Ben, the budding adventurous youthReached the summit of Flattop Mountain despite a pesky knee.
Believer of the 1947 Roswell alien encounter.
His ball skills go unmatched.
Survivor of epic bus tumble, ending only in minor injury to ego.
04 February, 2010
Brother.
Ben, the budding adventurous youthReached the summit of Flattop Mountain despite a pesky knee.
Believer of the 1947 Roswell alien encounter.
His ball skills go unmatched.
Survivor of epic bus tumble, ending only in minor injury to ego.
19 July, 2009
Captain's [b]Log
Signs of bus fever seem imminent. After leaving the streets of Olympia, plagued by street vermin of the most ill repute, we traveled east for two days through a steady grey – mostly mist and fog augmented by the occasional downpour.
Bus Fever in its early stages
We’re down to four crew members. Those who have departed now rest in a sweeter sphere of reality; one not plagued with unrest and laden with incessant movement. Hereby follows a brief memoriam to those who have departed.
27 June
Ben and Taryn: Their eternal pledge of love hastened fates uncaring claim. With them we lost the most trustworthy outdoor expertise. They are deeply missed.
29 June
Jess: She held on for two extra days, wandering the streets of San Francisco in undulated bliss. Her nicknames and high spirits will last forever.
1 July
Corina: Trinkets and knick-knacks still linger on board, reminding us daily of her former presence. Her wide assortment of interesting hats is sorely missed. May the bison bolo linger in our minds for all time.
6 July
Jared: His moustache gleamed creepily in the firelight, but after hundreds of jokes this was forgotten; we beamed with the laughter of a thousand suns. His food-stained shirts bear the remnants of good times. He will not be forgotten.
7 July
Becca: Her daily attention to the coffee pot kept us sane and gave those who departed hope for the day. Her sumo kicks remain legend. May she always live in our hearts.
11 July
Katelynn: She lasted longer than any of those who have departed. The cross around her neck gave her strength to bear our backslidden ways. Her unflinching devotion to kindness serves as an example for us all.
11 July
Laura: Her stay was too short-lived, but her company will subsist in the art of her hands. She never seemed bus-worn or travel-weary. Her loss is a costly one.
Due to heavy rains in Glacier National park, we made camp in the Missoula Wal-Mart parking lot for two days. Wandering the town streets in an undirected stupor, we hope for reprieve and sunshine in the upcoming days.
13 July, 2009
A Brief Interlude
As time passes I find reflection a bit easier. Although some of what we’ve seen just doesn’t make sense. Coastline stretched out in front of us with fog coming in off the Pacific encircling giant Redwoods and Sequoias and rising like hot steam off the marshes and bogs that lead to the ocean.
The trees themselves are too big to adequately comprehend. Often, they are hollowed out and charred by fire. The breadth at the base of the Sequoias lures us to walk around them, but we lose track of where we began as we start to circle. The mountain, Rainier, is also shrouded in fog, but the fog is fused with cloud, dark and unassailable. But when the light breaks through and the mountain is exposed, even from the cusp of its glaciers the summit appears unreachable, an alien peak hoping to transcend this earth.
Equally unexplainable are Aaron’s new pants. How does something become so assaultingly pink?
These images simply pile up. The Colombia River, wide and fast, as it heads for the sea. Water coming down off mountains and shaping valleys and bending rock, as it has for millions of years. A nine-foot sturgeon. Mountains cut by glaciers.
All of these things are difficult to synthesize into anything slightly coherent, clearly defined, syllogistic terminology. I can’t – or maybe don’t want to – reduce what I’ve seen into some sort of didactic point; but seeing the world, especially somewhat removed from society (although this removal is indeed fabricated and surrounded by a different subset of society, a different rant altogether), helps me realize my place in it. I am small and insignificant in the wake of the world. Things are much bigger than I, almost senselessly so. However, this realization helps me contextualize my everyday life, mainly in humanistic terms. But this still needs some working out. And the road is calling. There are still more things ahead.
07 July, 2009
Crew Number Two
Aaron, Mechanic, Handy-brother
Master of Industrial Design.
He hears the drums echoing tonight.
R-rated tour guide of huge #$%^/?*^%$&^%#!#!! trees.
5 minutes on the bus and already finding things to fix.
Jared, Uncle Tobias
They’ll never believe it was consensual.
Quarantined to the snore tent.
He’ll buy you 100 jokes and teach them all to you.
Ultimate spooner.
Becca, Maple Syrup Expert
Sumo kick extraordinaire.
Will sue you if she doesn’t get her coffee.
Directionally challenged.
Braved cold Alaskan winters in the name of justice.
Graciously gave up 4 days without running.
Laura, California native
Reached the far ends of the earth, Europe, Asia, and more to come.
A scientist, and she knows that shit is bullshit.
Last minute packer.
Unphasable cuteness.
Envious of bustaches.
Master of Industrial Design.
He hears the drums echoing tonight.
R-rated tour guide of huge #$%^/?*^%$&^%#!#!! trees.
5 minutes on the bus and already finding things to fix.
Jared, Uncle Tobias
They’ll never believe it was consensual.
Quarantined to the snore tent.
He’ll buy you 100 jokes and teach them all to you.
Ultimate spooner.
Becca, Maple Syrup Expert
Sumo kick extraordinaire.
Will sue you if she doesn’t get her coffee.
Directionally challenged.
Braved cold Alaskan winters in the name of justice.
Graciously gave up 4 days without running.
Laura, California native
Reached the far ends of the earth, Europe, Asia, and more to come.
A scientist, and she knows that shit is bullshit.
Last minute packer.
Unphasable cuteness.
Envious of bustaches.
02 July, 2009
The city
For the first few days the city seems endless. A veritable offertory of bodies, streets, buildings stacked on top of and in between other buildings clinging to hillsides and concrete, sirens, conversations, storefronts, images ranging from grotesque to mundane. An assault on the full range of human senses.
As I move through the city, I become acclimated to its pace. Busmates split up and explore according to their own whimsical inclinations. San Francisco ambivalently provides a wide range of people. Beautiful people young and old traverse the streets in full regalia. Hipsters in tight Levis and flannel shirts with their large sunglasses and unkempt hair, older-California-types donning expensive handbags and driving zippy cars, homeless wanderers and long time users who push shopping carts down the sidewalks collecting cans and knick-knacks and emitting the fetor of showerless days, college students with messenger bags and Diesel jeans spouting bullshit conversations, single mothers and children in strollers, business men and women, skater punks, health freaks. You get the picture.
After some time here, very few things dictate a double take. (In the few blocks that surround Shotwell house several busses surpassing ours in funkiness have been spotted.) But that is part of the city’s beauty. Out of the confluence of all these images emerge infinite stories.
I wonder how Gary, the homeless man in front of the corner store I frequent almost daily, got there. What keeps him there? What story lies behind the man marching in the gay pride parade with his parents? His parents held a sign that said We love our gay son while he held a sign that said I love my straight parents. This seems both beautiful and foreign to me and I embrace this mutual confirmation of love. In fairness, I also wonder in bewilderment at the spectacle of leather-clad men in g-strings or organic dog food – equally absurd.
What stands out, however, is that this is where we should be. At least for now.
Tomorrow we leave. New bios to be posted promptly.
As I move through the city, I become acclimated to its pace. Busmates split up and explore according to their own whimsical inclinations. San Francisco ambivalently provides a wide range of people. Beautiful people young and old traverse the streets in full regalia. Hipsters in tight Levis and flannel shirts with their large sunglasses and unkempt hair, older-California-types donning expensive handbags and driving zippy cars, homeless wanderers and long time users who push shopping carts down the sidewalks collecting cans and knick-knacks and emitting the fetor of showerless days, college students with messenger bags and Diesel jeans spouting bullshit conversations, single mothers and children in strollers, business men and women, skater punks, health freaks. You get the picture.
After some time here, very few things dictate a double take. (In the few blocks that surround Shotwell house several busses surpassing ours in funkiness have been spotted.) But that is part of the city’s beauty. Out of the confluence of all these images emerge infinite stories.
I wonder how Gary, the homeless man in front of the corner store I frequent almost daily, got there. What keeps him there? What story lies behind the man marching in the gay pride parade with his parents? His parents held a sign that said We love our gay son while he held a sign that said I love my straight parents. This seems both beautiful and foreign to me and I embrace this mutual confirmation of love. In fairness, I also wonder in bewilderment at the spectacle of leather-clad men in g-strings or organic dog food – equally absurd.
What stands out, however, is that this is where we should be. At least for now.
Tomorrow we leave. New bios to be posted promptly.
26 June, 2009
Things we saw
For one blog only, this is Sarah, commenting on some of Bryan's pictures so you can follow our adventures. All of these pictures are in reverse order, so enjoy our California trip backwards!
Sunset at the hot springs.
Jess & I dancing at the hot springs east of Yosemite.
Violet Green Swallow
Olmsted Point, Yosemite NP
Yosemite Falls, Ben and Taryn
Katelynn
Bridalveil Falls, Yosemite NP
Flora enjoying Yosemite.
San Francisco from Marin County
Muir Woods
Corina, our adorable treehugger, at Muir Woods.
Ben, conquering Muir Beach.
Ben, jamming to the Cranberries while driving us to San Francisco.
Jaime, continuously waving to friendly Californians.
Jess, our little noodle of love.
21 June, 2009
Are you going to San Francisco
Departure. The night. Change of drivers. Balmorhea A desert rain. Marfa. New Mexico night. Indian Jewelry. Flagstaff. The mountains. Descent to the desert. Lake Havasu. Bats in the night. Sleep. The Colorado River. The desert. We all sing. San Francisco.
When everyone finally assembles, gear is arranged, packs are hung, anticipation tears through the San Marcos humidity. A close friend comes by to wish us well. By midnight we have collected last-minute personal items from the local Wal-Mart and given the Funky Bus its inaugural fill-up.
As excitement dissipates, sleep picks off people one by one, and Jaime and I are left to subdue the endless night. I-10 looms straight and black and empty, plummeting before us in steady eternal black. Jaime tells another story - probably involving motorized vehicles, ramps, and inevitable injury – and the trance evaporates; I drive on.
Sarah takes the driving responsibility as the night begins to glow, expectant and intimate with the coming morning. When day finally breaks, we refresh ourselves in the San Solomon Springs. Water in strata of blue and deeper blue that stretches beneath our feet. It is crystalline and cool and tastes like sulfur. Ben swims down to touch the pool bottom, which appears just below my outstretched feet but is never reached. Ben becomes a tiny dot still visible through my goggles and then a sine wave of red and brown – swim trunks and skin that shimmers once again to the surface. Intermittently some sit by the springs and others bask in the sun. Sarah and I try to sleep.
Collectively we decide to visit Marfa. We are only an hour away. We drive through the Davis Mountains and rain falls in sheets around us and we move through it, sunlight still bright and the smell of rain and drops of rain coming in through the bus windows.
In Marfa most of the shops and galleries are already closed. We wander aimlessly in the heat until we find a local points us toward a nearby bar. Padre’s is cool and dark, an old building modified to indulge the Marfa perception of hip, aged stucco walls and red iron mixed with track lighting and modern art. We share a pitcher or two of cold beer and exchange stories (mostly for the purpose of extracting the epic one-liners of the previous blog).
In the night we reach New Mexico. Sleeping in the bus requires great tenacity. Six people affix themselves to a bench or the floor while one drives and one keeps the driver awake. Room is somewhat limited but Jess controls sleeping positions and the appropriate rotation so everyone can achieve maximum comfort. The sleepers jolt and bounce and seek equilibrium before finding rest. Sarah describes it as being rocked to sleep by the Rattler rollercoaster.
By morning we sleep in a gas station parking lot. Teeth brushing and face washing occur outside the bus and everyone takes part. A passerby asks if we are going to the Rainbow Gathering. The road takes us through self-proclaimed Indian country, now reduced to jewelry shops and convenient store knick-knacks. Painted billboards, one after another, announce the oncoming stores in a steady pulsing beat – 10 miles, 5 miles, 1 mile, exit now. At the Continental Divide we stop and rummage through one of these shops.
Because it is required, we proceed at a leisurely pace – the bus progresses according to its own pace so we oblige. Humphrey’s Peak, part of the San Francisco Mountains, emerges in the distance. Flagstaff sits nestled there. The mountain’s image grows until we are in its shadow. Parking at the Visitor’s Center, we scatter in and among Grand Canyon outfitters, bookstores, galleries. We are regular tourist types. We don’t mind.
Bleary-eyed and shorter on cash than when we arrived, dust covered mountains are seamlessly transmuted into dusty desert. Heat and sleeplessness help us decide to camp for the night at Lake Havasu, on the border of Arizona and California. Sarah cooks chili and battles swarms of gnats. Others set up tents and take showers. Bats lurch drunkenly from their roosts, emulating the movement of the gnats but with more intention in their crooked flight. A pair of narrowed eyes glows in the scrub as I walk past, the eyes’ possessor warily accustomed to my kind. With hot food and immobile beds, sleep comes quickly.
The dawn brings sun and the sun drives most of us to an early morning swim. The water of the Colorado is cold and clear, a marked distinction from every other desert element. We elect to move more quickly, hoping to avoid desert heat and reach sunny San Francisco. Through the Mojave heat. Through the pass and into Bakersfield. Up 99 through vineyards and farms. And we sing. We sing at the top of our lungs and wave at passing cars, like school kids hoping for attention. We sing into the night until the lights of the Bay area spread out before us, leading us swiftly over the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco.
When everyone finally assembles, gear is arranged, packs are hung, anticipation tears through the San Marcos humidity. A close friend comes by to wish us well. By midnight we have collected last-minute personal items from the local Wal-Mart and given the Funky Bus its inaugural fill-up.
As excitement dissipates, sleep picks off people one by one, and Jaime and I are left to subdue the endless night. I-10 looms straight and black and empty, plummeting before us in steady eternal black. Jaime tells another story - probably involving motorized vehicles, ramps, and inevitable injury – and the trance evaporates; I drive on.
Sarah takes the driving responsibility as the night begins to glow, expectant and intimate with the coming morning. When day finally breaks, we refresh ourselves in the San Solomon Springs. Water in strata of blue and deeper blue that stretches beneath our feet. It is crystalline and cool and tastes like sulfur. Ben swims down to touch the pool bottom, which appears just below my outstretched feet but is never reached. Ben becomes a tiny dot still visible through my goggles and then a sine wave of red and brown – swim trunks and skin that shimmers once again to the surface. Intermittently some sit by the springs and others bask in the sun. Sarah and I try to sleep.
Collectively we decide to visit Marfa. We are only an hour away. We drive through the Davis Mountains and rain falls in sheets around us and we move through it, sunlight still bright and the smell of rain and drops of rain coming in through the bus windows.
In Marfa most of the shops and galleries are already closed. We wander aimlessly in the heat until we find a local points us toward a nearby bar. Padre’s is cool and dark, an old building modified to indulge the Marfa perception of hip, aged stucco walls and red iron mixed with track lighting and modern art. We share a pitcher or two of cold beer and exchange stories (mostly for the purpose of extracting the epic one-liners of the previous blog).
In the night we reach New Mexico. Sleeping in the bus requires great tenacity. Six people affix themselves to a bench or the floor while one drives and one keeps the driver awake. Room is somewhat limited but Jess controls sleeping positions and the appropriate rotation so everyone can achieve maximum comfort. The sleepers jolt and bounce and seek equilibrium before finding rest. Sarah describes it as being rocked to sleep by the Rattler rollercoaster.
By morning we sleep in a gas station parking lot. Teeth brushing and face washing occur outside the bus and everyone takes part. A passerby asks if we are going to the Rainbow Gathering. The road takes us through self-proclaimed Indian country, now reduced to jewelry shops and convenient store knick-knacks. Painted billboards, one after another, announce the oncoming stores in a steady pulsing beat – 10 miles, 5 miles, 1 mile, exit now. At the Continental Divide we stop and rummage through one of these shops.
Because it is required, we proceed at a leisurely pace – the bus progresses according to its own pace so we oblige. Humphrey’s Peak, part of the San Francisco Mountains, emerges in the distance. Flagstaff sits nestled there. The mountain’s image grows until we are in its shadow. Parking at the Visitor’s Center, we scatter in and among Grand Canyon outfitters, bookstores, galleries. We are regular tourist types. We don’t mind.
Bleary-eyed and shorter on cash than when we arrived, dust covered mountains are seamlessly transmuted into dusty desert. Heat and sleeplessness help us decide to camp for the night at Lake Havasu, on the border of Arizona and California. Sarah cooks chili and battles swarms of gnats. Others set up tents and take showers. Bats lurch drunkenly from their roosts, emulating the movement of the gnats but with more intention in their crooked flight. A pair of narrowed eyes glows in the scrub as I walk past, the eyes’ possessor warily accustomed to my kind. With hot food and immobile beds, sleep comes quickly.
The dawn brings sun and the sun drives most of us to an early morning swim. The water of the Colorado is cold and clear, a marked distinction from every other desert element. We elect to move more quickly, hoping to avoid desert heat and reach sunny San Francisco. Through the Mojave heat. Through the pass and into Bakersfield. Up 99 through vineyards and farms. And we sing. We sing at the top of our lungs and wave at passing cars, like school kids hoping for attention. We sing into the night until the lights of the Bay area spread out before us, leading us swiftly over the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco.
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