The Ghost of a Husky

It's been awhile since I've been on my bike. So long, actually, that I've forgotten my bike's name. I know I named my bike at some point. I have a few very vivid memories about mountain biking from my naturalist days in the Santa Cruz mtns. One would be Wren telling me how great her new clip in pedals were. I still think of that, every time I am trying to climb single track and I choke going towards a log I know I can ride over, and I would have to clip out, if I had ever bought those awesome new clip pedals and shoes that I still, one day, probably will buy. For the power. And yeah, I'll probably fall down more once I do.

The second vivid biking memory is when Swamp told me the name of his bike. It was Nimbus, I do believe. I decided at that moment, in order to even have a chance at defeating Swamp in the bike portion of the triathalon, that I must also name my bike. Actually, it had nothing to do with beating him in the race, but everything to do with making me seem cooler in the eyes of, well, me. And yeah, I didn't beat him in that portion. As a matter of fact I think he won the whole damn thing. But hell, he was riding a high geared touring bike, and I only got second cause I was a better swimmer and had slicks and a higher geared crank set for my mountain bike.

I decided, yesterday, to get on board old what's-his-name, do some memorial day appreciation of the forest I live in, see how the old legs were holding out. Did some climbing, did some walking, did some dismounting for little tiny logs I should have easily conquered. Rode across a couple of bridges I have balked at before, did a couple of short tiny jumps just to see how it felt. Tried to ride down a set of wide, long stairs that were almost a hill anyway, and managed to scare myself into grabbing the brakes halfway down. Which only resulted in being awkward and uncomfortable, not painful, because I was already going slow out of fear. If there is one mantra I have while biking and trying to be tricky about it, it is "Speed is your friend". It's the same mantra I always forget until after I stop and yell at myself for being a wuss. Abbey always looks at me funny when I yell at myself. Here's a picture of Abbey looking at me funny.

So I ride my bike for a while. I remember the wonders of pedals and moving fast. The breeze blows in my eyes, the dust kicks up behind me, the trees blur into a green river. As I ride along the low road past Camp One a Great Blue Heron (GBH BFD) takes off in the beaver pond and flies towards the end of the pond, headed in the same direction I am. I smile, and pedal a bit faster, realizing I am keeping up with the beautiful bird. It perches on a downed tree for a moment, and I slow to check it out. It immediately takes off again and I feel a bit bad for disturbing it's late afternoon time. Probably it was doing some fishing, enjoying the peace and quiet, and I have to come zooming in like some vicious predator, out to eat it or at least ruin it's relaxation. Same with the kingfisher I saw today. Didn't appreciate me and the work truck driving by, had to fly around in a tizzy, looking for a perch to dissappear onto. I wish there was a way to tell the birds to chill, I just want to watch them for a bit. But then, I guess my dog would eat them.

After a bit of climbing, my lungs have had it on the hill, and I decide one good push was enough, time to head home, do it again in a day or two. I turn around and head down the same single track I just climbed. About halfway down I realize I feel great again and I am having a blast. I take a turn at the bottom of the trail, away from home, and do another small climb and some flat riding along the creek on the camp road. I stop at the dog hole and encourage Abbey to take a drink and fetch a few sticks in the deep pool. She does so, and I am just about sure, at this point, that she will sleep well tonight. Not only did she get a good 6 miles of running in just now, but she spent at least half the day down at the river swimming holes hanging out with random groups of people, who I am sure were introducing her to their own dogs and throwing sticks for her. It was Memorial Day, and it seems like everyone from the coast who had the day off drove out to Big River to welcome the summer and honor veterans of wars past and present by getting drunk or just soaking up sun at the river. A true tradition in the land of the free.

We head back towards home now. It's been a long work and play day for both of us, and I am looking forward to a beer, some dinner, and a good night's sleep as well. Coming up the final hill around the camp office, Abbey takes off for a minute. When I whistle, she shows up right away, but this time with another dog in tow. I stop, and they are checking each other out, real friendly like. The other dog is a beautiful young husky, trailing about 8 feet of green rope, torn at one end. When I notice the rope I figure immediately that this dog must have gotten away from it's owner down at the river, maybe even followed me and Abbey up here. But then something very strange happens. A white SUV with an official looking sticker on the door pulls into camp. The red emergency lights on top of the cab are on, but not flashing. They pull up to me and I recognize the man in the passenger seat. I introduce myself, telling them I work at the camp, asking if there is anything I can do to help them.

"Well, there's a vehicle that rolled up on the road back there," they explain, referring to the entrance road into camp, a long 4 miles of newly gravelled (hence very slippery) two lane dirt track, "and we are looking for one of the passengers from that vehicle."

"Is everyone alright?" I ask.

"Yes, but apparently, a dog was thrown from the back of the vehicle when it rolled, and the owner went to look for the dog."

"Huh. What kind of dog was it?" I ask, with my dog and the mystery husky standing right next to me.

"He didn't say." They call on the radio back to the scene of the accident, and find out that the dog was...a husky!

"I haven't seen any guy, but I have the dog right here." I tell them. It's a very friendly dog, so we tie it's rope to the fence near the office and they go looking for the guy. I take a ride down to one of the swimming holes to do the same, but I don't have any luck finding him. When I get back, I go to my house and bring the dog a bowl of water. I notice he has a tag on. His name is Satarius and there is a local phone number. I go back home, call the number, and reach the roommate of the dog's owner, who takes down directions. He says he doesn't know where the owner is, but he suspects that yes, he was at the river today. He says he will come get the dog.

I am very relieved that the dog is okay and will get home no problem. I relax, have my beer, make my dinner, and I am sitting watching a movie when my friend Scat (see photo below)comes to the door. He lives 3 miles down the road, further in camp at the Gatehouse in Camp 2. He is one of the naturalists. Scat is not his real name. He tells me that he just got back from driving a random guy to the pavement. Hmmm...

While Scat and friends were sitting, drinking and bbqing in Camp 2, a good 3-4 miles down deeper into the camp from where the vehicle rolled, and was righted by the fire department, and was able to drive away with all passengers except the dog owner intact, a random guy walked into Camp 2. This never happens. Camp 2 is, as I mentioned, deep in camp. And even where I live is a good 4 miles from any pavement, and another 6 miles of pavement to town. Well, this guy walks into camp, and Scat says "Hi. Can I help you?" Which is what you say when someone shows up at your camp, which is often an outdoor school for 6th graders with overprotective parents, and you really don't know this person and are wondering just what the hell they are doing way out in the middle of nowhere, walking, without a car, not hiking or biking or anything.
"Hi. Can I help you?"

"No you can't help me, nobody can help me, damn it." The guy responds angrily, in so many words.

"Oh. Well, umm, are you lost? Cause you are a bit far from anything? Do you want a beer?"

Scat, in his worldly hospitable ways (this man is a commendable man when it comes to hospitality, this Scat) manages to calm the guy down, and gets his story out of him while giving him a ride out to the pavement, about 8 miles from Camp 2. Apparently, this is the guy with the lost dog (you hadn't figured that out yet, had you?). When the truck rolled (trucks tend to do crazy things on loose gravel, like going completely sideways, and rolling) the guy's dog was thrown from the back of the truck, and I guess knocked unconcious. This guy gets out after the accident and sees his dog lying on the ground, not moving. Not really sure of the details, but apparently the guy thought his dog was dead. So he got real pissed at his friends, especially the driver, and walked off to ditch his dead dog in the bushes. Yeah, I guess that's what people do here, they throw their dead dogs in the bushes at the side of the road. Without checking to see if the dogs are breathing. What the fuck? I mean, even if the dog was dead, who leaves their dog in the bushes in the middle of nowhere?

After leaving the dog in the bushes somewhere, I am guessing this guy was real pissed off and decided to walk home rather than go back to his friends. Or perhaps, when he decided to go back to his friends, they were already gone. Well, the guy ended up in Camp 2, and Scat ended up giving him a lift to the pavement. I would like to think the guy made his way home safely, and found his dog, perfectly alive and probably a bit hungry, waiting for him.

This isn't the first time, and I am sure it won't be the last. Ask me about the stranded mushroom picker sometime.

Maybe I will name my bike Satarius. Does anyone know where that name comes from? I guess I will go google it.

Everything up till now - Yesterday

Do you remember the scene, or multiple scenes, from the movie "Goonies", during which Chunk (wasn't that the fat kid's name?) was asked by the evil criminals to tell them "everything"? Chunk rattles off all of his life story. God, what a classic joke. Still makes me laugh. At some point he confesses about being in a movie theater, and making puking sounds. And this causes everyone else to puke.

I puked this morning. Been a long time. I wasn't even that hungover. I think it was the half of a camel light that I smoked last night. God does my body hate cigarettes these days. But man if my mind doesn't love them. That's a vice, I guess. That's the way I grew up, that's the way I prioritized, for way too long. Putting mind before body, trying to live fast, die young, or at least sacrifice personal health, when necessary, for experience. What the hell?

I turned 30 last October. The revelations just won't stop. Here's one - retirement could actually be fun. So could everything from now until then, no matter what that everything turns out to be.

Here's another - being out of shape and inactive, at any age, is bad for the soul.

Here's another - naps are nice.

And another - naps are nicer when taken after doing something that makes you want to rest. Something, say, other than napping.

Way back when I was in college, I started a journal about smoking. I wrote in it whenever I was feeling a particularily high level or low level of appreciation for that number one vice, nicotine. I turned out some good thoughts. Probably a good 10 entries about how important it was for me to quit. How much I valued my health. Well, let's just say that consistency in that area was not my strong point, and still probably isn't. I stopped writing in that journal after the repetition of themes got tedious. Quit for health, smoke for introverted poetic creativity, quit for health, smoke for pain, quit for love, smoke for evol, quit for health, smoke to fill the void of time between thoughts.

So now, unintentionally, I am writing about smoking again. Well, fuck that. Let's get back to the puking.

It's like a gag reaction I get, some mornings, after smoking. A bad gag, then some phlegm, then I move on. Today was different. Today I puked.

The worst part is, I had just brushed my teeth. So I blew chunks, then I had to brush my teeth again. Hell.

Well, in the end, the puking sucked, and the cigarette was very unsatisfying and completely pointless. Broke my latest 2.5 week smoke free streak. This year was going to be the year, damn it.

The puking sucked, but if other events of last evening played a part, well I complain less. Cause I had a great night. I'd like to think it was a bit representative of summer nights here in the redwoods of the Mendocino Coast.

I love my Job.

A long day of work making campers happy - unclogging a clogged septic pipe - I can now add that skill to my resume. Also, checking the water system. Then, oooh, another clog, this time in a pipe between a sink drain and a grease trap. Speaking of puking, ever seen the inside of a grease trap? Damn, I really wish I had a picture to show you. Instead, here's a cute one of my dog.

Yeah. See, at work, I have to sometimes deal with grease traps. But I get to have my dog with me. And when the grease trap is done, I say, "Abbey, Up Up", and she, as damn awesome as a dog can be, jumps into the back of the work truck and rides with me wherever I am bound. Lucky dog.

I digress. A long day of work, clogged drains, clogged drains, water systems, and then a friend rents one of the Camps for his wedding reception and, last night, I have to decide between two different Memorial Day Weekend bbq kind of things, or a nap. I choose, as you may have guessed from the puking story above, to attend one event, then the other, then the first one again. And then work this morning. Damn, another thing I learned when I turned 30 - I can't quite handle this anymore.

These are the People in My Neighborhood

My goal, once I decided against the nap, was to get to the farm, maybe stopping along the way to visit the folks in camp who were celebrating matrimony. The trip to the farm is nice, because there are options. Farmer Cas is a really good friend and neighbor of mine. Actually, barring the folks I work and live with, he is my closest neighbor. Which means he is 3 miles away as the crow flies, or a half hour drive, all on dirt roads. But like I said, there are options. Take the wide, dusty, well travelled dirt road out of camp to the pavement, then turn right, and follow the narrow, well travelled, not too well maintained, county dirt road to the farm gate. Or, take the narrow, moderately maintained camp road 3 miles to the back of camp, deep in the dark redwoods, where it is always at least 5 degrees colder than at my house, where there are ghosts and maybe werewolves, then cross the sketchy looking bridge, turn around, and head up the not really maintained, but hardly ever driven, back road to the top. Get to the gate at the top, get out, open the gate, get back in, drive through the gate, get out, close the gate behind you, turn a hard right, drive 100 feet, get out, open the farm gate, get back in, drive through the gate, get out again, close the farm gate behind you, drive another couple miles of not really all that well maintained, kind of rutted, dirt road to the main part of the farm. Watch for pigs and guinea hens.

I chose the latter. I sometimes go the other way in order to avoid the tedium of the extra gate. Or really, maybe I go that way cause I don't want to get out of my car to deal with the gate, cause I am afraid. Of the ghosts, of werewolves, of Sasquatch. Yeah, I believe in Sasquatch. I don't believe Jack Black's interpretation of Sasquatch, or any of that bullshit from "Drawing Flies" about communing with the Bigfoot. I believe that Bigfoot is out there, and probably, he is pissed. You know, habitat loss and all. I'm pissed about it. Imagine how Bigfoot feels. So I don't want to run into Bigfoot in the middle of the night. Not literally run into, though that would suck too, cause I imagine it might be like hitting a moose, where the low bumper on my car hits bigfoot in the ankles or knees, then his massive torso goes through my windshield and I go squish.

Suitcase Sliding

Well, I made it to the farm. I did stop to say hi to the matrimonial celebrators on my way. I borrowed some of their food and a Barney Flats Oatmeal Stout, damn good thick stout from Anderson Valley Brewing Company. Yum. At the farm, I had another beer. Then I stepped onto the deck, and said hi to some good folks, including Jubal, who seemed a bit dustier than he usually is. Also, I noticed the farm four wheeler was parked near the deck, trailing a line of webbing from behind. Someone was trying to talk Dano into doing something that at first glance seemed kind of stupid. But, well, I was soon to recall how stupid sometimes also means fun.

Jubal put on a motocross helmet and a pair of work gloves and sat down on a folded pad directly on the middle of an open suitcase. He placed his ass on the ridge and his feet in two corners of the suitcase. Cas backed the ATV up so Jubal could reach the strap of webbing, and Luke jumped on the back of the ATV to be the "spotter". For posterity's sake, I guess.

The ATV started slowly moving forward, the slack in the webbing dissappeared, Jubal grabbed a PBR that someone handed him, leaned back and held on to the strap. The suitcase, with Jubal in it, slid across the grass, gradually gaining speed. The ATV and then the suitcase reached the dirt road, and they picked up speed and dissappeared into one of the back fields. About 5 seconds later, the ATV shows up, coming down a slight rise, with Jubal still astride the open suitcase, sliding along the dirt, probably at about 15 mph. By this point, he had lost his beer. It was beautiful. Four wheelers, spilled PBR, Jubal waving one hand like he's in a rodeo, hanging onto the strap with another. Cas turns and heads onto the lawn again, unwittingly driving over a hole that the farm dogs had dug. The front of the suitcase hits the doghole, and Jubal does a graceful shoulder plant onto the lawn. Ouch.

Needless to say, I had to give it a try. I did. I couldn't quite master the turns. I also tried riding half of a water drum, which proved a bit unsteady. So, suitcases make really good sleds when pulled behind an ATV. Gloves and a helmet are a must. Jubal managed to plant on the same shoulder again later. Hope the pain was worth the glory, buddy. In the end I took only one ride. The suitcases ended up as targets, later, when another friend surprised us with the 9 mm that he had brought to the party. Hell, I had never shot a pistol before. It was surprisingly easy.

No, that's not how I ended up hungover. Probably had nothing to do with puking this morning, other than helping me to work up a further thirst. But damn, I had to share. Riding a suitcase, while being towed behind an ATV, on a farm in the middle of the redwoods? Hell yeah. Never thought I would get the opportunity to do such a thing. Yeah. That's right. And afterwards we shot at stuff, drank beer, and ate bbq. Don't stereotype it.

So, slackers. Come visit Mendocino. You cannot ride suitcases in the city. Or wait, maybe you can.

The suitcase dirt track, off to the right. That yellow van used to be a chicken coop.