across the border in a “peppy little Volkswagen” and told customs officials the truth: that he was carrying $100,000 in cash.

Not surprisingly, Andy wasn’t far from the border when he noticed a dark car was tailing him. After stopping for gas and groceries the dark car reappeared and confirmed the intent of its occupants to corner Andy and steal his payload. Andy had some church ladies in the car with him, and didn’t want to alarm them, so he mentioned he’d like to see what the little car could do and took the thrilled ladies on a joy ride through the mountains. Once he’d gained a sufficient lead over his pursuers (out of their line of sight) it occurred to him that the women might enjoy stopping to watch the sunset. He dipped off down a little dirt road, and led the Dorcas crew on an evening stroll. Once night had fallen they regained the road miles away from their befuddled pursuers. The ladies never knew.

Andy and Inge’s stories were better than ours, I suppose that comes with maturity. No doubt we bored them with our pitiable attempts at orating. Andy’s ears did perk up though when Jeremy mentioned the mountains we saw in South America. Andy wants to visit those mountains since they’re his.

We salied forth from Kamloops two days ago, our northward drive serving to expedite autumn’s onslaught. Although the spruce maintain their color all year, the aspen leaves are already bright yellow. It’s chilly at night and the taller peaks are already receiving their fist dustings of snow. Yesterday we saw three bears. I accidentally hit and killed a ptarmigan with the car. I’m carrying it along in case I get fired up to gut and cook it, but to be honest my motivation for that has waned markedly post rigormortis.

Yesterday we stopped by the Alger river to munch on the primitive contents of our grub box. The scene was picturesque so I got out my camera bag (an old leather fanny pack that I wear like a shoulder holster) to take some pictures. A few miles down the road, after eating, I again saw a landscape worth photographing. The problem was my camera bag (in which I also keep my wallet and ipod) was nowhere to be found. I realized right away that I had left it on the roof of the car. A quick glance at the roof confirmed the sickening truth that my bag, my luggage’s analogue for the Sanctuary’s Most Holy Place (thieves don’t read this do they?), was no longer with us. We went back. The bag was laying in the middle of the oncoming lane at the first major turn North of our lunch spot, it had slid from the roof of the car at roughly 60mph. Luckily there’s very little traffic here (no cars had passed) so the bag hadn’t been run over, but my heart was in my throat knowing that a crash to the asphalt at 60mph had probably left me with a useless bag full of Canon and Apple shards. I was praying pretty hard and God really blessed. Everything works fine, and now that I have my I.D. back I’ll be able to leave Canada and enter Alaska (remember our passports are still in Seattle at the Russian consulate).

We’re about 30 minutes from Whitehorse, Yukon. Evie is driving and Jeremy and I are typing in anticipation of a good upload session in Whitehorse. Tonight we will camp on the marge of Lake LaBarge. Last night the northern lights were flickering and I hope they do it again tonight. We’re going to build a fire and read “The Cremation of Sam McGee” a poem set on the marge of Lake LaBarge. We just passed another bear! This is fun.

-bjorn2bwild

Live Love Loiter

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I’m staying at my buddy Matt’s house right now. Of my good friends, he’s the one I’ve known longest. Matt, an opportunist if ever there was one, couldn’t help himself one day in our seventh grade Social Studies class. He had been laboriously extracting an enormous booger from deep within his sinuses. Finally it broke free, but before propelling it across the room with a mighty flick (Matt was renowned for mighty flicks), he elbowed me and held his finger out so I could admire his treasure in all of its splendor. My jaw dropped wide open at the sight of such a monumental specimen. I find it difficult to say what happened next but If you recall that Matt is an opportunist, and renowned for mighty flicks, and that my mouth was hanging wide open, you’ll figure it out. Our relationship was a bit rocky there for a bit, but I finally found it in my heart to forgive him. Now I’m at his house in Seattle. If he were here I’d make him breakfast in bed as a sign of the everlasting covenant of peace between us. He’d love my toe-jam omelets; I season them with the perfect amount of dandruff. Anyway that punk ran off to Florida to visit family. Something about prior plans. Hogwash.

Jeremy flew home for the weekend for his family’s reunion and the celebration of his grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary. So I’m loitering in Seattle, a bit lonely but far from sleepless. I’ve been trying to use my time wisely: gearing up for cold weather in Alaska, beginning work on what I hope will one day develop into a book, and researching ways to get across the giant pond you’ve seen in the upper left hand corner of your map.

Last time I wrote from the rugged coastline of Southern Oregon. Lots has happened since then, let me fill you in. A week ago Friday we continued our drive up the coast. We passed the sea lion caves (you may confidently use your powers of deduction to figure out what we saw there), and a handful of quaint harbor towns before reaching Lincoln City. I took the wheel in Lincoln City and soon thereafter applied sufficient clockwise torque to alter our course inland towards Portland.

Between the coast and Portland we stopped only twice: once for a $3.99 lunch special at a Chinese place, and a second time to buy some tires from some friendly Turkish guys who convinced us we were getting a bargain. They did sweeten the deal by putting us in touch with their cousin who sails the Mediterranean. I left them half a quart of black berries I had picked the previous evening, partly out of good will, and partly hoping they’d go ahead and put in a good word for us with the Mediterranean cousin.

Portland required our attention for three reasons: One reason was male, but the other two were female (I hope my use of the past tense hasn’t confused anyone, the three “reasons” intend to maintain their respective genders indefinitely). Bryan and I worked together at Camp Wawona in Yosemite. We arrived at his house a bit late for the 13 mile hike he had planned, but we grabbed lights and decided to do it anyway. Hiking fast we could theoretically finish before midnight, but it’s impossible to hike fast when three different species of wild berries team up to distract you. We managed to summit Silver Star mountain just in time to watch the sun set. The glowing panorama included views of four of the Northwest’s most famous peaks: Hood, Adams, St. Helens, and Rainier (I named the last batch of pictures prior to learning how to spell “Rainier”). Normally it would be impossible to see that many peaks, and often none would be seen, but we were blessed with especially clear weather.

On the return hike Jeremy walked fast and got ahead, but retreated briskly and explained he thought we should walk together since he had just seen a bear cub. I was impressed with his calm demeanor since he had likely been very close to the cubs protective mother. Bryan and I still awarded Jeremy partial bravery points when his bear turned out to be a porcupine.

The two other reasons for going to Portland go by Lauren and Bonnie. Friday night had been an adventure in the mountains, but Saturday night was a social adventure. Several months had passed since friends at college had mentioned there was a cute girl named Lauren living in Portland. They had given me her number so I decided to call and ask for a date. It’s rough to get your courage up to call someone, and then get their voicemail instead of them. I wanted to talk to her in person. It was something like committing to bungee jumping, but at a surprise moment. “Ready Bjorn?”… ” Yeah, I think so.”… “Nevermind not yet.”… “dang it.” After several rounds of this my nerves were fully bewildered. Just about the time I started expecting to get her voicemail, she answered.

Lauren seemed pretty sceptical, but said if she could bring a friend (of course this was fine with Jeremy) we could go to the John Mayer concert. The concert was near George, Washington (they would name their town that) at an outdoor venue called the Gorge Amphitheater. Matt brought a group of friends from Seattle so we met them there. Our seats were a very long way from the stage, but my date was quite resourceful. She brought along a pair of binoculars. John Mayer himself was still kinda hard to make out with the binoculars, but if you used them to look at the jumbo-tron screen you could get a pretty good idea of what was going on. It can be hard to chat at a concert, but it was easy for us, we were far enough away it was almost like not even being at a concert. All the fun none of the hassle! I can’t speak for everyone, but I had a great time.

After the concert we said goodbye to the girls. They had driven their own car in order to avoid aligning their fates with people like us. They headed for a hotel and we followed Matt a few miles to a climbing area where we laid down to sleep in the dirt. As I gazed up at the night sky one of the brightest shooting stars I’ve ever seen burst into view. Matt didn’t see it but I told him about it and he suggested, since he’s been looking for employment, that I use my wish to get him a job. I’m not superstitious so this seemed silly, but just in case there was something to it I went ahead and wished aloud, “I wish there to be a Subway at the exit where we get back on the main road tomorrow.”

In the morning we climbed some picturesque volcanic rock before loading up to head for Seattle. We were starving by the time we got out to the main road. There was only one restaurant at that exit: a Subway. I had a footlong…. It was soooooo good.

-Bjorn2BWild

A Sunbeam

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If we see a swimming hole, we swim. A taco stand, we eat. And if we pass a Saab with 97 surfboards on its roof, we go back to get a picture. These are the luxuries of traveling by car.
After logging over 300 hours on buses, incarcerated in rolling prisons, the freedom of the car is positively glorious. So far the Sunbeam has carried us the vertical length of California. She’s gotten as low as 28mpg in the mountains, but during the most recent stretch she carried us 32 miles for every gallon she sipped. She takes her time accelerating, but hums like a top at 80mph. Her elegant lines are constantly catching eyes, the eyes of State Troopers notwithstanding. The cop told me he stopped me for doing 15 over in the city limits, but I’ve had a pretty girl on my arm before, I know what he wanted.
The Northern Californian coastline is wild and beautiful. Sheer cliffs and jagged outcroppings rise from pounding breakers into lush pine forest. A narrow strip of asphalt a few miles inland is aptly named Avenue of the Giants. Colossal trees, Sequoia Sempervirens, dwarf even the preconceived trees I’ve been harboring in my imagination.
The Avenue meanders alongside the gravel-bottomed Eel river through a series of Redwood groves. For a West Tennessee boy, who is used to being up to his needs in Hatchey Bottom mud, swimming in the Eel river with the Giants for lifeguards, was pretty Narni-esque. The water was clear like crystal and surprisingly warm. My imagination took me to a house built into a hollow Redwood like a giant staircase. A river gently caressed the gravel bar . In that place I could swim to work. That’s my kind of commute! Exercise and bath to boot!
Things continue to go well, and unless the misfortune besets, we should be up to Alaska in a couple of weeks. Looming ominously, like the clouds I see billowing in from the Pacific, is our trips biggest hurdle…the crossing of that same ocean. We are pouring over forums, maps, and websites and calling all manner of people who might have a valuable bit of info. Next week we will be in Seattle, and I think that’s a place where we can learn a lot about shipping in the north seas.
It’s tricky to get papers for Russia. Their thinking doesn’t very well accommodate our spontaneity. Besides the fact that we don’t know if there are ships from Alaska to Russia, we will need invitation letters, and a specific detailed itinerary if we hope to meet welcoming arms. We would much prefer to meet this type of arms than the alternative, side arms.
I’m still hopeful that, with a bit of wit and persistence, we can find a way to cross directly from Alaska to Russia. I’ll be disappointed if we have to compromise. I recently compromised and cut off my mullet for my medical school interview. Although I recognize the value of compromise, I’d rather compromise on haircuts and restaurant choices than the Alaska/Russia jaunt.

The Gradient

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I attended a boarding academy about three hours away from home. Once a month I’d drive home to visit my folks. One landmark that helped me gauge my homeward progress was the Tennessee River. Especially on particularly monotonous trips I would make it my goal to reach the river, thereby deriving a feeling of progress when I did. On one particular trip I remember puzzling over whether or not I had already crossed the river. When I finally realized I had indeed crossed the river twenty miles before, I scolded myself for letting the river pass by unnoticed. I’m certain that neither Lewis nor Livingston crossed any half mile wide rivers without realizing they had done so. I felt embarrassed that, in my cruise-control induced stupor, I was oblivious to the things that lay along my path. That instance made me realize how easy it is to go places without experiencing things along the way.

Getting beamed around the planet in a jet liner allows you to taste a world different than your own. The problem is there are hundreds of rivers that you’ll soar over unaware. Somehow you’ve got to find a way to travel overland.

I’ve watched culture after culture fade away, each yielding to its northern neighbor. Argentina and the U.S. are vastly different places. No ten kilometer segment of our route would demonstrate much of a difference, but little changes add up. I find it extremely gratifying to have experienced the subtle differences, the gradient I suppose, by which one place becomes another.

Something I find markedly less gratifying is the job I’ve done documenting the trip thus far. Generally I’m either too tired or having too much fun to write. I go so long in between blogs that I can’t possibly write all that should be written without compiling a blog Britannica. So, in the oxymoronic spirit of exhaustive brevity, I’m resorting to a bulleted list to cover some recent notables:

-Volunteered for a week at Camp Wawona in Yosemite –Taught Climbing, helped build a barn, lifeguarded, washed dishes, and had a good ‘ole time with people I love.

-Spent four days in Palm Springs and got my first massage. Incredible! Thanks Wilhites!

-Chopped off my mullet for my medical school interview….oh yeah, I applied to med school btw.

-Discovered a Mexican restaurant that makes tortillas from scratch! Life will never be the same.

-Surfed in 60 degree water sans wetsuit. BURRR!!!

-Bought a 1987 Toyota Camry station Wagon ($800) to drive to Alaska. Think she’ll make it?

-Enjoyed natural hot springs near Mammoth CA. Definitely something the hippies got right.

-Went rock climbing in the high Sierras. Breathtaking! Literally, there’s no air up there.

-Traded my 65 liter backpack for a 36 liter pack. Less is more right?

-Rode dirt bikes in the Sierra National Forest. Got my adrenaline fix. Thanks Jerrod and Anthony!

-Did my first solo overnight trek into the wilderness. Solitude.

You can see I’ve been busy having a good time. Jeremy and I have been able to do a lot of things that would have been impossible without the resources of generous friends. To those friends and others, THANK YOU and don’t forget to take full advantage of my couch/shower/fridge when you become a wayfarer. I hope I get the opportunity to treat you as well as I have been treated.