Itchy Feet

Not the the locker room shower variety, just the wanderlust. It happens like this, you wake up one morning and the whole day is just like the one before. In fact, you can't remember when it was any different. Your thoughts spin about like a saucer sled swooping rudderless downhill. You've got to get out there, make a change, explore. The longer this builds the more expansive the exploration must be until you've planned an 11,000-mile, cross-country road trip. Camping here, casinos there, cousins yonder.

If you're a long-time Yak reader, you remember the series from a few years ago. Well, this summer's version starts off much the same. In fact, I've already completed the NorCal portion of the show and am about to enter Death Valley. This time I went through Yosemite instead of Sequoia/Kings Canyon. Here's a little taste of the difference.

Half Dome at dawn

Check out @boredyak on Twitter for quick thoughts and pics and facebook.com/boredyak for the larger photo capacity. Oh yeah, Instagram. I got that, too.  This site will get some long-form lovin' when I have access to my computer and a full keyboard. Drop your travel suggestions in the comments. I'm open to suggestion. Just keep it west of Charlotte, NC.

Now for today's trip: Manzanar Historic Site, Death Valley, Las Vegas.

A Snowboarder On the Road

Jet planes are like time travel. Still, I was the last to arrive. A combination of my love for the demo and Utah's lack of measurable snow had my flight touching down in the late AM hours on Monday. Of course that meant that Snowbird got dumped on to the tune of a foot plus. Closed the canyon to anything but 4WD or chains. My ride had neither. An hour wait at the bus stop had me jonesin' (is that a thing people say anymore?). I finally got to the 'bird after noon and met the rest of my crew stopping for lunch. Not me. I'll see you at the lifts. Knee-high fluff on groomers, much deeper drifts. Ben tackled one up to his shoulder. He's 6'2". That deep. And me with only half the day to scrounge for leftovers. After the rest of the group wore out, Ben and I headed back to the Tram. Who should we run into for the eight-minute ride up but my old friend Benny. Sometimes it's just easier than texting. Two laps later and the Tram was closed along with the rest of the mountain. Benny provided guidance and hope for the next ten years of my life. That's how much older he is than I. He still rides harder than anyone at any age I know. Helps to have that Tram in your back yard.

Benny's actual back yard

Speaking of back yards, Benny lives in Aubrey and Josh's back yard, so when the crew crammed their castle, I crashed with Benny. Late-night crab legs and Peddie Files. His lady works at some high-end restaurant and brought home the snacks to refuel the shred legs. We didn't even get to the chicken parm.

Sunny PowMow smoke break

Next morning was a later start. Powder Mountain was the objective with Grand Targhee on the docket for that night. The road trip was taking shape. Bright sun greeted us at PowMow along with an icy wind. The pow started off dry but softened up as the day progressed. Laps through Powder Country. Bus transfer. Then, disaster. Shanna dropped into the line first. A hundred yards, then out of sight into the aspens. Ben turned on his Go Pro to catch all the action. Cassi, Aubrey and Kyle each took their own line before I dropped, fully mobbing. A few trees into the glade came a sight I'll never forget. Shanna, face down, twisted around five trees. Is she joking? Is she... dead? My thoughts were racing. I called out several times before reaching her. She did not respond. As I got to her I heard her panicked breathing. Any breathing is good breathing. Then, she lifted her head and arm. With that, Ben disappeared for the road and ski patrol.

The next half hour was the longest of my life. Shanna wasn't bleeding and she didn't show any signs of broken bones. Her helmet was cracked for six inches with wood embedded in holes on the other side. Her memory was spotty. She asked the same three questions every two minutes. What happened? What did I do wrong? Do I have all my teeth? Occasionally she'd ask about her board. She forgot who Ben was but knew her name and the names of those around her. After a few minutes, I decided to climb up hill and test cell phone service. I was able to get through to 911 and instruct them to my whereabouts. I don't know if Ben got to ski patrol first, but eventually they appeared atop the ridge. They made their way to me and then down to Shanna. To cut this story short, Shanna got a toboggan ride to the road followed by an ambulance ride back to Ogden. She was treated and released with a moderate concussion. She regained most of her memory, but still has a few hours missing. The GoPro footage filled in a little of that. Without her helmet, well, the scene would have been entirely different and grotesquely worse. Pain killers and no more riding for at least 10 days. Shanna's riding this trip was over. Without a helmet, her life may have been over. Maybe I'll put that GoPro footage up sometime.

Aspen-induced helmet break

That didn't stop us from putting rubber to road with Driggs, Idaho on our minds. Shanna finally got the nap she needed. A palatial rental cabin with Teton views and hot tub was just what everyone needed. We took the next day off as Grand Targhee hadn't gotten fresh snow and was alternating from 20s overnight to 40s during the day. A little day-drinking, a little tubbing, some napping and kingly eating pressed the 'reset' button. Shanna remained drowsy and dizzy. That didn't stop her from checking out the Tetons when they finally popped. With a little lift from a friend.

Drunks shouldn't give the concussed piggy-back rides.

Targhee was gaper day. Ben rocks the same one-piece that Renee Renee wore in the DC Mountain Lab movie. Highlighter yellow. Plus a fanny pack, three bandanas and a gold-painted helmet. Good looks. He lent me a pink bandana for some flair. Transitional spring riding. Hard and fast in the morning, soft and slow by 2. Beers and nacho fries. Summary:

Gaper crew

The last stop was Montana. At least the sunny warm days made for easy driving and great scenery. No unscheduled stops for deer or bison on the roadway. Just mountains, sky, trees and that big sky.

The snow at Big Sky Resort was the same roll of the dice as Targhee. For a couple hours the snow was just right to rip. Before that, death's glaze; afterward, quicksand. Cold Smoke beers, Yeti Dogs, back to the condo for hot tubbing, then Thai food and the first birthday of the trip.

Lone Mountain, home of Big Sky and Moonlight Basin

Moonlight Basin replay the next day. Plus some views of the Freeskiing World Tour qualifier. Bombing, hucking, spinning, cheering. Clueless announcers, sunbathing cougars. Everyone loves backflips. Then straight to the Broken Heart smoke shack. I can't tell you where it is, but it was the best view I've ever had whilst taking a leak. That was the ender-ender. No more injuries. Chocolate cake for the second burfday. Cholula does not make cake taste better. Lemonade Mike and Ikes make everything better. Never did get that Graham Slam ice cream. Always a reason to go back. That and the peak tram at Big Sky.

Suave on the road

Long trip back to SLC. Utah is not a lotto state. Idaho is. Border village looked like the carnival was in town so many people at the gas station buying tickets. Little person biker sighted. Wind howling like Ozzy circa 1983. Terrain looking like North Dakota plus volcanic substrate. Giant lake plus salt. Giant air vehicles once brought us together, now bring us home. 

Dirksen Derby: Survival

What it's all about

The Derby is demolished. The courses took 10 guys six days to build and brought over 300 riders to town to rip it up over three days. Why? Tyler Eklund, that's why. In 2007 he broke his spine practicing at USASA Nationals and is now paralyzed from the neck down. This year the Derby raised over $18,000 for him. The stoke he gets from it is immeasurable. He even takes runs down the courses with the help of Oregon Adaptive Sports. I'd imagine it's a weekend he looks forward to all year.

Parrilla, chowdering the masses

Terje and Dirks with super-secret tech

This year the Dirksen Derby was bigger than ever. More riders, more money and more buzz. Terje made the trip, but the deafening roar at the top of the venue was the chant for Curtis Ciszek. Haakon missed the mens' podium by a scant .04 seconds to speed racer Dustin Anderson who took the bronze glove. Bellinghamster Blair Habenicht had something, breaking the beam in second, but Norway was not to be denied as Knut Eliassen Nitro-boosted his way to the top. These top three will now compete in the Derby Elite division whenever they return. Speaking of the Elites, Curtis was getting so much noise because he was the defending champion. Scotty Wittlake and Austin Smith put down Ridgemont High-style fast times, but Curtis wasn't flinching. Repeat champ, fastest time of the day, bragging rights for another year. For all the complete results check out mtbachelor.com. Also, quality video on Yobeat and ESPN.

Austin Smith and Bryan Fox trying to catch Curtis

Knut, "This has been the coolest event I've ever been to."

If you're looking for my name, go ahead and skip to the bottom. I didn't belong in the finals (sneaked in on a timing error) and I went out and proved that. My run on the red line was as slow as possible without falling and then I fell twice trying to make up for it on the green line. You're welcome, Donny. You weren't last. The courses were super-tight, but also fun as hell, like Baker's squirrely little brother.

For the record, Jake Blauvelt qualified on a timing error, too.

If only we could get something like that together on Hood to benefit Snowdays. Did I mention they raised over $18,000 for Tyler? How rad is that!?

None more rad

As for the rest of Bachelor, they've got a hell of a mountain open right now. Yeah, there are some 'unmarked obstacles' (rocks and treetops, like those seen in the middle of the Derby courses), but they also have legit parks. We're talkin' real jump lines, not just rails, but some nice 40 to 50-foot booters in there. Also, they're only two lifts from being 100% firing. No Summit, no Northwest. Outback is a go for all your dingo- and kangaroo-chasing pleasures. For what it's worth, Saturday was 10-times busier than Sunday. All that only a three hour drive from Portland. Problem is, that's twice as far as Mt. Hood.

Another Year Another Legend

The 26th Mt. Baker Legendary Banked Slalom went down over the weekend. Those of you who follow me on Twitter (@boredyak) already know that Harry Kearney won Pro Men's, Maelle Ricker won her fifth consecutive Pro Women's and that Terje Haakonsen won the switch run. You won't find that last one on Baker's site, but I assure you it happened. No duct tape trophy for that, just some commemorative goggles that ended up in the crowd. Ricker won hers with her broken hand tucked inside her jacket. Rumor has it that Maria DeBari hired Tanya Harding to smash her in the knee with a pipe, but Maelle got a hand in the way, saving her knee and her gold duct tape. I started that rumor, of course.

You better aks somebody.

I didn't race this year as I yet again failed to have my name drawn from the lottery. I did get to shred two days on a legendary hill with equally extraordinary folk. Saturday it was windy enough for the powers that be to shut the diesel off and kill the lifts early - save the one lift that shuttled riders to the top of the course. Then, it dumped eight inches overnight, tapering off for a mostly sunny opening on Sunday. My friends and I showed up for first chair only to find that two of us forgot our boots. Team Rental Boots still shredded the pow mercilessly. Honestly, the rentals were as comfortable as my own boots. I took the occasion to ride a couple different borrowed and demo boards; a K2 Turbo Dream and a Bataleon Omni. Even with our lack of a local guide, we found fresh snow until it was time to return the smelly boots. Helluva day. We even managed to find a crew who barbecued a whole pig in the parking lot and provided dinner for a crowd. Didn't really expect that.

Look close enough and you might even see a race course.

Another year without running the race and I find the LBS to be all about friends. Friends from as far as Norway or as near as Bellingham, with Utah, Colorado and Seattle in between. I wish I could have caught up with everyone. Thanks goes out to all who provided me with hospitality and congrats to those who brought home the tape, came close, qualified, gained entry or just caught up with their own friends. You know what it's all about. Watch out next year in the Masters class, though. I'm aiming for the top. Only 364 training days left.

San Francisco Gives Me That Full-Body Glow

I didn't leave my heart there. I didn't put any flowers in my hair. I didn't even miss the mornings on the road without its charms. San Francisco, that is. It just seems like about half my friends live there and it was about time to go see them. With my aversion to air travel, I decided it was road trip time. The plan was to take I-5 there and the 101 back; the classic rush in, waltz home mode. But you know what they say about the best laid plans.

The trip there was mostly uneventful, save one unearthly rainstorm. Approaching said storm, I thought it was a strange patch of mid-afternoon fog. Upon reaching its perimeter, I was assailed by the fiercest of all torrents. It was like driving through a lake. I had to downshift. Its fury was matched only by its brevity. By the time my wipers made their second pass, I was back in the sun; car accelerating, wiper blades frantically screeching against dry glass. I nearly put her in the ditch on sheer shock. What sort of dream was that? Best not to turn and look... the things I might see.

When I say my friends live in San Francisco, I really mean the Bay Area. Does that annoy those of you who really live in SF? My path went from Vallejo to Santa Clara. Yes, I stopped in the city, too. Had to get my teeth checked by my recently doctored friend. Congrats, Ryan! I'm sure you'll make an above average oral surgeon.

After that it was Foster City and Maker Faire. As you may have guessed, Maker Faire is a large expo full of people who make things. What sorts of things? All sorts of things. Crafts? check. Clothing? an entire buildingful. Unique musical instruments? ding. Handmade 3D images? youbettcha. 2-ton hydraulic spider you could ride in? actually it was probably more like 3000 pounds, but yeah, I saw one. NASA. Yes, that NASA. They were there. Recoverable space vehicles or some shit. Sure made the paper airplane guy look like small potatoes. In amongst all the hardware and hubbub were two friends of mine who run macetech. You've probably never heard of macetech, but you've undoubtedly seen their work. The giant color-shifting balloons at the closing ceremony of the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics was one of their projects. They also supplied hardware for some color-shifting lights in the new movie Twilight: Eclipse (they tell me it's a party scene). In short, if you need some lights, but don't want just some standard, boring purple or red lights, give macetech a shot: millions of colors right at your 10 little fingertips.

macetech's balls get out of hand on full moons

From Foster City I went down to Santa Clara to hang out with my brother and his girlfriend. Visiting Vance is always super fun because no matter what we'll go for a leisurely hike. Generally that hike involves a drive, too, so we'll get plenty of time to catch up and most of it will be outside. This trip was no different. After we got done with the outdoor portion of the trip, we all went to the Winchester House in San Jose. The marketing team calls it the Winchester Mystery House and claims that it's haunted. Basically, the widow of the Winchester gun company founder got spooked at her husband's and daughter's deaths and moved out west. There, at the advice of a psychic, she started building a house and never stopped. Staircases lead to dead-end walls. Doors open to dead-end walls or worse, nothing but three stories of air under your feet. Some of this was the result of earthquakes, most just because she didn't have a plan other than to build. This happened for 24 hours a day, years on end. Hundreds of rooms, gardens, orchards, oddities, beauties (a stained-glass window that even Tiffany's can't put a price on). If you're ever in San Jose, check it out. The main house tour is the attraction, the behind-the-scenes tour was a little underwhelming for me.

A morning departure had me out of the city all bleary-eyed at about noon. Freeway traffic all the way out the Bay Area was a constant battle of stop-and-go, merging and mysterious lanes coming and going. One annoying bug in the middle of it all, one that I just had to smash on my windshield, took my eyes off the traffic for just long enough for me to rear-end some pickup. When we finally got to the side of the road, we saw the damage. His bumper wasn't even scratched and my hood was crumpled up like a wad of used toilet paper. The truck's driver gave me a 'sucks to be you' look and a handshake as we decided to forgo information swapping. I bent, sat on and smoothed out my hood until it looked like normal and I swear it even latched.

Fast forward to Petaluma. I wouldn't call it the Bay Area, but it isn't far away. I stopped for some BBQ lunch and then was off to the 101 when KA-BOOM! My hood broke free of whatever latch, flew up and smashed my windshield. I was showered with millions of tiny glass needles. It felt like some sort of Irish Spring commercial. Luckily I was on a minor highway with no traffic, so I could just move to the shoulder without incident. One look at the damage and it was clear, I was fucked. The inside of my car looked like a disco ball exploded. Including my body. I was sparkling like a sweaty stripper. Outside the car was even worse. Once I got the hood down (two bungee cords and a strap to keep it there) the car was a mess. Bent wiper, dented in roof and then the windshield. Driving back to town felt like I was wearing kaleidoscope glasses. Windshield repair wasn't due 'til the morning, so I had a day to hang out in lovely Petaluma. Pretty boring. As was the rest of the trip.

Not quite like I was on acid, but still not easy to drive

The windshield repair took up the time that I'd allotted for the drive and camping up the coast, so I went part way up the coast before cutting inland to the 5 and rolling home with my tail between my legs. I never did vacuum my car, so every once in a while, I'll catch a little sparkle from the passenger seat. It's like my old windshield is winking at me. Thanks buddy. Thanks for giving me that shine.

My Apologies to the East Coast

East Coast, I'll catch ya next time. Here's a rough route map from the road trip...

18 states, nearly 13,000 miles, the ever-popular 'horned fish' route

That was a long one. Toward the end I was really missing the comforts and organization of my house. The road does get lonesome after a time. If you don't like to spend time with your thoughts, this type of travel isn't for you. If introspection doesn't scare you and you laugh in the face of the blacktop's winding grin, well, belt up, download some audiobooks and podcasts and take the wheel. The road is one of life's great professors. Some things I learned along the way:

When on an unknown road, heed the warning signs.


Dropping into the Death Valley area I saw a sign that said 'Humps 35mph' on a 65 mph road. I said 'how bad could it be.' See I'm used to 'railroad tracks' type bumps. These were the far less common and far more dangerous 'backcountry cheese wedge' style. Had I not activated the anti-lock brakes, I would have been recreating a scene that required voice over. 'That boy better grow some wings or he's going to be sitting in his own personal junkyard a long way from home.'

An exception to the rule

North Dakota has giant statues of everything...

I already knew that, just passing it along.

Cornfields dominate every state from Minnesota south to Kentucky. It gets fed to you, it gets fed to cattle, it gets fed to our cars. It doesn't have that much nutritional value, though, more of a grain than a vegetable.

I got a wholly different feeling driving from Indiana to Texas and trying not to rely on maps. Not that I actually succeeded in that venture, but it made its point. Too often our travels are reduced to lines on a map. When you're just thinking about directions and not locked in on specific routes, you're free to see the region differently. Talk to the people, eat the food, develop a sense of place.

Southern hospitality is real. Maybe it's necessary to get people to eat things like pork brains. They really do cook amazing barbecue down there, though. The best. West Kentucky = mutton, Texas = brisket, most of the rest = some variety of pork.

The Kentucky Waterfall is alive and well in that state. I wish I could have gotten a picture. It was possibly the most magnificent thing I saw on the whole trip.

Shreveport, Louisiana is the Reno of the South.

Unless you're diligent about that sort of thing, which I'm not, your vehicle will become increasingly filthy. And I mean inside, too...

This is what we call a 'pile party'

You can find stretches of road out there with no billboards, low speed limits and no commercial vehicles allowed. One is the Natchez Trace Parkway. Check it out. Trust me, billboards aren't something you'll miss.

You will run out of things to listen to. Trust me. Even local radio stations. When you do. Embrace the silence. Even if you don't. Try it for a stretch. You just might learn something about yourself.

One Seriously Salty Lake

Several times now I've been to or through Salt Lake City and I've never seen the eponymous lake. Sure, I've seen it from a distance, but I've never gotten down there and checked it out. That's probably a shame. Like all other things, maybe next time.

This time I got to hang out with my friend Ben, who I met up at Baldface. I managed to not take a good picture of him, so you'll have to check out the only one I have here. How's that for graphic content? Fair to midland. I'll do better next time. Anyway, Ben stayed up at the Baldface compound for a few days after I left on a freakin' med chopper, so we didn't exactly get a fond farewell. It was good to see him again in Salt Lake. Edit: always one to put his best face forward, he sent me a better shot.

The ever majestic Benny Pellegrino.
Check out his Milosport shops for all yer snow and skate needs.

The first cool thing about where Ben lives is that he has a duck pond in his back yard. He commented that most of them are dark, but a couple are half and half dark and white and a few are straight white. He said that the white ones were definitely the aggressors. That's when I told him more than he wanted to know about duck sex. You see, on long road trips you find lots of things to listen to. Last year on a trip to Bellingham I listened to a podcast about sperm that included fascinating facts about ducks. I will share these facts with you now. If you don't want to read them skip below the picture and no one will think any less of you. Except for me. I'll know. I just will.

On with the educating. Male ducks, as it turns out, will rape female ducks, horrifyingly enough. Not only that, but duck penis can be up to 14 inches. Think about that in terms of duck body size. The drakes waddle tall, the hens live in constant fear. But wait, there's more. The hens have evolved defense mechanisms in the form of side branches off of the main vaginal canal. If she has to undergo the displeasure, at least she can try to force the perpetrator down the wrong alleyway, if you catch my drift. The black and white ducks? I guess mom didn't have the technique down. If you want to listen to the entire podcast and learn things you never knew you wanted to know about reproduction. Check out Radiolab. Aside from being overproduced to the point of confusion, it's a quality show. Anything to keep the mind busy on that long and snowy road. . .

Rapist?

How's that for tangents? That's what I thought. Ben is a member of our great American workforce, which meant I had a day to roll solo. He sent me up the canyon toward Brighton for a little hike to Mary Lake. Observation the first: he lives remarkably close to both a city and many ski resorts. Something like 13 miles to Snowbird. Hot damn. I could get used to that. The hike actually started at the base of a lift right off the parking lot at Brighton and followed the liftline up. A couple miles later and I was treated to alpine lake views.

Lake Mary

Lake Catherine (fore) and Lake Mary (back)

If you can't see the hummingbird in this picture, you're too drunk to leave a comment.

Hiking is like snowboarding, minus the snow and board...

After chatting with Ben about topics like how hard Jeremy Jones works and how good of shape Tom Burt is in, that hike was what I needed. The road trip held precious few opportunities for great hikes, so I got out when I could. Things like that are made all the better by the ever-passing scenery, never fully enjoyed from the driver's seat (three months just not enough time?). The casual thoughts of snowboarding that fluttered into my brain only made that hike nicer.

I got reacquainted with a couple more dudes from Baldface on the trip, Glen and his son Jonas joined the crew the next day for a skate session. I'm a transportational skater now, so I laid off the bowls. Those dudes were pretty well owning the place, though, and it was fun to just sit back and watch. Unfortunately, I failed on the camera. Another fail was our plan to float down the river, this time it wasn't our fault. Johnny Law said, 'life jackets required' under direct threat of an $80 per person fine. The badge actually rolled through just as we got done inflating rafts. So we said 'fine' and hung out on a little rocky patch of beach with a couple beers instead. The night ended just right, though, with a cookout at Glen's place. Killer food was backed up by shred videos (Terje's part from Notice to Appear, then the disc went to shit, then Optimistic?) which was backed up by Iron Maiden videos. Yet another disciple from Baldface, Scott, joined the fray and we wound it down with fresh-baked cookies courtesy the lady of the house. Thanks, Summer! Not a bad way to finish off a trip and really, that was the whole ballgame. I was out of my meds and the drive back to Portland was uneventful to the point of sheer boredom. Thanks again to Benny P for that SLC hospitality. Who knows you may see me back sooner than you think and for longer than you think. I could see living in a joint like that. Only 13 miles to the resort? Sign me up!

That brings my 2009 summer vacation to a close. Another 12,000 miles on the Graham Torino. A great swath cut across this land of ours. Experiences that can never be repeated. Only outdone. Bring on the next one. Speaking of next one, I'll probably drop a little recap post next or maybe I'll launch right into snow-related stuff. Who knows? If you do, tell me, I need to prepare. Peace!

Of Black Canyons and Salty Lakes

Heading north from ABQ with my brother, Vance, brought us to a campsite near the Continental Divide. The scenery went from desert scrub to mountain vista quicker than you could say '4-wheel drive recommended.'

Exhibit A

Irrefutable evidence of scenic majesty.

Guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Mountain campsite accessed by roads that could have easily destroyed my car. For reference, had I stayed on that road, I would have ended up in Silverton, CO.

I was on the scenic route home at this point. He was on his way to hike a fourteener. For those of you outside the state of Colorado, the term fourteener probably carries no significance. As you may guess, it's a mountain whose summit is above 14,000 feet. Peaks under that height, regardless of technical difficulty, starting elevation, surrounding beauty or any other characteristic are spat on with a hatred generally reserved for terrorists and gapers. Now 14,001 on the other hand is just fine. I wonder what happens to the ones with glaciated summits that are melting. Do they get kicked out of the club when they no longer meet the requirement? How often do they check that stuff?

Anyhow, after a night of car camping I was northbound. Vance gave me a hot tip to check out the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River, so that was destination #1. In between, though, a little something I never thought I'd see...

I couldn't photoshop them in if I was getting paid.

That's right, a fucking cattle drive on the highway! I pull up to the fella on the ATV and he says, "Just wiggle your way through there, they'll get out of your way." So I did. And they didn't. Cows ran for their calves. Bulls ran for ME. At one point I looked out my driver's window to see the alpha male, skewer-like horns and all, staring back at me. In front of me was a pregnant cow taking up the entire lane of traffic. These beasts did NOT understand my turn signal. They meandered as if drunk. It was hilarious, really. Not more than 10 minutes later I was out the other side and some other driver was coming the other direction. I gave him a shrug and was treated to this view mere miles down the road.

Never ceasing to amaze

Yeah, lots of 'wow' scenery in the great state of Colorado. And I was nowhere near out yet. Next up was the Black Canyon.

Words just became superfluous.

This shot looks out of the canyon to the west.

The Black Canyon isn't so heavy on the hiking or camping, but what it lacks there it makes up for in sheer scenic beauty accessed directly from the road. I drove the South Rim Road and most of the viewpoints there are less than half a mile from parking, none is more than two miles round trip. The North Rim has some longer hikes of three, five and seven miles, but that's it; a total of five maybe six trails of over a mile round trip. The other extreme is hiking the inner canyon. Always check with rangers before attempting such an excursion. Besides hiking visitors can ride horseback, climb rock or raft the river, among other activities.

Nope, not going to make it to Salt Lake this post, but I assure you, it will head up the next one (I pretty much made a straight line there after leaving the Black Canyon, stopping only in a hip little town called Montrose.) I can't promise all the great pictures I had here, as I forgot my camera in a few crucial places. I had some good times, though, so be sure to check it out.

South Central... USA That Is

I can't believe I'm only as far as Louisiana on the massive road saga that was my summer vacation.

Giant casino in Shreveport, where I inexplicably let them keep their money.

On my way out of Cajunland, I made the mistake of eating at a Waffle House. The waffles are pretty poor actually. Mine was limp like a pancake, but had that 'hanging out on a bed of nails' waffle look. A pancake in waffle's clothes. I like my waffles crispy outside, soft inside. Dual textured. Is that too much to ask?

Next on the list of letdowns, Texas. I took some side roads and not interstates so much and what view awaits me but that of coal mines and oil pumps. Not that rad. Mind you, I'm not out cruising gravel county roads, these are paved highways. The oil in ND is a little farther away from the prying eyes anyway.

Texas, birthplace of Travis Parker

Soon enough I was in Austin hanging out with my sister's family. Aside from the fact that they were in the middle of 40-some-odd straight days over 100°, times were fun. We consumed our bodyweights in brisket and played hours of games. To those of you who haven't played games in a while, they are getting better year by year. We played one that involved killer bunnies and another that was a self-deprecating D&D type. What's that, you ask? Of course they can be turned into drinking games. Can't everything? I'm still laying off the sauce (mostly) until the doctor says otherwise.

Also in Austin is a good friend of mine who I met many years ago at a punk rock show in Madison, Wisconsin. Tamicka and I are still in touch after all these years and we shared some of the best barbecue I've ever tasted. We also watched the bats emerge from under the Congress Bridge. Turns out Austin is home to the world's largest urban bat population. Some 1.5 million of the flying rodents. They're super helpful, too, eating up to 30,000 pounds of insects nightly. Maybe Williston should import some of those to deal with the mosquitoes...

West Texas is about as boring as they come. Drive fast and get to Carlsbad Caverns while you still have your sanity. Use the elevator (seriously) down to the Big Room as your decompression. Then prepare to be transported to some sort of otherworldly sculpture garden.



Here's the obligatory 'the pictures don't do it justice' statement. Some perspective: the room is 1/4 mile long and hundreds of feet tall. My on-camera flash just didn't cut it. Check that place out if you're near southern New Mexico ever. They also have a few hundred thousand bats that come out to feed at night. They have a little amphitheater set up at the cave entrance, but they don't allow photos. Seriously, they built an elevator to get to the caves, but they don't allow photos of the bats? I guess it's for their own safety. I'll allow it this time.

After being assured that the drive from Carlsbad Caverns to Albuquerque was miss-able enough to do in the late night hours, I set out through UFO country. Wouldn't you know it, I saw one! Either that or it was one of those Perseids, but I'm going with UFO. It was super bright and it arced through the sky for at least a second or two. Like a really bright falling star. Come to think of it, it was probably a Perseid. Rad enough to keep me awake for a little while anyway. That is, in fact, a boring-ass stretch. Little towns and huge oil refineries are all you have to break up the desert monotony. Oh and giant factory dairies that you can smell for miles. I rolled into ABQ thinking I was dreaming...

My buddy calls the place North Mexico, turns out they mostly speak English.

If I take one thing away from Albuquerque (besides the dust), it's the amazing food. Actually, I did take some of it away and I left it in my friend's fridge in Salt Lake City. He agreed as to its amazing-ness. Adobado. Remember that word. It means extra-fucking-hot-and-tasty in Spanish. I had adobado pork ribs, ate the same dish two days in a row and still had enough leftover to (accidentally) leave some to SLC. That speaks more to the portions at this place, but the quality was off the charts good, too.

Whew. Almost home. What do you know about the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River? Come tomorrow, you may know a little bit more...

Sung to the Tunes of Lynyrd Skynyrd

Joggers were loping past my car when I awoke on a muggy morning in Murray, KY. I figured if I put in a solid day's drive, I'd be in Austin by bedtime. As I look at Google maps now, it's a 12-hour drive by the quickest route and I was nowhere near the quickest route. Still trying to abide by the no maps, no interstates rule had me going straight south and then straight west. Besides, Tennessee, Alabama, Louisiana... that's where all the good food is. Speaking of food, pork brains and fried bologna were on the menu for breakfast. I went with a meaty cheesy omelet, heavy on the partially melted American cheese squares. It was too early in the morning for pork brains. I wonder how those are prepared... maybe scrambled like eggs..? This is your brain on hash(browns), any questions? You come back now. My morning tradition included getting lost, so I spent about a half hour on that venture before I got on whichever highway said south.

Draplin? Glass? Beauty.

Speaking of beauty, the sheer density of barbecue restaurants in Tennessee was enough to bring a tear to my eye and a rumble to my stomach. Then, I was in Alabama before lunchtime (you could spit across Tennessee from north to south). That would have to do. I've heard they serve their barbecue with a mayo-based barbecue sauce in 'Bama, but my sandwich had no such thing. It did have that southern hospitality, though. I walked up to what turned out to be a drive-through only joint. The lady convinced me to order and eat my meal on a picnic table out back. Who was I to argue? Oh yeah, if you don't like your cole slaw on the pork sandwich, ask for it on the side or without. Standard practice is to pile it on like so much lettuce and tomatoes. Try it, you just might like it. That was Muscle Shoals and I've heard they have the swampers who have been known to pick a song or two. Whatever that means, I didn't stick around to find out.

Not long after I entered Alabama, I was out the other side of the small corner. That's when the rain began. Because of my southeast then back southwest trajectory, I had to drive through the worst of it twice. At one point, it was so bad that I considered calling someone to see if I was in a post-hurricane, severe thunderstorm type of thing. When it finally ended, I was in Mississippi. That's a fun one to type (as is Tennessee, to be sure). There I stumbled upon the Natchez Trace National Parkway. Think of a national park all lined up on a road and you're part way there. No commercial vehicles allowed. No restaurants, no gas, no lodging. You must exit, then find your way to those. No billboards. Speed limit 50 mph. The only thing they didn't do was pull me along on a string. You must chill now. Everything will be fine. Problem was it started pouring rain again making things slightly less dude. I only stopped once (besides the visitors' center). That was at a cypress swamp. I stepped out of my car and landed in a shoe-top puddle. Neff softshells weren't made for this. A 20-minute walk had my fingertips pruning up. The signs said there could be alligators. I'd like to see one, just not from the inside of her mouth.

Later, gator.

Roadways like the Natchez Trace National Parkway are the sorts of paths we should all travel on more often. Unfortunately, the only other one I know of is the Blue Ridge Parkway, connecting Shenandoah National Park in Virginia to the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. Less than 1000 miles of such roads. Mountain roads will have to satisfy. Too soon it was over and Louisiana was before me. I made it as far as Shreveport that night. The Reno of the South, I called it. I'd have taken some money at the poker tables had it not been so late. Hotels were booked up in here. Luckily, I found a cheapo in the next town back east and crashed out at 2am after the longest haul of the voyage. All I needed was a bed, which is good because it didn't have much more. Tomorrow would surely see me to Texas, to hang out with my sister while the weekend still offered its free time.

They Seriously SAY That!?

After hanging out with Fred for a couple days, I spent a couple days hanging out with his dad, my uncle Willy. The old dude just had a gnarly accident involving the quickest route down from a rooftop. It was good to see him getting better and good to help him out with some stuff that most of us take for granted. You know, like moving. He couldn't quite drive yet, so helped him run some errands. In exchange he regaled me with his political views. It was a lot of fun hanging out with Willy again, it had been too long. That's why I was on this trip anyway, to catch up.

Next on the anti-agenda was the trip from southern Michigan to Austin, TX. Objective: no maps, no interstates. That lasted until Indianapolis (not that long). Getting around that metropolis without the big roads would be like eating spaghetti without slurping: no fun at all. I was warned about Indiana. They said it was nothing but flat cornfields. They were wrong. They forgot about the soybean fields. Lots of flat, lots of fields. But what's that I see in the distance? Is it a "Welcome to Kentucky" sign? Is my luck about to change?

The Ohio River separates Indiana and Kentucky.
This bridge separates me from that river.

The landscape didn't change much south of the Ohio River. Maybe an extra wrinkle of hills. I'll tell you what did change, barbecue entered the picture. I remember the dinner well. Just after I crested a hill I saw what appeared to be a brush fire. Upon realizing it was smoke belching from a BBQ pit, my car swung right into the parking lot as if controlled by unseen forces. After parking, I realized that the car I almost swiped on my hasty entrance was a sheriff. BBQ saved me a speeding ticket, but nearly cost me my car. No matter. I was inside and ordering before the copper could check his rearview. When in west Kentucky, the meat of choice is mutton. Sheep, that is. Old sheep. Not lamb. One mutton dinner, please. With the sauce and smoke flavor, it's a little hard to get to the essence of mutton, but I'll try. First off, it was served shredded, much like pulled pork. The texture was chewier than pork, but the flavor was similar. Maybe somewhere between pork and beef. My first BBQ of the trip. A good meal. I paid for dinner and then it happened. The man at the register, "You come back, now." I chuckled a little, out loud. "I'll try." I had no idea they actually said that shit down there. I though that phrase and all of its conjugations existed solely on Beverly Hillbillies. Boy, was I wrong. That phrase stuck around 'til at least Louisiana, maybe Texas.

Kentucky = Nuclear!
(I had a picture of a cornfield, but I lost it. Just use your imagination)

That night would prove to be one of the more interesting nights on the road. I stopped in Murray, KY. Home of Murray State University. I know this because I could see it from the highway. The parking lot of the stadium was empty, save some heavy machinery that looked like it was 'garaged' there. Seemed like a good place to car camp. Then I decided to snoop around. The stadium was remarkably open. Lots of unlocked doors. I walked right into the stands and was about to drop my sleeping bag on the 50-yard-line. Then I turned my head and saw a young couple in a makeout session in the stands with me. The woman was more startled than I was. Inadvertent cockblockery completed, it was back to the car for some parking lot Z's.

Now, I should mention that I was sharing the hatch of my Subaru wagon with an ever-growing pile of junk. I acquired books from almost every stop along the way. Some gifts found their way back there. And my aunt Mia would not let me leave without this four-foot-tall Yucca tree. Seriously. They run a greenhouse and propagate the things off of cuttings. It was the smallest one they had. She wanted me to take the eight-footer that would have left no room for me to drive. Long story short, I was cuddled up next to a pointy tree for the rest of my car camping. I like to think it provided extra oxygen to enhance my slumber. The fact that I was reduced to a slightly extended fetal position probably negated that.

School Days Gone

It's been a while, so let's recap. Here's some scenery from the trip to Madison:

Bascom Hall: home of administration, some classrooms and Abe Lincoln

I'd like to see daily beer consumption figures for the Memorial Union Terrace. Tonight, the Madison Area Music Awards were going on. Once again, I was snubbed.

State Street at dusk

Madison is a great place to party, even in the summertime. If you show up during the school year though, it's on a whole different level. I've never seen anything like it. There's a reason why it won all those party school awards. Oh and it's home to top-tier academics, too. How do they balance? Tyrol Basin and Cascade Mountain were my home ski resorts while I lived there. I'm surprised I didn't end up a park rat with those mini hills as my options. Testament to my choice of powder over rails, I guess.

After a brief stop in Milwaukee to visit some friends and get molested by the world's most active Australian shepherd I was off to Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Google maps told me that Cedar River was the same place as Cedarville, so I had a bit of premature elation. Cedar River is on the western side of the peninsula near Escanaba, while Cedarville is 200 miles east near the Mackinac Bridge.

Hard to miss this one...

When I did finally show up and my cousin, Fred, ferried me to Marquette Island, we participated in the dictionary definition of relaxation. His girlfriend (whose family provided the cabin), was nursing horseback riding wounds and wasn't so lucky. After getting bucked hard during a competition (she ended up going through something she was supposed to go over), she didn't get along with her pain medication and was either nauseated, sore or just generally uncomfortable for most of the trip. Mostly she just hung out in bed. Fred and I weren't much more active; alternately hanging out around the outdoor fireplace, the dock or the porch. One hike to the opposite side of the island was the extent of our physical activity. We picked up some firewood and some beers. That's about all.

The hostess and the cousin

The palace

The view of the mainland from the dock

The creepiest bathroom ever. Besides the other one that was decorated with nothing but frogs.

I now resolve to own some sort of property on an island. The seclusion was about as peaceful as possible. Maybe an isolated mountain home would fit the bill. Just replace the boat noise with snowmobiles.

After the U.P. I was in for the longest drive between friends on the trip. All the way to Austin, Texas. A drive I hoped to make without maps and without cruising interstates. Be sure to check back for that one. The southland is not to be taken lightly. Ya'll come back now.