anthony wandered away

I Moved!

2010-01-02T10:20:00.000-08:00

If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress
If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress
If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress
If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress
If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress
If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress
If anyone reads this, I moved to Wordpress

Anthony

Papua New Guinea: Madang and the North Coast

2009-10-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

**Sorry it took me so long to post this- I just moved to Philadelphia, and have been busy looking for work and settling in here. That being said, I probably could have finished it sooner.**

Although the time we spent in the village was altogether new, exciting, beautiful, and humbling, something about cool weather, daily rain, and a steady diet of boiled root vegetables that lacked what the term "vacation in the tropics" evokes. To remedy this, Dan and I set out with my aunt, uncle, and cousin on the road to Madang, a coastal town with some nice beach resorts and beautiful coral reefs.

As with every trip in PNG, just getting there was an adventure in itself. The road to Madang took us down a mountain pass, through a flat valley full of sugar cane and oil palm plantations, and turned to a muddy dirt track cut through thick forests that roller-coastered up and down huge hills. Fortunately we were driving in Kathy and Neil's truck, so we didn't share the fate of the overloaded PMV's we passed as they wheezed and struggled up the slippery road. We later encountered a river ford, which involved driving over a concrete slab laid in a riverbed with about six inches of water flowing over it. Once the road the road turned back to pavement, it was smooth sailing... for about a quarter mile at a time. The sections of smooth pavement allowed the truck to reach about 40mph, at which time the headlights would reveal what appeared to be a gaping void. We'd brake just in time to roll over a set of monumental potholes, accelerate and repeat the process about a dozen times.

The Ramu valley, on the road to Madang

We got to Jais Aben resort late and fell into bed. When the next morning dawned, we could see how beautiful the place was. The rooms at the resort were made up of little duplex cabins right on the water, with huge trees stretching out over a bank undercut by waves. We were so close that the spray from the high-tide waves would get our windows wet.

The view from our cabin

The resort itself was fairly typical for tourist accomodation in the country: a very nice location, grounds and facilities, but lacking in the consistency that an American traveler would expect. One good example came at every meal, when whatever one or two of us ordered was out. It was never the same thing twice, but you could be assured that something was out. Once, when my cousin ordered a chocolate mousse, I noticed that it didn't look like it had in the past. With a closer look and a taste, I determined it to be cake batter. On the whole, the food wasn't boiled vegetables, so I'm not complaining.

On the upside there was... everything else. The weather was beautiful, hot but not very humid, the snorkeling literally right out our door was beautiful, and thanks to my uncle Neil, we made the acquaintance of a local villager named Chris, who gave us a great local perspective on the area.

Chris and his son

He took Dan, our cousin Tony and I our on his canoe to a little island close to his village, where we snorkeled around the island and combed the beach for seashells and coral pieces, which were everywhere. Dan, Tony, and Chris with the island in the background

Chris' canoe on the island

We also got to witness Chris climbing a 50-foot coconut tree with ridiculous ease.

It's hard to see in my lousy video, but the trickiest part comes when he's directly under the top of the tree and has to pull off any dead fronds and has to pull off any dead ones that could give out when he wrestles his to the treetop where the coconuts grow.

The next day we decided to head up the coast to another hotel where we ate lunch and went swimming at the black-sand beach.

There's a huge volcano in the background, at right half obscured by clouds.

The next day Chris also made us some harpoons out of metal rods cut from heavy fencing and some rubber tubing rigged up as launchers. We took them out to the beach next to the village for some practice trying to skewer some pretty little reef fish. Fortunately for them, I'm a very bad shot and after a couple of hours, I hadn't done more than annoy the fish that easily escaped my harpoon. Of course, when I finally gave up for the day, the six- to ten-year-old kids who were hanging out borrowed my harpoon gun and proceeded to get a bunch of fish.

For our last day, Chris borrowed a boat and took Dan, Tony, and I on an all-day spearfishing and beach hangout extravaganza along with about a dozen kids from the village. We all piled onto a decent-sized motor boat and took off for an island that's a popular hangout for people in the area.

Our crew on the boat

Another boat heading to the island

When we got to the island, the festivities began. The kids who had scuba masks or swimming goggles took off into the water and immediately began hunting fish mercilessly. Dan, Tony and I joined in and despite my best efforts, I managed to get a nice little fish right through the head. In the meantime, the kids had already put together several strings loaded with little fish.

some of the day's catch

Meanwhile, another boat overflowing with adults and kids came ashore, and several games of rugby/soccer/keepaway started. Everywhere there were kids running around, yelling, and doing flips into the water.

After several hours of swimming and playing around on the beach, we finally headed back to the village for some dinner. Although the kids caught a bunch of fish, they had already eaten most of them on the island, so we "caught" some fresh tuna from some Filipino sailors on giant tuna boats anchored nearby.

Dinner! Some of the best food we had in PNG

They also made us some Kava, which is a drink made from a crushed root that produces a sedative effect. They all made a big deal of how strong it was, but the effect was pretty mild, kind of like the opposite of coffee, with some slight facial numbness.

Drinking Kava
Baby in a Bag!

Baby in a Bag!

After the meal, we went about the long process of saying goodbye to Chris, his family, and everyone else who was hanging around. This of course required a long session of group photos!

Chris' sister Adele and her neice
Chris and his sons

Chris and a bunch of the kids from the village walked us back to our cabin at the resort. We thanked Chris, trying our best to successfully convey how grateful we were. He and his family made our last week in the country really memorable and pretty damn fun.

Papua New Guinea: Village Life

2009-10-18T07:59:00.000-07:00

After spending a week in Goroka, Dan, uncle Neil and I got ready to travel to the village of Samanzing, where he and my aunt Kathy do their translation work. We would take a PMV (public motor vehicle) on the five-hour trip from Goroka down to Lae on the coast, where we would spend a night and catch another PMV up to the end of the closest road to village, then hike eight hours to reach their village.

In Papua New Guinea, the public transportation is not run by the state; instead, the government grants permits for private vehicle to charge fares to carry passengers and cargo on a specified route. There are three main types of PMV: minivans allowed to carry 15, small buses that carry 25, and flatbed trucks which generally appeared to carry as many as possible. The crew on a typical PMV consists of a driver and one or two others, who hustle passengers and their cargo on and off the vehicle. When they are in a market, one will hang his head out the window and call out the destination over and over as fast as possible. When we got to the Goroka market, we searched the nearly identical toyota vans until we heard the call Lae-Lae-Lae-Lae-Lae! The PMV crew urgently gestured us over to the van, where we saw that there was only one seat left. By this time the crew was already attempting to jam our bags anywhere they could in the jam-packed cabin. I started to protest, to say that all three of us couldn't fit, when the 'baggage handlers' gestured to two of the passengers, who immediately got out of the van. Then they gestured to the newly vacated seats, and we squeezed aboard. I really felt bad about the guys who got kicked off, and how we got their seats because of our white skin, but later my uncle explained the real situation. PMVs will usually only depart once they've filled every possible seat, so the driver will get some of his buddies to fill most of the remaining seats on a half-full van. Potential passengers will be much more likely to get on a PMV that's about to depart, so they'll take the last open seat. One of the driver's buddies will get out, and the process is repeated until the van is full of real passengers.

Once we were packed into the van, our fare of 20 Kina (about eight dollars) was collected and we were underway. We headed east on the Highlands Highway, a narrow two-lane road that connects the Eastern Higlands with the coastal industrial city of Lae. The highway weaves through the highlands with lots of blind corners and many pedestrians and animals walking along the roadsides. This doesn't stop the PMV drivers from attacking the road at the fastest speed possible, passing other vehicles in the tightest of spots, and using the opposite lane to negotiate tricky corners while the tires squeal and the diesel engine strains. Our driver preferred to straddle the centerline of the road and would often mess around with oncoming PMVs by taking the opposite lane and waiting until head-on collision was uncomfortably close before moving out of the way. Periodically the road would be severely washed out and the driver had to come to a quick stop, then slowly roll over massive potholes. Slow traffic around the washouts also made a good opportunity for the driver to pass whatever other vehicles he could.

After our white-knuckle ride to Lae and a night in a hotel, we grabbed a PMV ride to Hobu, where the nearest road to the village ended. We started out on the trail, hiking in the intense tropical sun for a couple of hours before reaching the top of a ridge where we could see toward Lae and the ocean. On the other side were nothing but ridge tops poking out of clouds that clung thickly to the hillsides. Somewhere down in the clouds was Bilima, the village we would stay for the night before moving on to Samanzing.

The view toward Bilima

When we went over the first ridge, the weather and the forest seemed to change instantaneously. Thick clouds moved around us, sometimes dropping scattered rain on us. The vegetation was thick, so green, and nearly every tree and plant seemed to have another plant growing on it. We continued to hike the steep trail as it wound its way up and over ridges, across a river gorge, and over huge slopes scraped bare by landslides.

PNG hiking style: bare feet, heavy load, machete in hand.

After a few more hours, we arrived at the home of Yanga, a close friend of uncle Neil's who put us up in his family's traditional wood and bamboo house. The Mesem people construct their houses on stilts, using thin logs for the framework, hand-hewn boards for siding, flattened woven bamboo flooring, and a special type of dried leaves brought from the coast for roofing.

Yanga's house

All of the cooking is done in the house, over the open hearth. The Mesem don't use chimneys, so the smoke just seeps through the roof. Despite making the house really smokey, the woodsmoke actually helps preserve the leaves used for the roof by coating them with soot, which prevents plants from growing and weakening the roof. You can tell which houses are in need of a new roof by the number of plants sprouting out of them.

Yanga's wife at the hearth with two of her daughters
A village house in need of a new roof (new roofing is stacked under the
house at bottom left)

The next day, after a long church service led by Yanga in the Mesem language (which Dan and I did not understand at all,) some of the kids in the village became the tour guides of the day, taking us to a beautiful forty-foot waterfall, then getting us into a big, village-wide volleyball match that included everyone from middle-aged men to young children. The game was a great way to relate to the village people since we didn't have to know the language to join in on the fun. We played for hours, just knocking the ball around without keeping score.

While we were in Bilima, we also met a tame cockatoo named Cookie. He was adopted when some village guys cut down a tree and the young Cookie was found still in a nest. Since then he's been hand fed, and visits different houses in the village to beg for food by calling Cookie kai kai!, meaning 'Cookie eat!' or 'Cookie food!' The people oblige by feeding him some taro root or whatever they can spare. The guys who look after him also colored him with some blue ink so no one would try to hunt their pet bird. Cookie is so tame that he endures a ridiculous amount of prodding and harassment at the hands of the village kids, who gleefully provoke the bird without any regard for its big sharp beak. Fortunately Cookie never sought his revenge and took the abuse in stride.

Yanga's son Neil (named after my uncle) treats Cookie a little nicer

After two nights in Bilima, we hiked out to Samanzing along with another gang of kids and teenagers, who insisted on carrying our bags. I protested, trying to tell them that I could carry my own bag, but my uncle ensured me that they were being hospitable and I should accept. As it happened, a teenage girl ended up carrying my bag by putting the waist strap on her forehead and letting the bag hang upside down on her back. As we headed on down the trail, I felt every bit like some jackass explorer, haplessly wandering through the jungle with my army of porters.

When we got to Kathy and Neil's house in Samanzing, Dan and I were pretty surprised by how modern the place was, considering it's location. They had a gas stove, solar-powered hot and cold running water, and electricity from a small generator. Unfortunately, the scene in Samanzing was much more subdued than in Bilima, largely because one of the village men is mentally ill, and Neil's arrival invariably causes his condition to get worse. People were afraid that he might cause trouble, so Neil's friends would instead come to the house, where we would hang out.

One of the young guys in the village did take us out to see his garden above the village and brought us on a tour around the area. Masta was around 18 and is an entrepreneur, raising chickens and selling them in the village for a few kina. He also grows yams, taro, bananas, and sugarcane.

Masta with his new Alta shirt!

Masta showed us his garden and set about getting a chicken for our dinner. He called over his chickens with a clucking call, then Masta's little brothers selected a chicken and commenced pelting it with their slingshots until it was stunned. Then one of them picked it up by the feet and bashed it against a stump a few times, making sure it was good and dead. After some of the guys removed the feathers and innards, it was clear this was no factory farm bird. it was no more than a couple pounds, and once we roasted it, it was pretty tough. But it was meat, something that we hadn't had much of since we headed to the bush. Aside from the chicken dinner, we had been eating what the villagers eat, which involved lots and lots of boiled taro and greens. Ever since we arrived in the village, Neil's friends would bring a pot of food over and it would invariably be boiled or roasted taro. They simply don't have the resources to eat enough protein, and subsist mainly on a diet of vegetables supplemented occasionally by the meat of a slaughtered chicken or pig. Eating what they eat for a week made it abundantly clear what a luxury a varied and nutritionally balanced diet is.

Breakfast (and lunch, and dinner) time! Boiled taro and greens.

After four nights in Samanzing, we got back on the trail out of the bush, stopping in Bilima to stay another night with Yanga and his family. After a big meal of rice, canned mackeral, and sweet potato, Dan gave Yanga some shirts, a hat, and a flashlight in thanks for his family's hospitality. Yanga was thrilled and grateful, and over very sweet after-dinner tea, Yanga and his son taught us some simple magic tricks with matchsticks. Despite the huge gulf between our languages and cultures, we had a great time trying to figure out their tricks. It was one of the high points of the trip. Their hospitality and generosity were humbling.

Yanga and his youngest daughter

Yanga's wife and the girls

Yanga's son Neil holding giant 'bush turkey' eggs

After the obligatory photo shoot, we hit the trail toward the road and caught a PMV to Lae.

Within hours we were stuffing ourselves at Golden Rooster, the PNG equivalent of KFC. Fortunately there was no taro on the menu.

Papua New Guinea: Introduction

2009-10-11T11:35:00.000-07:00

Before I get into the details of my trip, I want to explain the reasons why my brother and I took nearly a month to fly about halfway around the world and tour around a country most people have never heard of. We probably would never have heard of Papua New Guinea ourselves had it not been for the sake of Neil and Kathy Vanaria, our aunt and uncle. They first came to the country in 1988 to engage in Christian missionary work and have worked on linguistics and bible translation for the Mesem people of Morobe Province for the bulk of that time.

Before we traveled to PNG, I admit I had an inaccurate view of their work, conjuring up the absurd image of my intelligent, good-humored aunt and uncle hustling people into church where they would thump their bibles and preach with religious fervor glinting in their eyes. That's a big exaggeration, but I did always assume that their role involved actively leading a church. In fact, the missionaries who built churches and preached to the Mesem people came and went years ago. Today, church services are conducted by Mesem people and although Neil and Kathy are both ministers, they only speak in church if they are asked to. What they have been doing all this time is is the daunting job of translating the New Testament into the Mesem language. This may not sound like over twenty year's worth of work, but their job does not mean plugging the text into Babelfish and sending the results to the printer's. Instead, they had to learn the language, create a written language since the Mesem had none, teach people to read it, employ Mesem people to help with translation, THEN go about the task of translating the text. Not to mention all the while they're dispensing basic medical care, enduring a variety of injuries and tropical illnesses, and raising their son Tony, now 16. Oh yeah, they're also the world's only non-native Mesem speakers.

Aside from their knowledge of the Mesem, they've lived and traveled to several parts of the country and are very familiar with the logistics of getting around and sightseeing in PNG. Needless to say, they were the perfect guides for us to experience what PNG is really like.

Before I talk about where we went, here's a map of the country with some markers on the places we visited:

View Papua New Guinea in a larger map

We started our travel in PNG by flying from Port Moresby, the capital, to Goroka, where our aunt and uncle had just moved just a week before after a two-year sabbatical in the US. Kathy and Neil live a few miles outside of town in what is basically a fenced and guarded housing development. They aren't wealthy by American standards and they don't seek to alienate the locals, but fences and guards are simply a fact of in a place where white people are all assumed to be wealthy. In a way this is correct since around 90% of the people in PNG are subsistence farmers with virtually no income at all. Simply having a truck, refridgerator, and some changes of clothes is enough to count as wealthy.

We spent most of our first week running errands and touring around Goroka. One of the first things to strike me about the place was the huge number of people walking the road and congregating in the markets and public spaces everywhere in town. Since there's so little work available, everyone with some food or other goods to spare will load it into a woven string bag called a bilum and head into town, hoping to sell whatever they can.
This results in the markets being packed with people all selling the same few goods: Taro (flavorless potato-like root), sweet potato, various leafy greens, carrots, homegrown tobacco, and betel nut.

The remains of a buai-chewing session: betel nut husks and a baggie of lime powder

Chewing betel nut, or buai, is a national obsession and is as prevalent as coffee or alcohol is in American culture. PNG's style of buai chewing also includes a plant called daka and lime powder made from ground seashells. The ritual of buai starts by biting open the fibrous husk of the betel nut, exposing the soft round inner nut. The nut is then chewed up, which yields a bitter, astringent taste that is really unpleasent. The next step involves taking the daka, a plant growth that resembles something like a long green baby corncob, wetting in the mouth and dipping it into a small jar or plastic bag of lime powder. Then the daka that is covered with lime is bitten off and chewed with the betel nut. The addition of the daka adds a spicy taste and diminishes the bitterness of the betel nut, while the lime powder creates a chemical reaction which stains the mouth bright red. Then all that's left to do is chew, enjoy the flavor and the slight stimulant rush, and practice your aim at spitting copious streams of bright red spit at anything that catches your eye. Buai spitting is so popular in PNG that the streets are littered with splatters of spit the approximate color and consistency of sriracha chili sauce. It may not sound appealing, but buai is so popular that when there was a betel nut blight, medicine and other essential goods were not getting distributed because the cargo trucks had no financial incentive to run since buai was their most lucrative cargo by far.

The Goroka Market

As soon as we entered the market, our presence caused a ripple effect among everyone we passed. People laughed, whispered with friends, pointed at us, or rushed up to shake our hands and ask that I take a picture of them. Most whites in PNG mostly avoid mingling with the natives in public spaces, so the spectacle of two young white guys in the market caused a big commotion. When we got to the bruce (tobacco) section of the market, a couple dozen people gathered around as if expecting a show. When a vendor handed me a newspaper-rolled bruce, the Goofy White Guy Show was on! I lit the bruce, inhaled too deeply, and coughed a huge cloud of smoke. Instantly the crowd around us erupted in a roar of laughter. I smiled and waved, looking around through copiously watering eyes. Then a young guy hustled me over to the old vendor who gave me the bruce and asked for a picture.

Bruce (tobacco) vendors

After I took it, I showed them the picture on my digital camera's screen, which triggered the Universal PNG Photo Reaction- people would crowd around, stare at the image, cry out in delight, call over other people to see, and shake my hand with a big smile on their faces. Then other people would want to see their picture, and I would be obliged to take their picture. It was rare to leave any photo opportunity without repeating this process several times and now I have dozens of pictures of people crowded around, mugging for the camera and giving the thumbs-up.

Vendors at the buai market

Our "White Guy Celebrity Status" continued when we went to Goroka's buai market.
Buai is hugely popular in PNG, and it is also shunned by nearly all white people in the country. Because of this, when people in the market saw us with the telltale red-stained teeth that come with buai-chewing, they would literally gape with disbelief, then exclaim things like Yu kai kai buai? Rait man! (You chew betel nut? Good man!) and shake our hands. Vendors would thrust samples of their product in our hands, just for the pleasure of having their picture taken and to watch the spectacle of white people chewing buai. When my uncle said that chewing buai was the best way to make friends in PNG, he wasn't kidding.

Buai vendor showing off the trademark red-stained mouth

Early mornings

2009-08-07T17:20:00.000-07:00

From Bicycle Tour 2007

Recently I picked up Aldo Leopold's "A Sand County Almanac" at the local recycling drop-off. It's very good, which makes me wonder why I never got around to reading it when it was required course work for a college class... good thing I got a second chance at it. The book contains Leopold's observations of wildlife on and around his farm in central Wisconsin. These observations are blended with general bits of biology, botany and history, as well as some transcendent moments of philosophy that resonate through Leopold's clear, simple, and heartfelt voice. Here's a favorite passage of mine:

One hundred and twenty acres, according to the County Clerk, is the extent of my world domain. But the County Clerk is a sleepy fellow, who never looks at his record books before nine o'clock. What the would show at daybreak is the question here at issue.

Books or no books, it is a fact, patent both to my dog and myself, that at daybreak I am the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over. It is not only boundaries that disappear, but also the thought of being bounded. Expanses unkown to deed or map are known to every dawn, and solitude, supposed no longer to exist in my county, extends on every hand as far as the dew can reach.

The notion of dawn as renewal has long ago descended into cliche, but Leopold manages to express the feeling of freedom that comes with rising early. To me, being out in the early morning gives me a feeling of almost giddy excitement and energy, as if everyone else had suddenly vanished and I had a solitary claim on anywhere I went. I often got that feeling while bike touring- I would start riding shortly after sunrise, and I would have the cool gold light and long shadows to myself for a time before seeing the first car on the road or tractor chugging through the fields.

Waking up early can be a way for me to feel like I have an extra degree of control over my surroundings. Work and other obligations are still hours away, housemates are still in bed. I can tiptoe out for an early bike ride and make it back home to make breakfast and coffee without the clutter of idle, necessary interactions. Of course, the solitude is bound to be broken, but it's nice to experience the illusion of calm control that the morning brings.

From Sunrise on Camel's Hump

New stuff down the path

2009-08-02T22:00:00.000-07:00

Here's some new street art that recently popped up on one of the bike paths around town. The words are spaced about thirty feet apart as the path goes down a steep hill. They're far enough apart so bikers can only see one word at a time as they ride down the hill. The message serves as a reminder of what a bike ride is good for: putting aside one's problems and realizing that life can be simple, if only for the length of the ride.

Westward Ho: Back in Utah

2008-11-09T18:00:00.000-08:00

After a long journey, I finally rolled into the Alta Peruvian Lodge on Friday night. I was wired, tired, and stinky from two days of mountain biking in Moab. My car was dirty, running poorly, and the new home of a stowaway mouse.I'm not sure how or where he got in, but he quickly made himself at home in my glovebox with a nice bed of seat-stuffing. The mouse has so far eluded two peanut-butter rigged mousetraps and made a daring escape from a bag of bagels just as I picked up the bag. As it stands right now, I'm not sure what to do about the mouse, but I feel he's proven himself worthy of living in the car until I figure out a way to get him out.

From Utah 08-09

the car north of moab, with mouse aboard.

From Utah 08-09

As for mountain biking, my buddy Kyle and I rode some great stuff in the Moab area. The first day was on the Slickrock trail, generally regarded as the most famous mountain bike trail in the world. The trail consists mostly of riding on sculpted domes of sandstone on a mesa with views of Moab, Arches National Park, and the La Sal Mountains. Overall the riding isn't spectacular, but it's definitely very aesthetic and a real icon of mountain biking.

From Utah 08-09

Kyle with the La Sal mountains in the distance

From Utah 08-09

Riding down one of the sandstone domes

Our second day was at the Sovereign Singletrack, which is a really well built trail network that travels on several rocky ridges in the sandy desert north of Moab. There are lots of technical climbs, scary downhills, and awesome lines through streambeds and between boulders. Definitely top-notch.

From Utah 08-09

Kyle motoring down one of the ridges at Sovereign

From Utah 08-09

My mountain biking style in full effect

On the snow front, Alta received some 46 inches of snow two days before I got here. Yesterday I hiked to the top of the Wildcat lift to ski Westward Ho. I had visions of sailing through the powder, arcing beatiful, perfectly executed turns (I practiced in my head all summer) but I ended up falling a lot and generally beating it up. But regardless of that, I'm still pumped up to ski this season. Most of my friends from last year are already here, and we're all ready to get after it. This year I'm going to start skiing some of the massive backcountry opportunities to be had straight out my door. Since I'll be working in the ski shop this year, I can get really good discounts on the gear I'll need (20% off wholesale!?!) so that should make things that much easier.

Back to Alta

2008-09-03T04:30:00.000-07:00

I've been wavering back and forth about whether I should go back to Utah pretty much since the minute I left the place but yesterday I finally made a move. Looks like I'll be working in the Alta Peruvian Lodge gift shop starting in november. My conversation with the gift shop manager went something like this:

"Hey Steve, it's Anthony Locicero, from last year."
"Maaanthony!"
"I'm thinking about working in the gift shop this year."
"Consider yourself hired. When do you want to start?"
"Mid novemb-"
"Perrfect! I'll see you then."

Now that I've made up my mind, I've been getting more and more excited to get back. I just ordered up a new pair of tele boots which will replace my 10+ year old low-cuff, too-big boots. It'll be nice to return to the P-dog since I know a lot more about the ins and outs of how things work (or don't work) at the lodge. It's going to be pretty funny watching all of the newcomers adjust to the way of life at the lodge. Some highlights include:

-freaking out about size of mountains
-discomfort/disgust/abject horror concerning living conditions
-mild enthusiasm over all-fried food diet quickly fading into grim routine
-talking about skiing, watching ski movies, discussing everyone's skis, flexing skis
-opening day: utter mayhem and bliss

As for me, I'm ready for the crappy food, cramped quarters, and the pungent and pervasive man-stink of the fort. Just give me snow in return.

From Utah and Colorado travels, spring 2008

Alta has snow.

2007-12-10T21:07:00.000-08:00

Well, Alta finally got one of its trademark storms, and we were left with around 3 feet of fresh, fluffy powder that fell from friday to sunday morning. Too bad it was a weekend storm- the place was crawling with people roaming the mountain, devouring the powder. Things have picked up here at the Peruvian too, and I've been working in the kitchen a good bit lately. My writing has been coming along too, and I've been producing some good work.

Opening Day

2007-11-30T09:35:00.001-08:00

It's opening day at Alta and Snowbird, I've got the day off, a big snowstorm is coming in, and I lost my pass! Starting the season off exactly the wrong way. Looks like I'll be spending forty bucks I don't have to get a new one.

It's bitterly ironic that Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost things.

dammit.

My arrival in Utah: Pre-snow

2007-11-10T09:19:00.000-08:00

After three long days of driving, I finally arrived at the Alta Peruvian Lodge to begin my winter job. The season doesn't open until the 15th, and the snow cover is pretty spotty, so the main occupation at the involves socializing with the other employees (there are about 25 here so far) and taking hikes around the area to scope out ski spots. I've yet to start working in the kitchen, but there should be some work for me in the coming days. The scene here at the APL is very relaxed, and pretty much everyone is laid-back and easy to get along with. However, there is a strong undercurrent of tension since everyone has been talking about skiing and riding, talking about their gear, watching ski movies, and pretty much everything else aside from actually skiing. There is a cold front moving in that will hopefully bring some new snow in the coming days, so we'll see what happens.

Here are some pictures from a hike we took the other day:

Mt. Superior

A huge gap jump in the foreground, Mt, Superior in the background

looking up towards Wolverine

Alta with just a bit of snow

the Alta base area

the group at the top of Grizzly

I like snow.

On sunday we received a few inches of dense snow, so today a bunch of us hiked up the shoulder of Baldy to take some turns. It was surprisingly good skiing, and although I was scared of destroying my skis on a rock, it didn't happen.

Hiking up to Baldy

High Sunspot across the bowl

a frosty Mt. Superior

Baldy after riding down

The Alta Peruvian Lodge (left) and our dorm (right) dwarfed by Superior

After the fact: contemplating a book

2007-10-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

Now that my summer of travelling has well and truly ended, I'm left here in Vermont for a few weeks before the car trip out to Utah. Numerous friends and family have complimented me on my writing in the blog, and I have been thinking about writing some articles, poems, and maybe compiling a book about the experiences I've had on the road.

This would be a pretty big step for me as a writer, since I haven't ever written anything more substantial than term papers in the last few years. I've determined to approach the writing task with a similar approach as I did the bike tour: tell a bunch of people about the wild plan I have to do some huge and daunting task, which leaves me no choice but to go ahead and do it, if for no greater reason than to keep my word.

Since I'll be spending my winter at the Alta ski resort, which provides little in the way of off-hour entertainment (aside from skiing) I've decided to take this opportunity to jump headfirst into my writing. Watch this space to find out where you can find my material. Even if this stuff never gets published, and I never make a cent, watch this space for poems, stories, and articles about the bike tour and my time in Utah.

PS- As of last week, Alta had a foot of new snow! ha!
Also, if you want to come out here and visit me and sample the best snow in the world, don't hesitate to drop everything and get the hell out there!

Colorado: Lots of large mountains

2007-09-20T11:02:00.000-07:00

Hey, since I got the job at Alta, I decided to take a winding route through the Rockies and ride up some mountains! From Gunnison I took Highway 92, which hugs the Cuercanti Creek Canyon and the Morrow Point Reservoir. Lots of great curves, rock formations, aspen groves and views of the water below. This would be an excellent motorcycling road (mom and dad, wink wink.)

From there I descended into a drier, more desert-like landscape as I continued north.

I then climbed up through several mining towns, where conveyor belts of coal churned out from the hillside. I was tempted to swim in the river running paralell to the road but there always seemed to be a coal mine upstream from where I was.

I continued uphill to summit McClure pass. Although it's 'only' at 8755ft, it was a pretty long and difficult climb that wore me out.

But as usual, the view from the top of a mountain pass makes up for the pain of the climb.
The road down the other side of McClure Pass was quintissential Colorado- riding through a narrow river valley surrounded by high rock walls. The river looked ripe for fly fishing, and on my morning descent I saw a few guys taking casts.

My next destination was Independence Pass, which climbs up from Aspen to a height of over 12,000 feet. Narrow, cliff-hugging sections of road, river gorges, pine trees, and (duh) aspen trees made this easily the best, most scenic ride of the tour. In several places the road is chiseled from the side of a cliff and the road is scarcely one lane wide. Since the pass makes the shortest connection between Aspen and the Leadville area, there is a ton of car traffic that travels the pass. Fortunately the road is so narrow that people are forced to drive slowly.

Before I forget- thanks Bruce from the Aspen area, who saw me looking confused on the roadside and stopped his truck to give me advice on the road to Independence Pass. Bruce has ridden cross-country before and we discussed the overwhelming hospitality to be found in the midwest, among other things.

Anyway, here's a small sampling of what Independence pass has to offer:

They're barely visible at this size, but there are people climbing this cliff. If you can spot the belayers at the bottom right side of the rock wall (where the rock has black streaks running down it,) it gives you a good feel for how big this wall is.
Independence has several National Forest campgrounds at a pretty high altitude, and I spent the night at the well-named Lost Man campground, only a few miles from the top of the pass. If you're looking for a good place to spend the night up there, I highly recommend it, as its in the midst of a beautiful alpine forest and many of the campsites are right on the bank of the river.

The next morning I made for the summit of Independence Pass, and nestled in the top of the river valley is the ghost town of Independence, which at one time mined for gold. Apparently there were year-round residents, which is pretty staggering considering it was located at around 11,000 feet in sight of the top of the pass.

As I continued toward the top of the pass, the view looking down the valley was spectacular and ever-changing due to the scattered clouds which intermittantly cast the landscape in light and shadow.

Those silver squiggles in the above picture are the headwaters of the river that flows all the way down the valley to Aspen.

The top of the pass was a great example of high alpine tundra, and the landscape was stark and very windy.

The descent from Independence was epic. Lots of steep grades, hairpin turns and awesome scenery that went on for miles.

I should also note that mid-September is the height of autumn in the high mountains here, and all of the brush and deciduous trees were turning colors.

The next pass on my list was Fremont pass, and it was a definite change from the mostly unspoiled beauty of Independence. There's a molybdinum mine on the top of Fremont, and the valley at the top of the pass has been filled in by tailings (debris pulled out of the mine) and runoff. A sobering look at the industry by which much of Colorado was settled and developed.

That pretty blue pool is runoff from the mine, and the yellow mound on the side of the mountain is a pile of tailings pulled from below the surface.

This pristine-looking body of water is on the other side of the road from the tailing fields and is a reservoir that is likely used as a water supply for the mine.

After descending Fremont, I was left at the foot of the Copper Mountain resort, right off of Interstate 70. My goal for the day was to get to the town of Frisco, where I hoped to deliver a wallet I had found in the middle of nowhere in Wyoming. I figured I should do a good deed by returning the wallet to start paying back the large karmic debt I owed to the people who have helped me along the road.

After hitchhiking to Frisco (I-70 is the only road from Copper to Frisco) I went to what I thought was the home of Robert Dunahugh, the owner of the wallet I found. After leaving a note on the door of what I assumed to be his house, I had nothing to do but wait for him to find the note and give me a phone call. Since it was Saturday night, I knew the best way to kill some time was to go out and sample the local nightlife. I ended up choosing the Moose Jaw, a local bar with a very casual and relaxed feel. After a drink or two, I pulled out the wallet and called over the bartender, handing him the driver's license from the wallet. He took one look at it and said "Sure, I know Bob! Where did you find this again?"
I told him, and he laughed and called to the waiter if he knew Bob's phone number. This whole exchange picqued the interest of several other people, and eventually one guy rushed off to go find Bob. A few minutes later, he returned with Bob Dunahugh, the owner of the wallet. We immediately struck up a conversation, and he bought me a drink with the money from his lost wallet. Apparently, he was riding his Buell motorcycle home from the Sturgis motorcycle rally back in early August when the wallet fell out of his jacket.
I also learned that Bob was a former road bike racer, and had done a fair bit of bike touring, including a European tour with his daughter. Since he is a native Coloradan and an avid biker, he told me about some good places to ride on the way back to Boulder.
Overall, I'm really glad I happened to find the wallet, and meeting Bob was a great addition to my trip. It feels great that through a serendipitous turn of events I was able to help someone out who happened to be a bike tourist as well.

Frisco from the end of the Reservoir at the edge of town.

From Frisco I headed up past several ski resorts, including Keystone and Arapahoe Basin, on the road to Loveland Pass. Loveland was yet another great pass with some great views.

The view down the valley from Arapahoe Basin.

I spied this sticker at Arapahoe Basin. Apparently a Smuggs skier had to represent some hometown pride while skiing in Colorado. Awesome.

Standard "Top of the Pass" picture. You can see the storm fronts in the background that were rapidly moving in on me.

Getting my game face on as I prepared for the cold descent from Loveland Pass.

Next up on the hit parade was Berthoud Pass, which required a slightly (very) hairy ride on I-70, which at several points is the only through way going east-west. Once I left the Four Lane Death Zone, I rode through the rapidly fading light toward the pass, figuring I could get over it before nighfall.

Unfortunately, my map didn't show the eight massive switchbacks that I had to climb, and I consequently ran out of light and energy before the top of the pass. I ended up camping near a trailhead close to the top, and fell asleep quickly, exhausted.
It rained intermittantly through the night, and by morning it had changed to a frigid and pelting sleet. In the process of breaking down my tent and getting my things together, my shoes and gloves soaked through and my tent became saturated. The temperature continued to drop to below freezing, and the precipitation changed to snow. So at 10,000 feet, with soaked gear and extremities, I made the executive
decision to head to lower elevations.

I tried riding down, but the stinging snow and the cold were too much for me to bear. So I ended up sticking out my thumb, scoring a ride all the way to Golden, on the outskirts of Denver. From there, I decided to ride to Boulder to stay with my friends Chelsea and Dan until my flight back to Vermont.

I know that some people would criticize me for turning back, and not toughing out the weather, but at that point I figured that I wasn't enough of a masochist to finish out my trip with soaking wet gear. I guess I'm not the toughest tough guy.

So I ended up riding to Boulder, where the weather was about 75 degrees and beautiful. It's crazy the amount of variance in weather that can be found out here depending on the location and elevation.

The Flatirons, the mountain range which Boulder is at the foot of.

So that's it folks, the end of the tour for now. Look here in the upcoming months for epic skiing pics from Alta, Utah and future adventures. Feel free to email me if you like, and check out the link to my online photo albums from the bike tour. There are many more pictures there that I haven't posted on my blog.

A more concrete plan for the months ahead

2007-09-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

Well folks, this looks like the end of the line for my bike tour, at least for this season. Upon leaving Gunnison, I decided to take the scenic route through the Colorado Rockies. I ended up crossing the continental divide three times and saw some of the most amazing scenery of my life. I'll elaborate on that further (including pictures) in an upcoming post.

During my stay in Gunnison, I began to look at options for winter employment. I applied to work at several different resorts throughout the west and ended up getting a cooking job at Alta resort in Utah at the Peruvian Lodge. I've heard from numerous sources that Alta's snow is among the best and most plentiful in the world, with around 500 inches of light, fluffy powder falling each year.

Needless to say, I'm psyched about spending over five months working and skiing at Alta. The head chef seems like a cool guy, one of the first questions he asked me in my interview was "How wide are your skis?" When I told him, he urged me to buy some much wider ones to deal with all of the snow. He also told me that whoever works and skis the hardest will get the best shifts at work, so I'm taking that as a personal challenge.

Oh yeah- Sorry friends who snowboard, Alta is 'skiers only.' Personally I think that kind of elitism is stupid, since a good snowrider is a good snowrider, regardless of whatever is strapped to their feet. I'd rather be on a mountain full of experienced snowboarders than one filled with novice skiers, but apparently Alta is a place steeped in both legend and tradition, and those who run the place don't want to stray from long-held values. Luckily, Snowbird resort is right next door, on the same mountain, in fact, and if any snowboarders want to come out I'll definitely take some turns on Snowbird with them.

Right now I'm staying in Boulder with Chelsea and Dan until I fly back to Vermont on the 28th. While I'm back home I need to buy a car, pack it up, and make the drive out to Utah by the 10th of November. It's going to be strange traveling in three to four days by car the distance it took me two months to travel by bike. I was thinking I might follow some of my bike route by car in order to gain a different perspective on what I saw while travelling, and maybe to stop by and say hello to some of the people I met along the way.

If you think you want to come out this winter, let me know. Everyone in Vermont, I'll see you soon. If I met you on the way, thank you for giving a ride, food, company, and conversation to a weary traveller. It meant the world to me and made all the difference between a hard, lonely journey and an amazing and enjoyable one. Also, I intend to continue travelling by bike, and I look at the end of this summer's bike tour as nothing more than a pause in a journey that will hopefully last for a long while.

Where I'm going from here

2007-09-08T18:38:00.000-07:00

Car camping north of Ouray, Colorado

I've been in Gunnison, Colorado for about a week and a half, visiting with my brother, enjoying myself in the Rockies, and trying to sort out what I'm going to do for the upcoming winter. I love to ski, but I've never sampled the snow west of Vermont. In order to rememdy this, I've been applying to work at several western ski resorts for seasonal work. So far I've applied to Alta, Snowbird, Copper, and Big Sky. I've heard back from Alta and Copper, and they both appear to promising job leads. When I get hired, I'll be getting a free season pass for skiing and either free or heavily discounted ski tickets for friends or relatives. (Pat and Kyle, I'm looking in your direction- or in the direction of anyone, for that matter.)

For now I'm putting the rest of my journey on hold for the season to head back to Vermont by plane. While I'm back home I'll visit my friends and family, look for a car (and more importantly) fatter skis to buy, and get ready to drive out west and spend the winter busting my ass in the kitchen and on the mountain.

Until next time, here's a fat marmot:

Eastern Wyoming, Colorado

2007-09-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

Dan and on top of Mt. Elbert. (click above for pic)

Well, it's been a long time since the last update, and I've covered a lot of ground since I left the Black Hills. Crossing the border from South Dakota to Wyoming found me in some very wide-open country (or desolate, depending on your viewpoint.) I left from Edgemont, SD, right on the Wyoming border, and rode south for about 80 miles without seeing so much as a village. Dry brown grasslands, cattle, and some rocky buttes and bluffs were all I saw that day. I ended up spending the night on top of a large hill that overlooked the road. The only light came from the stars and the glimmering headlights of approaching cars, which I judged to be visible from 15 miles distant.

The next day's riding found me in Wheatland, a city of around 4000 people. Being as it was saturday night, and I do enjoy a drink or two, I made my way to the Landmark Bar on Main Street. There was the usual crowd to be found in such a place on such a night: bikers, old timers leaning over their drinks, and a rowdy crowd shooting pool in the back. I assumed my usual role of the quiet traveller, keeping to myself as I wrote, and doing little to fit in with everyone else in the place. I had several short conversations with the people near me at the bar, but I mostly kept to myself. The evening continued in this manner until the jukebox was fired up, and Toby Keith's new-country anthem "I love this bar" pounded through the room. The guy who put the song on then proceeded to shake hands with every person in the bar. His music choice seemed to loosen everyone up, and a cowboy-hat-wearing guy at the bar began to buy drinks for the whole place. After I was good and lubricated off of the beer and whiskey, I began mingling, and someone shoved a couple dollars in my hand.
"put some songs on the jukebox, just make sure two of 'em are country," he said slowly and deliberately. I picked out a Conway Twitty tune and some Alan Jackson song, then the jukebox decided to play a horrible alterna-rock song before moving on to the country music.

After a few games of bad pool, I continued talking to Larry, the guy who funded my jukebox choices. I told him about my trip so far, and I learned a little about him too. As the night drew to a close, Larry offered to take me out to breakfast the next morning before I left town.

That night found me in the town park where I pitched my tent. In my compromised state, I neglected to notice the sprinklers that were watering the grass in another part of the park. Sometime during the night I awoke to what sounded like a hurricane-force downpour followed by a couple seconds of silence, then the deluge again. Through the haze of sleep and drink, I deduced that the sprinklers in my part of the park had started up. I briefly contemplated going back to sleep, but thought better of it. It was almost a shame that no one else was around to see me, bleary-eyed and clad only in boxer shorts, squinting and grumbling as I hustled to get my tent away from the sprinkler's path.

The next morning, Larry kept his word and we went to breakfast. When I mentioned I was heading south toward Cheyenne, he offered to take me there, as he and his wife were going that way to buy a dryer. I accepted his gracious offer, and two hours later was at the Flying J Truck Stop, thumbing for a ride. I felt like a bit of a fraud standing there with my perfectly operational bike, since there was a guy with only the clothes on his back and a cardboard sign that simply read "stranded."

Luckily he was headed the opposite way, so I didn't feel too guilty when I accepted a ride from a woman driving from Gillete Wyoming to Colorado Springs. She was picking up her two teenage sons who, with two other friends, had driven to Colorado Springs to see a concert. They had totalled their car, allegedly because of a van that crashed into them and took off. Since none of them had driver's licenses, they did what any out-of state, unlicensed, teenage driver would do: they ditched the car and ran away.

So naturally, they left it up to mom to rescue them.

She dropped me off outside of Boulder, where I was to visit Chelsea and Dan, friends of mine from Vermont who had recently gotten married. I visited with them a few days and checked out Boulder. It's been compared to Burlington, VT because of it's "progressive," outdoorsy, college-town feel, and I can see the similarities. There's the Pearl Street Mall, a street converted into a touristy open-air mall, which was designed by the same man who conceived of Burlington's Church Street Marketplace. However, there are some differences- Burlington is filled with rundown old houses that have been hacked into apartments for students, whereas in Boulder all of the single-family homes are renovated and sold for around a million dollars each. Boulder also has the veneer of widespread and rapid expensive development, which is somewhat less prevalent in Vermont.

Anyway, I hung out in Boulder with Chelsea and Dan for a few days, got offered a job at a sushi bar, and ate some good food. When I visit with friends it can be easy to want to just hang out and lose focus on riding further, but I dragged myself together and headed toward Gunnison, Colorado, to visit my brother.

On the way, I travelled through several 10,00-foot mountain passes, and got my first glimpse of a 14,000+ foot mountain, of which there are over fifty in Colorado.

That's Mt. Princeton, as seen from Trout Creek Pass.

I ended up not riding up Monarch Pass, the crazy long and scary pass over the continental divide- Dan ended up picking me up in his car. It's just as well, anyway, since it started pouring rain and I had already ridden close to 100 miles that day.
We ended up going out for dinner in Gunnison- The Gunnisack Restaurant's award-winning Chicken-Fried Steak. Thanks to mom and dad for treating us to dinner!

Since I've been here we've been fishing, hiked the tallest mountain in Colorado, and did some amazingly epic mountain biking in Crested Butte, which is just down the road. Yesterday we did about six hours of riding, easily my longest and best day of riding, bar none. the definite high point of the day was Trail 401, which climbs up a 10,000' mountain pass only to continue to climb up the side of a steep valley. The downhill was an amazing traverse and downhill on the side of an open alpine meadow, with some fast switchbacks through aspen groves. The scenery included huge mountains,
cliffs, an enormous valley, and a group of glowing blue alpine ponds. It was incredible. Unfortunately, I was having too much fun (and crashing too much) to bring my camera with me, so no pictures. It's just as well because even pictures couldn't do justice to the experience.

Fishing in the Cuercanti Creek trail in the Gunnison National Park.

The view from the summit of Elbert.

Quick update: Badlands, Black Hills

2007-08-23T10:31:00.000-07:00

Hey, just a quick one today- the thunderclouds are once again rumbling over South Dakota and I've got to get moving. Passed through the Badlands yesterday, really awesome rock formations that go on for miles. Crazy buttes, spires, buttresses, mesas, and all of it is banded throughout with red and beige rock layers. Every time I rounded a bend in the road, I was treated to another great view.

I also want to send huge thanks to Zach and April Kilgore of Winner, SD, who graciously put me up for the night in their house and treated me to dinner. I met Zach in the park, where I was fixing myself a dinner of Vienna sausages and spaghetti. He walked over, struck up a conversation, and after hearing that I was planning on staying in the park, invited me to stay with his family. I can't thank them enough, really generous and good-hearted folks.
I'm in Rapid City right now, which is sort of the gateway to the tourist mecca thqt is the black hills. Kind of seedy and run-down, lots of pawn shops.

and here's what appears to be a man offering a sacrificial baby to a majestic eagle.

Iowa's done, on to South Dakota

2007-08-17T10:33:00.000-07:00

Well, I never thought it would happen, but I finally crossed the border to South Dakota. Iowa is finally behind me. My overriding impression of the place is that the riding is hopelessly boring, but the people there more than make up for it by being incredibly generous and friendly. Two nights ago in Laurens, Iowa I was invited to stay the night at someone's house, and yesterday I had another good encounter in Boyden, Iowa.
I was sitting at a picnic table at the town park in Boyden when I saw a man carrying a bunch of fireworks in one hand and a propane torch in the other. He then continued to shoot off multiple fireworks in different directions, aiming them at dangerously shallow angles through the trees. I watched him with some degree of confusion, assuming him to be a pyromaniac who just needed to relieve some tension by setting off some explosives. After he was done with the fireworks display, he started walking toward me. I braced myself for a bizzare conversation with a potentially unstable individual, but my fears were soon put to rest. Turns out, the park has a problem with birds pooping on all of the playground equipment, so as a member of the town council, it's his duty to frighten them away with fireworks. We chatted a while, and I learned his name was Ken. He went home and left me in the park, and I continued to sit, eating dinner and reading. Before long, Ken came back and invited me up to his house up the street so I could take a shower. After the shower, he and his wife fed me ice cream, and we talked some more. Before leaving, I gave them my blog address, so if you're reading this, thanks again!
One of the few interesting features of the midwestern agricultural landscape is the wide variety of crop identification signs to demarcate which brand and variety of seeds are being used on a particular plot. There are a good number of brands, each with their own unique logo. My favorite by far is from Dekalb.

Seriously though, how awesome is that? It's a FLYING EAR OF CORN!! If I was into stupid tattoos, I would get this tattooed on my chest. If anyone out there works for them, send me a t-shirt or some stickers. That would make my dreams come true!

Today I was able to watch a crop-dusting airplane in action. It flies no more than ten feet from the ground in order to spray the field with pesticide. It then banks high and wide to double back and spray the next row. I even witnessed the plane flying under some power lines in order to spray the crops.

I also saw some interesting roofing today:

I always knew Jesus was a carpenter, but apparently he's a roofer too! I hope the people who own that house didn't mind him signing his name like that.
(bad joke, but I couldn't resist.)

Since I didn't include pictures in my last post, here are a couple of shots from Independence, Iowa.

Bob and Jean's tavern, where I met crazy murderer guy.

And the dilapidated Art Deco style theatre across the street.

Come for the corn, stay for the beans: Illinois and Iowa

2007-08-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's right. I've entered the great midwest, home of lots and lots and lots and lots of corn. Not to mention some soybeans thrown in the mix. After leaving Chicago, I headed west through the countryside of Illinois. I hooked up with a bike route called the Grand Illinois Trail, which is a network of bike paths and bike-friendly roads that creates a loop through the northern portion of the state. While on the trail, I passed through many small towns. If you've ever been in the midwest, you've probably noticed watertowers at the center of most towns. Often, the first indication that a town is coming up is by spotting the water tower, which is nearly alway the tallest structure by far. In Hebron, Illinois the water tower was painted like a basketball to commemorate Hebron's 1952 high school basketball state championship. Quite a claim to fame.

While I was riding one of the off-road bike paths, I stumbled upon a flock of wild turkeys, who calmly continued to aimlessly peck around as I took pictures 20 feet away.

Here's an abandoned schoolhouse I saw in Illinois:

All of the doors were removed, most of the windows were bricked upand the only thing in the place was a busted old chair with a bird's nest in it.

There were also some prayers to Jesus written in chalk on one of the walls.

Most of northwestern Illinois consists of rolling hills, farms and forests. In many places the landscape looks a bit like Vermont.

There were also several ruins of old stone houses in this area.

As I got nearer to the Missisippi River, the hills became much larger and steeper. In fact, the biggest and toughest hill I've tackled so far was in Illinois.

This hill was a 15% grade for about half a mile. It's also been really hot and humid, which made it that much harder. Once I climbed the hill, I rode on top of a ridge for around 25 miles. Once I got off of the ridge, I started to ride the banks of the Missisippi River.

Just before crossing the bridge to Iowa, I met a guy who was riding cross country while his wife drove their huge RV as his support vehicle. Pretty sweet setup.
The eastern part of Iowa is pretty hilly, and about as scenic as endless corn fields can get.

Once the landscape began to flatten out, things have been pretty boring. It's mind-boggling to think about how much land is devoted to corn in this state. There is literally almost no land around here that is not covered in either corn or soybean fields.
On the positive side, Iowa's lack of natural features and it's cultural void have resulted in people with nothing better to do than get along with one another. I spent my second night in Iowa in the town of Independence, where I found a bar called Bob and Jean's. Since my paerents are named Bob and Jean, I figured I had to check it out. It ended up being a pretty wild place, considering it was a monday night. People were slugging back cheap cans of beer, playing pool, and listening to a jukebox which only produced bass, making it sound like the music was coming from behind the wall. I kept my head down, sipping a beer and writing in my journal while everyone slurred, drank and smoked. Before long, a thirteen year old kid plunked himself down on the barstool beside me and began asking me a bunch of questions about my bike and my trip. It caught me by surprise somewhat, but apparently minors are allowed in bars before 10pm. Apparently this kid was hanging out while his dad enjoyed some drinks.
Not long after he left me, a raucous, reeling guy swaggered up and propped his elbows on the bar, a cigarette clenched between his teeth and a wad of twenty-dollar bills clenched in his fist. He was a big, rough-looking guy, with the calloused and sun-dried look of a man who works outside. He asked me if I was writing a book, nad I filled him in on my trip. "You taking donations?" he asked, and peeled a five-dollar bill off of the wad and slapped it into my palm. As Bob and Jean's closed down, I accompanied this guy and some other folks down to the other bar in town, where I met John, a 71-year-old farmer drinking bourbon and smoking marlboros. Our conversation went from corn farming, to his service in the Korean War as a medic, to Kirk, the guy I met earlier who gave me five dollars. "If you never see him again, it'd be the best thing that ever happened to you," he warned, his eyes fixed on mine. He went on to tell me how Kirk's wife had been murdered and found in a freezer. Apparently he wasn't seriously considered a suspect, but the circumstances of the crime were mysterious and there were no arrests made. Fortunately by this time Kirk had disappeared, and our conversation turned to Johnny Cash, and a long explanation of the well-drilling business, which John did for a while. By that time I was exhausted, so I thanked John for the company and went off to camp in the town park under the band shelter.
The next day, I headed out of town, slightly hung over and playing over the bizarre events of the night in my head. I continued down deserted country roads for several hours, every so often passing an oncoming truck, the driver giving a wave by raising only his index finger off of the steering wheel. Around one in the afternoon, I came upon a house, where a man was standing shirtless on his front stoop, not doing much of anything. As I came closer, he began walking toward the road and waved me down. "Would you like a cold drink of water?" he called to me. I said sure, and he told me to come on inside. I walked into his modest ranch house, where his wife, dressed in hospital scrubs and smoking a cigarette, was packing her bag lunch. The man poured me a tall glass of water, and lit his own cigarette. He was middle-aged, deeply tanned, and sinuous, with a thick mustasche. He talked with a slow, slightly aimless tone, pausing often in midsentence before carefully choosing his next word.
I finished my water, and he offered to feed me lunch, declaring that he wanted to show me that Iowans could be friendly and hospitable. I made the mistake of asking him what I should do while in Iowa. He looked at me with an incredulous look and said "there ain't nothing to do, unless you like staring at fuckin' corn." Now that I've been here for three days, I'm inclined to agree.

Later in the day, I getting really tired of riding and decided that I would hitchhike in order to cover some more ground and rest. After a few minutes of standing on the road with my thumb pointing west, an old Ford pickup drove by, slammed on its brakes with a screech of tires, and reversed toward me as I pushed my bike to meet him. He said he could take me about 40 miles west, and I eagerly accepted the ride. His name was Dave, and he was coming home from the John Deere tractor factory. We talked a bit, and he confirmed my impressions of Iowa, saying that there was really nothing going on here and because of that, people have nothing better to do than get along with one another. When I said I was headed to Colorado, he told me all about how amazing it was out there, which made the featureless landscape that was whizzing by seem all the more monotonous. Dave ended up driving me an extra 10 miles or so, and left me at a truck stop. I rode another few miles to Clarion, where I found a hotel for the night. There I met Lynn, the manager. After I told her about my trip, she said she would give me a discount for my room, and offered me some dinner. I've been so surprised at all of the random kindness people are willing to offer to a stinky stranger. It's definitely made all the difference in keeping me sane amid the corn rows.
After a bath, some TV, and a good sleep, I left this morning. Now I'm in the Renwick Public library, where the librarian is having an Elvis-themed coffee party. Right now I'm about halfway through the state, so it looks like I'll be in Iowa for at least two more days before I hit South Dakota. For now, I'm going to do my best to meet some more people and stare at some more corn.

Happy Birthday, me

2007-08-11T12:58:00.000-07:00

Hey, I'm 23 now!
woohoo.
Still riding through Illinois, unable to upload pics because of the computer I'm using today, but will do so soon. I've decided to follow the RAGBRAI route to get me through Iowa. If you don't know, RAGBRAI is a huge bike ride that crosses Iowa every summer. Unfortunately, it already happened this year, and it usually goes west-east, but I figure it's as good a route as any to take. Still riding through hot corn fields, meeting friendly midwestern-folk, etc. Gotta get moving, Colorado is the goal for this leg of the journey.

Oh yeah, hi to Jen from the Soo, Mr. Bill, and others who I have met on the way who have checked out this blog. It's good to know that people are pulling for me.

Culinary Delights of Chicago

2007-08-06T08:31:00.000-07:00

As you might know, I like food. As such I've been doing a good bit of stuffing myself while in Chicago. One of the things that Chicago is famous for is the Chicago Dog, a hot dog piled high with loads of fixin's. Last night Natalie and I went to Huey's, a well-known hot dog restaurant where I got a double chili cheez dog with the works. Yes, it was messy, and will probably shorten my lifespan significatly, but it was so good, and an authentic piece of Chicago as well.

Now I'l tell you a little about Natalie, my gracious and accommodating hostess here in Chicago. We met back in March when she happened to be across the lake from Vermont in Essex, NY housesitting. Since it was Essex, NY, there was really nothing to do so on a whim she decided cross the Lake and check out Burlington. Being that she is interested in bikes, she just had to head to the Old Spokes Home, where cool guys like me work on bikes. That night Natalie and a group of us from the shop went out for dinner, then a concert. This also happened to be the night when I broke my arm, which as you might know, slightly screwed up my plans for my bike trip. Anyway, we kept in touch and she said that if I should find myself in Chicago, that I should look her up. That's just what I did, and for the last few days she's been showig me around, giving me the inside track on where to go, and more importantly, what to eat.

Yes, I'm still alive: Michigan, Wisconsin and Chicago

2007-08-04T14:28:00.000-07:00

Now that I've been on the road for a while, I figure that it'd be a good time to show you some of the culinary delights I've been preparing for myself to fuel me on the trip. I had a flash of inspiration somewhere in Michigan and created the ultimate in carbohydrate-laden stomach punishment: A glazed donut, nestled between the peanut butter-smeared halves of a bagel. And if that wasn't enough, I washed it down with a cold Mountain Dew. MmmMmm!

I also experienced some of the regional delights to be found in Michigan's food outlets. While in a cut-rate grocery appropriately called "Save-A-Lot" I came across a pretty impressive array of canned fish products. After some consideration, I settled on the herring steaks in a spicy cajun sauce for 59 cents. The next day I stopped off at a small local convenience mart and found a truly impressive drink. The Camo 24 ounce XXXXX High Gravity Lager. Yes, that's right, there's not the customary three X's denoting high alcohol content, but FIVE. The can also proclaims it as being "extra smooth," although I would have to disagree. But regardless of how it might taste, I obviously could not pass it up. So as I sat down to dinner that evening, I saw before me a truly authentic Michigan meal.

Cheers!

As I continued through Michigan's Upper Peninsula, I passed through some more remote areas. I saw Tahquamenon Falls, which is a big curtain-style waterfall that falls from what looks like a giant shelf of rock. There was also a microbrewery/bar at the state park, which I found a bit weird, but I couldn't pass up a very good oatmeal stout with some onion rings, even though it was 11 am.

After the Falls, I went through about a 30-mile stretch of very little else than wild forest.

After I got out of the forest, I noticed something was different. While passing a house, I noticed a basketball backboard which confirmed my suspicisions:

Yes, I had entered the Bible Belt! Along the way I started noticing more signs that I was in God's country, including several large homemade signs declaring the maker's allegience to Jesus, or asking if I had found Him. Outside of the Save-a-Lot a lady had a short conversation with me and asked my name so she could put me in her prayers, which was nice of her.

And of course, I saw some funny stuff along the way.

There has to be some symbolism in this one.

I then headed south through Wisconsin in the direction of Chicago. Most of the riding I did was through field after field of corn, alfalfa, wheat and whatever else.

But it did make for some beautiful sunsets and twilight.

It wasn't too boring, though, since there are a lot of smallish towns scattered around the countryside. While passing through these towns, I discovered something interesting about Wisconsin: people like to drink, lots. There are very few stores which sell beer and liquor, but there will invariably be at least 4 bars in even the smallest towns. One town I passed through called Pulaski had no less than six bars within two blocks of the main intersection. Since the weather in Wisconsin was so hot when I was passing through (90 degrees plus, with humidity) I often took long afternoon breaks in the taverns I passed, downing a beer and several glasses of water.
Oh yeah, Wisconsin also has cheese and cows.

Once I got through most of Wisconsin, I headed for Kenosha, which is right on the border with Illinois, so I could take a commuter train into Chicago. My Toronto debacle definitely taught me all about the perils of riding a fully loaded touring bike into a large city. The train ended up being great- fast, comfortable, and only cost six bucks. I was able to get off at the station just a few blocks from my Chicago hostess Natalie's house.
So since then I've been relaxing really hard, trying my best to eat and drink as much as I can. We did do some sightseeing, checked out some of the great architecture and sculpture downtown, went to the Art Institute... I also made sure to tip back a few cans of Old Style, which is not unlike Pabst Blue Ribbon, both in price (cheap) and taste (questionable.)

Some typical-looking bars.

This is a bar right down the street from Natalie's apartment in Andersonville, which is a Swedish neighborhood.

I also took the "EL" train, the elevated train lines that run all through Chicago.

And of course, I saw Wrigley field.

That's about it so far, other than that I've been relaxing, eating some good food, and generally slacking off to make up for all of the hard riding I've been doing. Eventually, I will have to drag my food-stuffed and beer-sodden body off of the couch and start riding through the exciting midwest. Oh motivation, where have you gone?
When I eventually find it, or when Natalie throws me out, I'll let you know.

P.S.- teeheehee.

The Bruce Peninsula, Manitoulin Island, and the eastern U.P.

2007-07-25T14:00:00.001-07:00

After the rolling hills of central Ontario, I finally got to the Bruce Peninsula, which is a long piece of land that seperates the main body of Lake Huron on the west from Georgian Bay on the east. Its here that i got my first glimpses of the lake, which looks more like an ocean as the water stretches on to the horizon. Also, the water is exceptionally clear, giving the water an incredibly glowing blue color. Anyway, on to the pictures:

this is the coastline north of Lions Head, on the Georgian Bay. The shore is mostly large flat slabs of rock, and the water is very cool and clear.

Yard sale I passed along the way. It was about 90% romance novels. I ended up buying a Henry Miller book for 25 cents. Miller isn't really a romance novelist, he's more... well read one for yourself.

Dyer's Bay dead end.

After the Bruce Peninsula, I took the ferry to Manatoulin Island. It's a huge ship that holds a bunch of cars as well as having something like three decks with lounges, a bar etc. A nice ride. This is a lighthouse along the way. After the ferry I made my way toward the eastern portion of the island to Uncle Steve's campground and RV Park, where I would stay the night. On the way I saw this:

I happened to arrive just as the main event was coming to a close, so I missed most of the action. I later learned that the smash-up derby is the final event in the Manitowaning Summerfest, which this year included an ACDC tribute band and lots and lost of drinking.
I continued on to Uncle Steve's, where I set up camp. After that I headed into the village of Manitowaning to buy some food and beer. After finding that the stores were closed, I went to the Muskie Widow, the local bar. The place is done up in a fisherman's theme, with mounted fish on the wall, old fishing equipment, and tons of photos of people with the hugest fish I've ever seen.

If you look closely above the bar, you'll notice an airbrushed painting of a muskie on a moose antler- you won't find that kind of work just anywhere!
I was drinking beer by myself, playing the fly on the wall watching people come and go when Sarah (middle) approached me and asked if I'd like to join her table.

She said she had done some solo traveling herself and knew what it was like sitting alone in a local bar. She introduced me to Nimkii and Catherine, born and raised a couple houses from the Muskie Widow. We got to talking and I found out that Nimkii had done a bike tour in Britain, and we swapped a couple of stories. Sarah was in town from nearby Sucker Creek, not to be confused with Sucker Lake, which was right down the road. Catherine was born and raised just a few houses down from the Muskie Widow, but had moved to Sault St. Marie, the border town where I was planning on crossing to Michigan. After no small amount of drinks Catherine suggested that I hitch a ride with her to the So, which would save me 2 day's riding and the danger of being run over by one of many 18-wheelers on the narrow and hazardous Trans-Canada Highway. I took her up on the offer and the next morning we departed. On the way we passed through the Whitefish hills, which are a set of very steep and rocky hills on the north coast of Lake Huron.

On the way, Catherine was nice enough to offer that I stay the night her couch in Sault St. Marie. Once we got into town, we made a quick stop at Anita and Tony's Salon, which she had recently purchased and now owns and manages. It was a cool place, but the all-pink decor was perhaps a little out of date.

She informed me that new drywall and paint are on the way. After a good dinner, good rest and a shower, I left Catherine's place and headed over the border to be welcomed into America. Heading up the bridge:

Traffic laws in the Soo, Michigan

Outside Brimley, Michigan

I'm now in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, or the U.P., which has some beautiful shoreline on Lake Superior. Today I stopped to swim a couple of times at gorgeous white-sand beaches with such clear blue water that you'd think you were in the caribbean.

I also saw a lighthouse oooh ahh.

That's about it so far, tonight I'm in Paradise, Michigan, where I'll begin heading west and south to start the dash to Chicago!
And I've heard that people want pictures of me, so here you go.

Prince Edward County, Toronto, and Central Ontario

2007-07-20T07:53:00.000-07:00

After the Thousand Islands, I continued on the edge of the water to Lake Ontario. I started my day by rolling down a long hill toward the free ferry that would take me to Prince Edward County, which is a large chunk of land that juts into the lake. Just after I started the windy descent, two tractors pulling huge wagons full of hay pulled out in front of me. They just happened to be going around 20 mph, so I was able to draft one of them for around 5 miles.

It made for an easy ride, except for a constant flow of hay particles coming off of the wagon. I passed some touring cyclists going the other way who cheered for me as I passed by.

Shortly after taking the ferry, I arrived in Bloomfield, the town where Sarah the Canadian tourist's favorite bike shop was. Sure enough, on the main street I found Bloomfield Bicycle Company.

The owner Rick is a really cool guy, in his 50's with long gray hair and a very casual attitude. I talked about my bike with him and the two mechanics who were working, and they invited me to have lunch with them on the porch of the shop. So for an hour or two we all sat and chatted in the shade, munching on tuna salad, chips and veggies. Rick gave me a map and the phone number for his mother in law's place in Toronto, where he assured me I could stay for the night when I got to Toronto. So I pushed on through the county, eventually finding an old gravel pit to camp in.

What I hadn't bargained on was my close proximity to the train tracks, and during the night I was awakened to what I thought was the sound of the fabric of the universe being torn apart.

The next morning I awoke early so I would have as much time as possible to get to Toronto, which I reckoned to be about 75 miles away. As I rode west, the landscape became more and more congested. I passed shopping centers with all the same stores as the shopping centers I had passed only minutes before. I also discovered a trend that is sweeping the Toronto area: housing subdivisons. Dozens of them, each seeming to stretch to the horizon with tightly spaced faux-stone facades, with ridiculously inaccurate names like "Castlemore Manor" and others.

The fallen sign in the foreground of the picture says something like "Estate living in a breathtaking ravine setting." The 'ravine' was a gradual slope down to a dirty piddling stream. Clearly Canadian real estate developers have a finely honed sense of irony when naming their new projects.
Anyway, after battling traffic for a couple of hours, I finally got to the house I was supposed to stay in. Upon arriving, the guy who was there said that the owner was in France, and her roommate, who would have welcomed me for the night, wasn't around. He was nice enough to let me look up the address for a hostel in the city, where I ended up staying the night.

The next morning I awoke to torrential rain, which put a damper on my mood for the morning. Luckily, by the time I was ready to leave, the rain had stopped and a heavy fog settled in on Toronto. I rode down to the waterfront to follow a path that would link to another path that would take me outside the city.

The path ended up being a really nice 20+ mile long meander along the Humber river, which goes north-south through the middle of the city. It was a very relaxing change from the previous day. In an overpass on the path, some graffiti artists did a collaborative mural with some great style. (top-bottom=left-right)

After getting out of the city, I ended up on long, straight, flat roads with tons of truck traffic. I asked around, but apparently since there is no large highway going north, trucks drive on pretty much any through way. Needless to say, the riding was not the most exciting. As if to highlight the uninteresting landscape, there's a town called Mono.

Eventually, it started to get hillier, and the clouds were making some interesting late-day formations, so I at least had something pretty to look at.

See those towers in the second photo? I camped near the base of the thinner one on the left.

Now I'm heading north towards Lake Huron, where I will be taking my first rest day of the trip so far. I plan on eating a bunch, having a beer, and nodding off in the afternoon. Later!

The Adirondacks and the St. Lawerence River

2007-07-16T10:15:00.000-07:00

Lots of good riding from the ferry landing at Port Kent, NY. Rode the Ausable River Valley to Whiteface Mountain, where I rode in the Wilmington Gap.

The Gap was carved out by the West Branch Ausable river, leaving huge cliffs on each side and a bunch of gorges and waterfalls on the river. Great riding. I also went through Lake Placid, which is a total tourist trap, so I continued on to Saranac Lake, where I found a great place to spend the night: the former site of an old motel.

After setting up camp and making dinner, I headed into town for a drink. Found a bar called "the Waterhole," which was blaring the Grateful Dead. I sat and drank a beer on their porch for a minute before striking up a conversation with Sam, who invited me to hang out with some other people at the bar. Everybody was really cool and psyched about my trip. Saranac had a good vibe, laid back, not too touristy, but not a redneck hole.

The next day I rode Route 56, which goes through some very remote country. Miles and miles of smooth pavement with forest on each side, punctuated with the occassional pond. Very few houses, virtually no cross roads.

Camped outside Canton, NY for the night.
Next went to Ogdensburg to cross into Canada. The woman at the toll booth waved me through and I spent the next 10 minutes on a white-knuckle ride on the steel-grate bridge crossing the very wide St. Lawerence river. Once I got my bearings in Canada, I found the Thousand Island Parkway, which is a long bike path which runs along the river. Lots of great views and good riding.

Today I'm in Gananoque Ontario, where I met Sarah, a very friendly Canadian bike tourist from Peterborough, ONT who is heading to Halifax Nova Scotia. Had a nice talk with her and got some good tips on where to ride next. Speaking of which, it's beautiful weather out here and I'm in a library typing, so I'm going to get going.

Hooray Canada!

Day One, Mile Zero

2007-07-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

Well, the bike is all loaded up with all the possessions I'll need for the next few months. For those who are curious, my gear weighs in at about 30 pounds. Today I'll ride to Burlington to party with friends and co-workers, then take the ferry to New York tomorrow morning. Thanks to everyone who encouraged me or just called me crazy for undertaking such an adventure. Now's the time to test myself, and see if I can live up to all the talk.

See you later, if I don't see you out on the town tonight.

Another change in plans

2007-07-09T12:02:00.000-07:00

I've decided to push my trip back by a few days to Thursday, so I can participate in the Old Spokes Home employee dinner in Burlington. Just as well, since the weather here will be spotty for the next couple of days.

Route version 1.2

2007-07-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

I'm also going to Chicago!

Four days until the trip kicks off. I'm putting things together- gear, route, making arrangements for bills and other logistics. It's a strange feeling, like standing at the edge of a cliff wondering if you've packed your parachute right. I've got my final doctor's appointment on monday, then I'll be heading to Burlington for dinner with the parents, drinks with friends, and a night's rest before ferrying over to New York to begin the first leg of the journey. For those who know the area, I'll be heading from Port Kent to Lake Placid, Saranac Lake, Tupper Lake, Canton, and Ogdensburg. At Ogdensburg I'll be crossing into Canada. Pictures and words to follow in the coming days and weeks.

Trip Update: Route

2007-06-17T10:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I've updated here, so here's the general plan:
I'm leaving Vermont around the tenth of July to go on my trip. My arm has been getting much better, as it's been almost three months since I injured it.
I'm planning on going through the Adirondacks, crossing into Ontario, back into Michigan, and somehow getting down to Colorado, where I'll meet up with my brother Dan at Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, where he's working for the summer. From there, I want to head up to Wyoming, where I'll try to meet up with my friend's brother in Jackson. My exact route from Wyoming hasn't fallen into place yet, but my final .destination is currently the Olympic Peninsula in Washington via Portland, Oregon.
So that's a very rough sketch of the route I'm taking. If you've got suggestions or recommendations for places to go, let me know.

the trip is off, or at least postponed.

2007-04-01T14:32:00.000-07:00

Last night, I was riding my bike home when I hit a pothole and flew over my handlebars. I put out my right arm to stop myself, and broke my wrist and radius (one of the two bones in the forearm.) I spent a few hours in the ER getting bandaged up and x rayed, and was told that I would need surgery to put pins in my wrist and a plate in my forearm. The recovery is supposed to take three months, so it looks like my tour will be put on hold for a while. I am also unable to work my restaurant job, and the job at the bike shop will be compromised. If anyone knows of a job that doesn't require the use of two arms, please let me know.

The bike is done!

2007-03-05T14:20:00.000-08:00

I just finished building my bike for the cross-country adventure:I assembled the entire bike myself, and built the wheels too. It rides really nicely and I couldn't be happier with it. I've yet to mount all of my cargo bags as I haven't bought a front rack yet. I want to thank the guys at Old Spokes Home for the help and advice, and of course, ma and pa for bankrolling this operation.

more cat

2007-01-11T09:19:00.000-08:00

here's another shot of Winston:

The First Post

2007-01-11T09:01:00.000-08:00

Hey, just testing out my new blog- this is going to serve as my journal for my bike tour. That's me with Winston, the new cat around my apartment.