A Longing

Spring in Zion National Park a couple of years ago, stone cairns built by Matt Crawford and myself.

Longing

an empty bowl.
a shadow waiting.
the outline’s smooth taper.
in the shadow
I recognize both, and neither are mine.
 
one given.
one shared.
 
both for living out of
by putting into
something of the heart
 
to be eaten with soul.
cup bowl in my hand,
and the weight lessens with each spoonful I eat.
 
until it’s empty.
spoon scraping,  just

one more taste
the shadow, craving one more minute of light
before the sun sets.
 
And yet the moon.
Oh the Moon and Her glorious stars!
 
She, beyond the reach of my arm and silver spoon,
beyond measure of every bowl I’ve held.
 
still, on the cloudless night.
She casts a shadow I see my own.

-Alex Newport-Berra

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Visceral Reality

There was a big push in technology in the early 90’s towards the “virtual reality” revolution.  It seemed to fade into the world of the internet and ipods.  And good thing, though it seems all the technology of the internet and iphones gives a voyeuristic feel, separating user from immediate reality.  Spring sun and warm temps have me looking through pictures of last summer, living again moments that were a part of an intimate “visceral reality”, I can’t wait for what the next eight months brings!  You can click on the image for an enlarged view.

Open invitation to the to the open road, though my "Harley" is a bit lighter, my heart is the engine, lungs the carbuerator, legs the pistons, pain tolerance the tachometer, and smile the windshield.

Long warm afternoon creek cool calm with youth, around ankles, a current that will be remembered in the decades when they stand from afar, this feeling of summer a light shining deep.

Gold. (click on this one)

Warm summer air, warm summer grass, big warm clouds, everything stands taller in the prairie.

Once they unlock this one for the summer season I'll get to work for my water. So much easier now that I know it is there.

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Super Bess.

And you’re thinking, “what, who, where is Super Bess?”  Super Bess is everywhere, though yours is likely different than mine.

On the lower slopes of Dead Indian Memorial Road near mile post 3 is a small homstead, a double-wide, small barn, two trucks with cracked windshields and muddy sides, odd pieces of farm machinery for sale.  There are also a few cows, horses, and chickens roaming around. 

One cow, the only brown one out of the bunch, struck me with calm appearance.  She has her own fenced off lot to roam in, a narrow swath that parallels the road.  Each time I climb up and descend down Dead Indian Memorial Road I see her, chomping grass, standing around (which is quite amazing when you consider the size of her feet in proportion to her body and comapre that ratio to humans’ body mass to foot size ratio.)

A sense of mystery to everday life.  The last few months I have been told this is a good thing to maintain; in love, in thought, action, interpretation and communication of my surrounding environment. 

One afternoon while climbing and passing by it struck me to say hello, acknowledge bovine presence.  I knew it would not be the last time I passed by. 

A sense of mystery to everyday life is what inspired me to name the cow, I decided on Super Bess.  Bessy, too cliche, and the sound of Super Bess is inspiring to me as I get ready to pedal up to the summit of Dead Indian Memorial Road.

This is exactly what the world teaches me everyday.  I can Google and research cows for days.  Learn it all.  For what?  The species name does not suprise me.  History of livestock domestication does not amaze me. 

Super Bess.  Thanks for not telling all your secrets.  It’s your silence and mystery, allowing my mind to create its own silence and mystery.

(Picture of Super Bess to come once I get a working camera in hand)

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More of Spring.

The road that provides this view is under a few feet of snow still... but the popsicle is melting and tastes sweet of summer rides.

 Melting roadside snow revealing wreckage from winter mishaps.  Bumpers, tailight shrapnel, flares, that weeks ago were started a pile of insurance papers are now being revealed as the snow melts layer by layer.  Evidence tapped in time and I feel like a passing roadside archaeologist uncovering fossils and evidence of how this highway traveling culture lived..  Pieceing together trails of wreckage, faded beer bottles, lonesome gloves, and making a story.  Enough chain-links from broken truck chains to make Mr. T. more than one beefy necklace. 

Halfway up Old Highway 99 there is a tidy little house sitting in the “U” of a tight switchback.  The yard extends to the shoulder of the road.  Gray concrete statues of saints sit on top of tall rounds of wood throughout the yard area.  In early winter the owner covered the statues with plastic sheeting, to protect the protectors.  Now the plastic is gone and the saints are there to greet me on my rides upwards, quietly watching as I curve around from below and above.  Me admiring their stillness, them admiring my breath, how easy it comes when the body is not solid concrete.

Angle of the sun is higher now which mean on longer rides I get sunned on,from the front, back, side.  Less lycra and more tan lines.  Going through more water means stopping off along my usual summer water spots to refill.

Beginning the time of year when garages are sitting empty, bucket seats now occupied, sports cars and convertibles with the top down.  Today I saw four Porsches, only one was red.  Motors are whirring, and yes, I saw the wife was driving the silver one.

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Of Spring.

The camera was wounded in action during the Kauai vacation.  It’s not a long story.  Result is I am without a camera for now.  So without the luxury and ease of photos I will do my best to capture and share spring here in Ashland with you.  Like back in the day of Lewis and Clark when expedition notes were an art form, transmitting discovery, science, wonder and emotion with simple written word.

This entry focuses on some of  the sights and sounds of Spring in the Rogue Valley.  I would say, “close your eyes and visualize the imagery and sound in your head”, but then you wouldn’t be able to read the words.  Maybe you can read it with one eye open.

Up the Green Springs climb squirrels rummage through the shade of the oaks.  Every now and then darting frantically in and out of the road.  When I can no longer see them I still hear their furry bodies rummaging through old oak leaves, sounds of patterned movements, I wonder if they are preparing to mount an ambush on my lycra and sweat soaked soul.  It has been a long winter, and they are probably hungry for something more fleshy than acorns.

Climbing up Old Highway 99, spring is moving forward.  Snow is melting, this is the last the lower slopes will have until next winter, now seeing that the first snow to fall is the last to melt.  Was once clean pristine white soft blanket mysteriously changing the landscape is now gravel stained ice chunk melting seeping wet across the warm dry road.

The birds’ song is different now, ending with more trills and less stacatto.  Semi-trucks using their muffler brake as they tumble down the Siskiyou Pass, chains stored under the iron framed belly of the beast, driver thankful to not have to deal with chaining his lady up to make it down safely.

Halfway up Dead Indian Memorial Road I hear frogs ribbiting, echoing from the marsh that was frozen over less than a month ago.  And now it is an unexpected and beautiufl symphony.

Motorcycles of all shapes, sizes and colors, with riders of all shapes, sizes and colors, pass by.  Harley hogs rumble deep into the road and Kawasaki crotch rockets send their high rpm scream into the thinning mountain air. 

The roads are home to many more wheels now, new ones, old ones, and mine, to explore something of the senses.

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Spring here now.

 

A little different than the NYC skyline... Oregon Spring love to my Brother and my Sister in the Big Apple.

Green Springs looking brilliant in her fresh green coat. Picture from about a third of the way up the climb. Emigrant Lake and Ashland visible to the north.

Cherry blossoms make a lively appearance, bowing the dust of the library shelves of the mind. Excited to explore the many tomes I've written in my mind yet have not read with my consciousness.

Raindrop dance, is actually not a delicate one.

Ladybugs gettin' steamy, Spring time means business time for the natural world.

Farmer's market starts up again which means more anatomically correct carrots. I must admit it was difficult to bring myself to pushing this one through the juicer...

A season of fertility and new growth. Two dollar bill to the first person who can correctly identify what species of bird is hiding beneath these shells.

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Hotel California.

 From a ride I took  few weeks ago… enjoy.

Cresting the Siskiyou Summit I get a view of Mt. Ashland from what normally is my view from Mt. Ashland.

Since living and riding and Ashland I have biked on I-5 on more than a few occasions.  One thing that always strikes me is the feeling of isolation and separation on such a busy road.  I feel much more connected to the road and surrounding environment on a small country road where I may see only one car in an hour.

The vast north-south swath that is I-5. A couple feet of rumble strips is all that separates me clad in lycra on my sixteen pound bike from multi-ton caffeine driven rumbling big rigs. In this region the I-5 corridor passes through some spectacular scenery, in a way this is the Pacific Crest Trail for high speed travelers.

Fifteen miles south of the Oregon border and the temperature had climbed fifteen degrees.  My jacket rolled up and tucked under my jersey, giving me a Quasimodo appearance.  I was certainly overdressed, and decided one of the wooden culvert covers would be an excellent “closet”, as you will see in the pictures I posted.

 

Now you see it...

...now you don't. When doing an out and back ride the advantage of stashing extraneous clothing becomes anenjoyable art of trickery, just don't forget it on the way back.

The road reminded me of a ride I did last summer on the Glendale-Powers Highway.  Small country road, amazing scenery, very little traffic, better road conditions than I expected.  However, what reminded of my ride last summer were the vehicles I did see.  Long caravans of government utility-type vehicles gave me the feeling I was entering into Area 51, as well as pairs of communication contractor vehicles, a few out of town tourist plates and that was about it.

The moment I saw the sign was bolted to the canyon wall I knew I was in for some spectaculasticar riding.

California Department of Transportation graced this stretch of road with more mile post markers than I have ever seen.  Mile post markers do mark each passing mile but in some areas there would be up to ten or twelve in just one mile, each noting the distance down to the hundredth of a mile.  The workers who had to put in the mile posts probably didn’t mind spending a little extra time in this beautiful river valley.  I noticed the first wildflowers, for me at least, of spring, yellow and purple blooming in bunches along the side of the road.

Looking west, the Klamath making its way to the Pacific. The current will be my companion for the miles.

Behold, the first wildflower of Spring, and it wasn't even March.

Old bridge along the way. There were a few of the old school boat-on-a-rope-on-a-pulley-on-a-rope-across-the-river contraptions as well.

The return trip sailed by, pushed by a slight tailwind and racing the shadow of the ridge line to the south spilling across the far bank of the river, soon to cover the road, I pedaled, smiled, enjoying the irony; freedom in the repetitive rhythm of riding my bike.

And just what type of service is this man providing, read "between the lines" and you'll see the reason for my wondering.

Yes, mile posts down to the hundredth of a mile, this would be a time trial specialists favorite road, with all the time checks and all...

This is beautiful life on a bike.

I got on I-5 and prepared to battle the howling headwind and grinding gradient until the Siskiyou summit fifteen miles and more than a few thousand vertical feet ahead.  Semi-trucks buzzing by became a welcome feeling since it meant a momentary respite from the strong wind urging me to turn around and pedal south until the light ran out.

Welcome home, thanks California but there is something about a state that uses block lettering on their "welcome" sign that warms my heart, (Cali uses cursive).

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Pacific Pulse: Day 6

Some beautiful spots can be found, this one literally just off the side of the road. Other spots require a bit more effort, such as te hike along the Na Pali Coast.

 Here are just a few more of the many pictures from the islands, I may post another round since there are alot still not up yet.  Remember you can always click on the image itself for a bigger view.

Walking by to see this above...

...means having these sweet little jewels in hand moments later.

 

Olivine crystals form in the gaseous pockets of basalt boulders. Over time wave action will free the crystals from the boulder, smooth them, round them, and create one of Hawai'is famous greensand beaches. This rock was much like the tangerine tree a couple pics above...

...the second time of the day, holding jewels in the palm of my hand. These ones were a little harder to gather, done caveman style: Thor pound rock on bigger rock, rock crush, Thor use clumsy hands to gather small crystals that fell out of rock.

Sun and the rain recognize the beauty in one another, and a rainbow is formed, much like the intention of the word namaste.

"In Hawaiian mythology, ʻŌhiʻa and Lehua were two lovers separated by the goddess Pele. Pele desired ʻŌhiʻa and when she could not have him she turned him into a tree. Lehua was devastated by this transformation and out of pity the gods turned her into a flower and placed her upon the ʻōhiʻa tree. Separating these united lovers is not encouraged, and it is said that when a lehua flower is plucked from an ʻōhiʻa tree, the sky fills with rain representing the lovers' tears." (Thanks Wikipedia)

Looking north the rugged Na Pali Coast, the trail is eleven miles long and ends at an idyllic stretch of fine white sand backed by green fluted cliffs, waterfalls pouring off to boulder strewn streams to the sea.

The trail winds in and out of rain carved valleys, taking you inward then out around wind exposed butresses that drop down to the blue ocean below. Each valley has a stream flowing through the trail, and sometimes the trail itself is a stream.

have you ever seen the movie, The Blue Lagoon, there is a part where the sailor tells the kids that if you look closely when the sun dips low you can see the ocean water boiling.

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Pacific Pulse: Day 5

The orchid is unique and many species grow wild in the tropical climes of Hawai'i. One of the most intersting facts is that orchids only have a vertical line of symetry, most other flowers have a horizontal and vertical line of symetry. In this way orchids are the flower which most accurately mirrors the human face, perhaps why each orchid variety creates a different emotion and reaction.

This small bay is a bird refuge and boasts a lighthouse.  Uncanny the resemblance to the Oregon Coast here. 

Foliage here takes on all shapes, sizes, colors.  I have no idea the name of this one.  I would guess something to do with Chinese lanterns.

Ocean energy is strong here with no continental shelf to slow the waves that have traveled thousands of miles to rest up on Kauai's sandy shores.

Hanalei Bay on the North Shore. Small kine waves for da wahine go surf.

Spring bring rain for rainbow green beauty.

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