Thoughts Askew

MLB All Name Team, The Finale: R-Z

2013-04-10T23:49:00.000-04:00

After a series of unforeseeable cost overruns caused by the banking collapse in Cyprus and the discovery of a live marmot in my refrigerator the final list, long awaited by many people (or at least three), is ready for press. Yes, the likes of Ugly Dickshot, Chick Manlove, and Rusty Kuntz will be joined by thirteen more players whose names/nicknames are capable by their mere pronouncement of returning your frown to the upright position. Lacking further introductory blather let us now present the greatest names in baseball history falling in alphabetical order somewhere in between infielder Brian Raabe's career zero homers and the last entry on Baseball Reference, Dutch Zwilling (who hit an outstanding .113 in one season for the Cubs).

C: Pop Swett and Pi Schwert - I haven't done a platoon in the past, but these names were so oddly similar and easily interchangeable it seemed appropriate to go with the combo platter. Pop Swett played one single season for the Boston Reds in 1890, smacking a single home run and batting .191. Pi Schwert was a .208 hitter in two years with Yankees, and might have gone on not to suck had World War I not interfered with his baseball career. After serving in the Navy, he went on to become the only former Bronx Bomber to date to serve in Congress, representing Western New York.

1b: Razor Shines -This was the hardest of choices for me and the fan vote didn't help matters by finishing in a three way tie. I have therefore played reluctant dictator and chosen this Expos scrub. Although his name does sound vaguely intimidating, his .183 career batting average and zero homers were not. Razor did achieve impressive longevity at the minor league level, forging a sixteen year career Bull Durham would have been proud of. Since retiring as a player he has managed several minor league teams and is currently with the Great Lake Loons. Honorable Mentions: Chicken Wolf, Ed Smartwood

2b: Mike Tyson - The inclusion of a celebrity has become a requirement for this list, and it is hard to beat the long series of bizarre incidents that are brought to mind when the name of a man as mentally balanced as a seesaw with a midget and a linebacker on either side is invoked. The baseball version of Iron Mike started for the Cardinals during the 1970s, hitting around .250 over eight seasons. The Northsiders in Chicago saw something they liked and signed him to a contract, probably for way more than what he was worth. That statement is true regardless of the sums as he proved to be worthless and was forcibly retired within two years of adding his name to the long list of terrible Cubs.

SS: Tony Suck - I try to let the great ones on this list speak for themselves so I will be brief. Believe it or not, Tony was actually born with the surname Zuck and intentionally changed his name to Suck. He lived up to the new name, striking out four times in eight National League plate appearances in 1884 while never managing to reach base via hit.

3b: Butts Wagner - The older brother of Hall of Famer Honus Wagner had it tough. While Honus spent nearly a quarter of a century manning the Pittsburgh Pirates infield, gaining renown as one of the best hitters to ever play the game, Butts managed only one season in the big leagues and only one career home run, which did happen to help win a game for the best named team in baseball history, the Brooklyn Bridgegrooms. The unfortunately nicknamed brother also managed to worm his way into popular culture. For some inexplicably reason Butts was depicted as an eccentric inventor during a boy's long (erotic?) dream sequence in the book The Mystery of the Wagner Whacker.

OF: Pussy Tebeau - Nuff ced. Pussy played two major league games for the Cleveland Spiders and I would like to personally thank God for allowing his awesomeness into the annals of Major League Baseball history. I might even Tebeau.

OF: Count Sensenderfer- Unlike most players on this list, Sensenderfer was not utterly terrible. Nicknamed Count for his aristocratic bearing rather than a desire to drink blood after the sun goes down, Sensenderfer played in some of the first recorded professional games in baseball history, scoring an unbelievable 200 runs during the 1868 season. He played his entire career in Philadelphia and later went on to a career in politics, serving as Count Sensenderfer, Philadelphia County Commissioner.

OF: Chappie Snodgrass- Chappie was a nickname, but his real name wasn't that great either. Born Arnzie Beal Snodgrass, Chappie gets this team back on track in the useless turd department. He managed only one career hit in ten major league at bats for a whopping. .100 batting average. OF Honorable Mention: Live Oak Taylor, Homer Summa, Rip Repulski, Chick Shorten.

P: Crazy Schmit - My research came up with two possible reasons for Schmit's nickname. The first theory is that he was released from a mental institution prior to his Major League Career.   Another tidbit I found suggested Crazy was a wee bit fond of alcohol and his behavior train would remove itself from the rails of civility after a round of overindulgent imbibing. He played for the Cleveland Spiders 1898 team, which is considered the worst in the history of baseball. A major contributor, Schmit managed to win two games while losing only eighteen.

P: Mysterious Walker - What is the opposite of a sandwich? Walker's career was successful at the beginning and the end, but hit a bit of a lull in the middle. As a college athlete he starred in football, baseball, and basketball at the University of Chicago. After graduating he chose a career in professional baseball, earning his nickname by playing incognito for the minor league San Francisco Seals. This is the part that did not go so well. The Mysterious One went 7-24 over five seasons, finishing his career in 1915 with the Brooklyn side, who had now ingeniously changed their name to the Tip-Tops (they also performed for a time as the Superbas, whatever the hell those are). Following his playing career Walker went into collegiate coaching, manning the helm as a football, baseball, basketball coach, and once serving as athletic director. He certainly made the rounds leading teams at Utah St, Mississippi, Oregon St, Williams, DePauw, Carnegie Tech, Washington & Jefferson, Texas, Dartmouth, Wheaton, Loyola (LA), Rhode Island, and Michigan St - all in a span of less than twenty five years!

P: Cy Slapnicka - Like Walker, Slapnicka was another unsuccessful pitcher either unable to cope with an odd name or just burdened with a lack of talent. The man must have known something about the game, however, as he was able to parlay it into a 50+ year career.   Mainly a minor leaguer, Slapnicka played at the lower levels for eighteen years and compiled a 1-6 during short stints in the big leagues. Over his decades of service he learned enough to gain employment in the Indians organization, acting as General Manager from 1935-1940, then spending the next twenty years as a scout for the franchise. His most famous signing? Hall of Famer and fellow Iowan Bob Feller.

P: Lil Stoner - Jung Bong now has a partner on the all marijuana team. Apparently the weed assisted his pitching, as the Tiger hurler managed a 50-58 career record, rather impressive when compared to the other losers on this list. He was said to have a wicked curve thanks to a deformity on his pitching hand, which he received after his brother nearly chopped the digit off. His brother was also the source of his nickname, since the young boy was unable to pronounce Ulysses or any of the other eight presidents Lil Stoner was named after. Even Stoner's great breaking ball could sometimes fail - Babe Ruth is said to have hit his longest home run off the pitcher, an epic 600+ foot blast.

P: Cannonball Titcomb - A combination of the vaguely sexual and outright bizarre, Titcomb's name exemplifies everything we look for in a great name. He is also the ace of this sorry staff, barely managing a career winning record of 30-29 and also pitching a no hitter in 1890 versus Syracuse. His minor league career included stints with the Jersey City Skeeters, the Rochester Hop Bitters, and the Providence Clamdiggers. Honorable Mentions: Phenomenal Smith, Charlie Wacker, Pete Rambo, Biff Schlitzer.

Well that's it folks, except for one last late addition to one of our earlier teams. Sometimes the nicknames aren't listed unless you go to a player's page so oversights can easily occur. While researching this list I came up a bit of nickname greatness I had overlooked. This player not only had one great moniker, he had three, and they are way too good not to be included retroactively: Arlie Latham, AKA the Dude, AKA The Hustler from Hustletown, AKA...wait for it....."the Freshest Man on Earth."

We Have Nothing to Beer Except Beer Itself

2013-02-20T17:46:00.000-05:00

Earlier today, while exercising on a fake bicycle, I began thinking back upon one of the saddest days of my life. I had just entered Ohio on my cross country hike, and was excited about the prospect of having a beer or two to celebrate the completion of West Virginia. The town of Belpre did not boast many choices, so I made my way to the local Pizza Hut. To my shock and horror they did not serve beer. In fact, the entire county was dry.
The scars from this discovery have yet to heal. I have racked my brain since to solve the problem, which is bigger than mere local prohibition of alcohol. Despite evolving a great deal since Gwynzoggg invented fire and Boltroggg used it to burn down the Great Artrusian Forest in 25078 BC, mankind has not learned impulse control. As a result society has been forced to come up with half measures, laws which attempt to govern our use of alcohol, fire arms, drugs, and other useful items.
I admit, even from a personal perspective, it is very hard to perceive someone's ability to act responsibly. As a twenty year old I had no idea how to properly ingest alcohol. I'd use a bowl, funnel, can, bottle, syringe, or any other object near at hand to introduce the liquid to my liver as quickly and efficiently as possible, with no regard for the amount of consumption beside what my body chose to reject. The next day I would usually feel horrible, questioning the sanity of such mass consumption. Amnesia would thankfully offset feelings of regret and another binge was soon underway.
Or so I thought in those days. I now know as a responsible adult that drinking should be properly regulated. My youthful indiscretions are regretful, and I was lucky to survive this period of my life without following in the footsteps of the great artist and alcoholic Edgard Allen Poe, who finished up his final session by passing out in a gutter dead.
Should someone have stopped me? Maybe, but I sure would have a lot less funny stories to tell. I am not an angry drunk and no one was ever hurt physically by my actions while intoxicated. I did, however, occasionally operate a motor vehicle when I shouldn't have.

Blanket bans or prohibition is unfair, we end up punishing everyone for the sins of a few. Properly separating the wheat from the chaff is the real issue if we are to make sensible policy. How can we possibly decide who is well-suited to hit the bottle or the bong? I think the driving test is a good model. After a period of training, an exam would be administered, one designed to weigh your knowledge and gauge your responses to certain situations. A panel of five experts would rule as to whether you are capable of enjoying the pleasures of drugs and alcohol or various levels of lethal weaponry safely. If successful these panels might expand their role. Don't we all know someone who probably shouldn't be allowed to procreate? I know this sounds like more government interference in our lives, but once we have passed the exam we will be allowed to defile ourselves in peace forever. Who doesn't want that?

The Baseball All Name Team: M-P

2013-01-03T00:12:00.000-05:00

Now done with wandering the countryside momentarily, I'd like to wish the Thoughts Askew readership a Happy New Year. I would like to inaugurate 2013 by welcoming back our standard drivel, the continuation of a project I have been working on intermittently for a period of time bordering on forever, the greatest names in Major League Baseball history. We have seen an amazing list of candidates so far, from Rusty Kuntz to Ugly Dickshot to Stubby Clapp. Amazingly, only half of the players have been named Dick. Don't expect a notable rise in maturity level amongst the choices below, especially since I've allowed several of you degenerates to vote. With no further procrastination, I present to you the most apt appellations sandwiched in the directory between Duke Maas and Tim Pyznarski. You'll probably notice the high rate of alcoholism amongst our contestants.

Catcher: Chick Manlove - Our world would be a much less happy place if Manlove had not been deemed worthy of seventeen major league at bats in 1884. Never has a name sounded so ineffably gay while also retaining a tinge of heterosexuality. The extra impetus of the odd nickname gives Chick the edge over second place finisher, Kurt Manwaring.

First Base: Jackie Mayo - In an effort to avoid being gross or sophomoric, mainly to keep the audience confused, I will refrain from making any comments on the discharge brought to mind here. Mayo managed to spooge out (okay I lied) over fifty base hits for the Phillies during a short career in the late 40s and early 50s. Honorable Mention: Talmadge Nunnari

Second Base: Frank "Scat" Metha - I believe guano is an ingredient in Methamphetamine, which is without a doubt how Scat obtained his nickname. I base this stone cold fact on absolutely nothing, except that after such a short career (36 total at bats) Frank was probably in need of another source of income. Honorable Mention: Dick Padden.

Shortstop: Chick Naleway - with two Chicks on this team, I feel it likely we will have a menage a trois. Naleway surely must have gotten into porn, because like the rest of the fellows so far, he did not have a long, majestic stay in the big leagues. Two measly plate appearances in 1924 and it was all over. From a sociological perspective, I imagine the relentless heckling these players must have endured did not lend itself to great success. Predestined failure: is it all in the name? Postscript: Chick is buried in Resurrection Cemetery, leading me to think first of zombies, then of this classic scene.

Third Base: George "Doggie" Miller - Pickings were slim at third base to be perfectly honest. Miller actually had quite a long career, which according to the previously stated theory, means fans were not able to make much hay from his name. In fact, he was the first player in Pirates history to finish ten full seasons for the franchise. What sets him above the other weak contestants are his two other odd nicknames: Foghorn and Calliope.
According to Baseball Reference, he earned his most commonly used moniker by breeding dogs. The article goes on to mention he is the only player ever named Calliope (but not Foghorn) and that he was somewhat fond of obliterating his liver.

Outfield: Les Mann - Let's sing Hedwig and the Angry Inch together now! Les was also nicknamed Major, but that was before the surgery. Or was it a horrible hedge-trimming accident? Either way, he went on to have a long major league career, playing outfield for the Cubs in the days before they became consistently terrible.

Outfield: Dizzie Nutter - Some of these can only be ruined by comment. I'll let you sit back and savor the comedic possibilities of sexual vertigo on your own. Nutter played one brief season for the 1919 Boston Braves.

Outfield: Angel Pagan - Angel currently plays for the World Champion San Francisco Giants. I have not been able to confirm whether he is an atheist, but wow would that be a wonderful bit of irony. Honorable Mention: Queenie O'Rourke.

Pitcher: Dick Pole - I think by now we are all aware I can't make one of these lists without including a man named Dick somewhere. Assign the blame to my proclivities if you will, but I think if we are honest with ourselves we can all agree that a name just can't have too many wiener inferences. Dick Pole lasted six seasons in the mid 1970s, with a nicely inflated ERA above five, which he no doubt blamed on Carter's economic policies. Proving the old Shaw axiom about those that can't do, teach, Pole went on to become a pitching coach for the Cincinnati Reds.

Pitcher: Wedo Martini - Wedo wanted to prove that an Italian could go on to become something besides a gangster or a priest. With a career ERA of over 17 I'll let you decide for yourself how well that turned out for him.

Pitcher: Doug "Buzz" McWeeny - Chicagoan McWeeny, (which is something that should definitely be on the McDonald's menu), was a lot more successful than Martini, winning 37 games for his hometown White Stockings, which is a mere 37 more than Martini won. Doug also had a bit of luck in that the term Weinie did not enter the American lexicon until twenty years after he retired. It makes me want to travel back in time and give him the heckling he missed out on.

Pitcher: Cletus "Boots" Poffenberger: What determines the course of a man's life? Is he predetermined to fall thanks to a terrible name choice by his parents? Does the intemperate life of baseball carry him down into the depths of disgrace? What happened to form Boots, who had a short three year major league career, is uncertain, but we do know the result:
    *During one game in Nashville the free-spirited ballplayer had a few shots of gin before he first took the mound. It didn’t take long before Boots became angry after some calls that did not go his way, and decided to fire the ball at the umpire that resulted in a 90-day suspension.   In retrospect Boots admitted that he had previously taken a few beers before scheduled to pitch, and said of the umpire incident, “It just slipped up on me this time.”
Former Pirate Dock Ellis, who once pitched a no hitter on acid, was unimpressed.

Pitcher: Heine Meine - Known as the Count of Luxembourg (the area of St. Louis in which he lived), Meine was a feisty hurler who managed to survive on wits and control, as he lacked velocity. Baseball made him many connections in the world of alcoholism, which he parlayed into a second career as the owner of a speakeasy. The bar served a variety of moose milk (a combination of vanilla ice cream and several liquors) which was supposedly potent enough to peel the paint off of a battleship. Honorable Mentions: Jeff Manship, Ossie Ozborn, The Only Nolan, and Limb "Big Pete" McHenry.

*Reprinted from Chatter From the Dugout.

Epilogue Jammin'

2012-11-13T15:40:00.000-05:00

October 15

Its always 4:20 in Haight Ashbury

There is always a day after. No matter how momentous the occasion life does not stop, except in case of death. Mark, Colin, and John left Saturday night on the red eye. Ken took off the next morning. I was alone once more, my flight not scheduled until Tuesday.
San Francisco surrounded me on all sides and I had some time to kill. I figured I would stick to what I do best. I went for a walk.
I was based once more at the Fort Mason hostel. Departing from there i headed inland to Lombard Street. San Francisco is known to have roads which challenge a car to defy gravity. None are more precipitous than one block of Lombard, which is composed of a series of hairpin turns. The speed limit is five miles an hour and I suggest you adhere if you care to live through the experience*.
Next up was a trip to the cable car museum. Trolleys once operated in cities all over the United States. The introduction of bus lines after World War II led to their demise all over the country. Three lines continued to function in San Francisco, defying the onslaught of technological advances in favor of attracting tourists. One hundred and forty years later after the first bell rang, passengers are still being summoned for yet another magical ride.
I won't ever know any of that stuff from the last paragraph, because the museum wasn't actually planning to open until 10 and I arrived at 8:30. I didn't want to wait around.
The Chinese don't sleep in since they have a world to conquer, so I moseyed over to their little town. Lanterns hung above the streets as if in preparation for a parade, but a multitude of dragons never materialized. I trod quietly by storefronts decorated with Oriental characters, wondering at the mystery of what lay behind the doors. I never gathered the courage to venture inside, the sidewalk carrying me inexorably onward like a river. Only food could have pushed me ashore and he restaurants were not yet open either.

I rolled on, past numerous city blocks, thousands of steps adding themselves to the millions that had gone before. I stopped at the Mission district, where the Spaniards had first set up shop centuries before. Father Juniper Serra established the Mision de San Francisco Asis here in 1776, although the first actual building was not completed until fifteen years later. A larger church was constructed next door in 1918.
The mission remains a major center of Papist sentiment to this day. Pope John Paul II himself gave the sanctuary a visit in 1987. You too can walk right up to the altar where J.P. prayed for the destruction of the Protestant faith#. The basilica, chapel, and sanctuary are all open to the public, as is the cemetery where all the famous local Catholics rot in peace.

The Mission, with the Basilica looming to the right

Leaving the holy I went amongst the sinners in the Castro section of San Francisco. This district is home to thousands of gays, lesbians, transgenders, bisexuals, and trisexuals. Maybe you knew the city has a large gay population, but what caused the same sex loving masses to flock here?
Even before "In the Navy" was written, an extensive segment of that branch of our armed forces was infested with man love. When during World War II the military decided to expose and expel these deviants, many of them were off-loaded in San Francisco. Once outed, the ex-soldiers were frightened to return to their small communities in Minnesota, Texas, North Carolina, etc. They opted to stay where they were and start a new life free from prejudice.

Castro became the unofficial capital of rainbow and fairy land in the late 60s, just as nearby Haight Ashbury was being overrun by the hippie hordes. Artists, musicians, and homosexuals alike were drawn by the low real estate prices in the wake of white flight. They created vibrant communities which still flourish today. My only quibble with the Haight is the preponderance of head shops. I appreciate mother nature as much as the next guy, but dedicating the square footage of a super Walmart to bong sales is going a bit overboard.
I had a disappointing lunch at one of the restaurants in the Haight. Mea culpa, I should have figured the standards would be low. People with the munchies are not exactly what one would call a discerning clientele.
Circling back towards the Presidio, I found one of the great architectural wonders of San Francisco. The Palace of Fine Arts is the kind of public building we don't make anymore. The mammoth Roman/Greek rotunda and the accompanying columned halls soar above. They are surrounded by immaculate gardens , the landscaping equal to any monument in Europe. I was particularly reminded of the Crystal Palace in Madrid's Buen Retiro Park. Originally designed for the Pan Pacific International Exposition in 1915, the Palace was so beloved that citizens petitioned to prevent its demolition after the fair ended. I'm elated at their success; the Palace of Fine Arts was easily the highlight of the day's stroll.

My happy balloon burst next door at the Exploratorium. A hands-on science museum, the Exploratorium had delighted a younger me when the family and I had visited it twenty five years ago. I wanted a nostalgia fix, but I was denied when the doors were locked. Monday is the staff's sabbath it seems.
Unable to get my learn on I was thrown into a cyclone of dazed confusion, uncertain where to go next. Barely avoiding epilogue epilepsy I regrouped at the hostel, where I showered and ran into my idols.
Karen and Jerry were only a few days from finishing their own epic three year journey across America. They were also staying at the hostel that night, so we decided to have a premature^ celebration at restaurant Asqew. The meal was excellent, a fabulous utilization of the cosmopolitan cuisine available in San Francisco. I can't exactly walk around the corner in South Carolina and grab restaurant quality shish kebab.
The conversation with Karen and Jerry was equally enchanting. We have shared experiences that few humans can even comprehend, much less have the opportunity to undertake. Needless to say, we have quite a bit to say to one another. We took our blabbering back to Fort Mason, where we unwound by watching the hometown Giants defeat the steroid shooting St. Louis Cardinals in Game Two of the National League Championship Series. I have a funny feeling the Giants are a team of destiny. I believe they will go on to defeat the impotent Cardinals and then sweep the World Series. Anyone want to bet?

*Steve McQueen excepted
# I recommend texting God instead, I hear he is a bit of a technophile
^Post-mature in my case

Miles: Don't care. Total miles: doesn't matter. I'm done.

A Fitting Climax

2012-11-12T11:44:00.001-05:00

October 13

I had come to the last walk. Point Reyes lay merely fourteen more miles away. After nearly ten months of hard work the finish line was in sight.
As if I needed any more inspiration, Ken had shown up in the middle of the night, set to join me for the end run. You may know Ken from our two days together in Ohio last June or because I am kind of doing the trek in honor of him. It was somewhat of a big deal having him there. My feet didn't touch ground much all day. I was too busy floating.
Colin completed our squad and we set out on the trail towards the Pacific. Time flew by despite my best efforts. I wanted to linger over every last step, but our momentum carried us on in a blur. Unsurprisingly, having people to talk to does tend to speed the process. Ken filled our ears with his usual litany of penis jokes as well as the newest version of how he lost his arm.
When you are missing an appendage or two, people tend to ask you how the loss was incurred. Ken had told one recent inquisitor, a young child, that he had been in a light saber duel with Darth Vader and the showdown had not gone his way. The child fell for the ruse. No shame there, Ken convinced a man in Las Vegas that he had his arm amputated after being caught cheating while gambling in Dubai.
Before I knew it, Point Reyes was in sight, although still a few miles away. We had been blessed with a clear, cool, sunny day. The Point jutted out into the Pacific, a thin finger of land indicating the way to Asia. At this juncture we were supposed to call Mark, who had recovered somewhat from death and wanted to meet us for the last couple of miles. We all had multiple bars on our phones, but were unable to call or text him. No matter, Mark had the same problem, so he ventured out on his own to meet us.
The fellowship now consisting of four, we came to the southern edge of Limantour Beach. One could simply walk out to the ocean from there, but that would be contrary to the very essence of the American Discovery Trail, which looks at hiking as the Tantric practitioner views sex, something to savor as long as possible, the climax delayed interminably. The trail headed inland and I took it, worried we would miss the post signaling the end of the ADT, or perhaps one last magnificent vista.
The detour turned out to be pointless. There was no sign and the path didn't take us to a grand overlook. We wondered after thirty minutes whether we were even going to turn back towards the ocean. Defeat was not be snatched from the jaws of victory, for eventually we did get going in the right direction.
My heart began to race as the runway approached the sand dunes. I surmounted that one last, small barrier. The ocean was only one hundred yards away. I stripped down to my shorts and took off with an exultant yell, the eloquent speeches forgotten in my ecstasy. A movie of the ten months I spent on trail, scored by Vangelis, played in my mind as I rushed towards the water. As the crashing waves and I collided, the magnitude of what I'd done struck and I collapsed into the Pacific, then rose, waving my arms in triumph. Suddenly, a great white shark came along and ate me.
There was a celebration that night. Fortunately, it was not the shark who was exultant. He found my flavor profile not to his liking and spit me out upon the beach. After I spilled a few tears in the sand, Mark, Ken, Colin, John*, and I were able to enjoy one last supper together. We devoured a Brazilian feast at Pizza Orgasmico in San Rafael. A fitting climax.

*John joined us after we finished taking a few last pictures. He had wandered over to where the ADT would have hit into Limantour Beach if the trail made any sense whatsoever.

14 miles/4116 total miles THE END

Me Walk, You Walk, Ewok

2012-11-05T13:43:00.001-05:00

October 12

Sadly I have lost a portion of my crew, at least for today. Mark's legs may never work again and the damage done him caused John to think walking with me may not be in his best interest. John does not normally participate in day time activities anyway, so we left him at the hotel. Mark was kind enough to drop Colin and I back at Pan Toll Campground, where we resumed the march at eight P.M. Bangladeshi time.
The trails took us north, paralleling the coast, although the reappearance of the mist prevented us from getting more than an occasional glimpse. Nonetheless, the scenery did provide topics of conversation. First we came upon a rusted car, lying upside down and unlikely to ever get up again. The location of the vehicle, only a foot off the trail, left us bewildered. The trail was too narrow to have driven down. The state of the car indicated it must have been thrown from the bluffs above, but how did it get there? There was no road in sight.

Mad man blocking view of the mystery car

We had nearly ceased speculating and given up the case as an unsolved mystery when we heard a string of curses coming from the forest. An angry man was yelling so loud and frantically we though him to be in a manic state. I was reminded of some moments I'd had when lost on the trail. What would my outbursts have sounded like to someone unlucky enough to overhear them? Ah, nostalgia...
Later, we heard the squeaky wheels of a bicycle coming up behind us. We heartily waved at our trail mate, the first human we had seen in some time. We received no greeting in return from the middle aged man, who grimly pedaled by, head down. I looked at Colin. "I think we just met Angry Man."
These oddities aside, the forest surrounding us was the main attraction. Conversations about a sequel to "The Passion of Christ" subtitled "Up in Your Ass With a Resurrection" could not compare to the ancient trees reaching high into the sky above us. Colin and Mark had talked the day before of a resemblance to the Ewok Forest from "The Return of the Jedi." As it turns out, the analogy was spot on - Mark later discovered George Lucas lived nearby and had used these very woods in the movie. The name Ewok was surely plucked from this region as well. The Native American tribe which once inhabited Marin County was known as the Miwoks.

Another stretch of forest reminded me of a different fictional creature. A bright green moss clung to these trees, thickly matted to the trunks like a fur pelt. Were these the coats of the Grinch and his family, taken as trophies? If so Whoville's vengeance was indeed swift and mighty.

By the last few miles I worried Colin might be the next casualty. His right leg had locked up and it swung clumsily forward like a rusty gate. He limped well behind, but continued to soldier on despite the pain, until we finally reached the day's ending point at Five Brooks. I was quite proud of the lad.
Mark met us a quarter of an hour later with a story of his own. He had been driving around the San Rafael area, killing time while Colin and I forged up the coast. While stopped at a red light he ran into this man:

Mark had wanted to give the man money to reward his creativity, even though, as Chris Rock says, "a homeless man with a funny sign hasn't been homeless very long." I countered with a different version of events. Consider this: an illiterate homeless man unknowingly approaches a smart ass and asks him if he would write him a sign. Ah, the possibilities of such a blank canvas...

16 miles/4102 total miles

Are We There Yet?

2012-11-01T13:34:00.002-04:00

October 11

I no longer walk alone. I was joined this morning by Joel, one of my roommates at the hostel last night. His background as the son of a career Navy man made him a fitting companion as the north end of San Francisco is steeped in military history. We left the Fort Mason, which served as a Civil War barracks, passing the docks from which the Navy shipped supplies to the Pacific fleet during World War II. A few blocks onward was Crissy Field, a former Army facility used as an airfield from 1921 to 1936.
The land was in high demand after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The 30th infantry set up headquarters at Crissy along with the Military Intelligence Service Language School. The airstrip itself returned to prominence after the war, since the small field was useful for helicopter and light airplane take offs and landings, particularly Medevac flights bringing in casualties from Vietnam. Crissy Field finally closed amidst a series of national budget cuts in 1994.
Joel and I soon approached the Golden Gate bridge, whose 1937 construction conceals a choke point once vital to the defense of the harbor. Here is the only entrance to the bay. The Spanish established earthworks on the hills above, known as the Presidio. Gun batteries dotted the shore thereafter and additional artillery was later placed at Fort Point (now tucked underneath the bridge) by American forces.

Fort Point, hiding under the Golden Gate

Enough with the sex and violence, I was ready for my showdown with the Golden Gate. The crossing is one of the most significant milestones over the long course of the American Discovery Trail. I was blessed to have additional company for the momentous occasion. My friend Mark Normington met me up top, along with my brother Colin, whose visit would have been a surprise if everyone involved hadn't contributed to botching the operation.
Before 1937 the only way to get your car to Marin County was via the ferry, an inefficient means of transport given the demand. The country was in a crushing Depression that even Paxil would not cure and the bridge would be terribly expensive. Economic necessity drove California to act on the plan of engineer Joseph Strauss, who did not invent blue jeans. Strauss was able to formulate a functioning yet artistic design which surmounted the what supposedly could not be mounted - "strong, swirling tides and currents, with water 372 ft deepat the center of the channel, and frequent strong winds. Experts said that ferocious winds and blinding fogs would prevent construction and operation."
The bright red bridge is now one of the symbols of San Francisco. In fact, Frommer's lists the Golden Gate as the most photographed bridge in the world. I was honored to have the opportunity to view the Bay Area and the city from her heights. The ubiquitous fog was kind enough to dissipate long enough to accommodate me.
The end of the Golden Gate bridge would seem to make an excellent finishing line for the ADT, but major trails in the United States simply do not begin or end in a major city. A much more remote location is required. The Appalachian Trail runs from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Mount Katahdin in Maine, while the Pacific Crescent and Continental Divide Trails run from isolated spots on the Mexican border to other places you have never heard of on the Canadian border. The ADT ends at Limantour Beach in Point Reyes, meaning I still had forty miles to go.
Nothing for it but to complete another dozen miles before ending the day. I was glad to have Colin and Mark tagging along. We proceeded onto a series of trails, up and down numerous grassy hills, all the while being slowly consumed by a shroud of mist. After we snatched a quick peek at Sausalito, the veil closed completely and we had to satisfy ourselves with staring at nearby objects. The terrain changed to thick forest and we reveled in the glory of the massive redwoods, whose trunks disappeared into the sky. Another marvel lay at our feet, the mascot of the University of California at Santa Cruz, the banana slug. The mollusks were omnipresent in the damp, dark woods and Mark was especially adept at spotting the slimy greenish-yellow creatures, which can move at a lightning fast rate of six inches a minute.

Banana slug, the Usain Bolt of the animal kingdom

As we neared the day's goal, Pan Toll Campground, Mark began to move a bit sluggishly himself. His knees, in dire need of surgical repair, began to fail him and he was forced to halt whenever the pain became too great. I ran ahead to meet our friend John Byrd, who had also flown in today and was scheduled to pick us up. This turned into a bit of a fiasco as John was not where he was supposed to be and I had no cel service as usual. After nearly an hour of trying to shake a text message out of my one bar, Mark finally limped into Pan Toll and collapsed on the ground. Colin was able to contact John and we managed to figure out where he was and explain where he actually needed to be.
We hit a great taco joint for dinner, then took Mark back to the hotel in San Rafael so he could die in a bed. Colin, John, and I visited the hotel bar, where we enjoyed celebratory pints of beer before realizing they cost twelve dollars a pop. Sport stadiums and concert venues would have been envious of such vicious overcharging. We beat a hasty retreat before being driven into bankruptcy*. Unbelievably I have only two more days left to walk.

*His friends paid, the author is already bankrupt - Editor

17 miles/4086 miles total

The Ferry Queen

2012-10-31T13:33:00.003-04:00

October 10

Litter can tell you a lot about a place. Discarded Sierra Nevadas and Haagen Dazs wrappers indicated Berkeley was slightly more upscale than the average American city. A return to Bud Light and used condoms let me know I was entering Oakland.
Oakland does have a reputation as a fearsome place. The city conjures images of Hell's Angels running wild or Raiders fans dressed up in costumes better suited to a medieval battle. Oakland recently topped the FBI's list of most dangerous cities in California. The reality for me was quite different. I enjoyed a rather pleasant stroll down Broadway to the Bay. I would have been tempted to stop at numerous bookstores and restaurants if the early hour had not meant that they were closed.
My experience at Cafe Gratitude had left me eager to try more Bay Area cuisine, so when the open for lunch signs were finally lit, I immediately pounced. My target was the Chicken and Waffle, a spin off of Los Angeles' famed Roscoe's Chicken and Waffle. The diner was packed, soul food in demand these days from people of all colors. I examined the varied menu, most of the choices pictured on a mural covering the wall behind the counter top where I sat. My decision was easy. I had never tried the unlikely combination after which the restaurant is named.

The meal was at first disappointing, the fried chicken and macaroni failed to ignite a passionate response in my mouth. There did seem a method to the pairing, though, as I discovered when I bit into the waffles, the contrast of salty and sweet delivering an extremely pleasant taste sensation. I wouldn't want the duo for every meal, but i now understand the allure.
The impatience of my stomach was punished upon reaching Jack London Square and the Ferry Terminal. I had just missed the previous ferry and would have to wait two hours for the next.
Don't worry, I'm not cheating and then rubbing it in your face. The boat is part of the ADT - pedestrians aren't even permitted on the Bay Bridge to the best of my knowledge. I didn't mind the rare opportunity to sit and rest. When the ferry finally showed I appreciated even more the chance to advance effortlessly. Seven miles of no effort whatsoever and suddenly the captain was directing us to disembark.

Months of work had finally brought me to San Francisco. A Spanish name, but a very American town, filled with a vibrant array of peoples and cultures. Interestingly enough, however, the name did not come from the mind of a Spaniard. The original settlement had been known as Yerba Buena*. Colonel Bartlett, who liberated California from Mexican disinterest during the Mexican-American War, picked the current name during a brief stint as mayor.
There were few visitors in those days, but that changed only a couple of years later, when the Gold Rush turned San Francisco Bay into a bustling port virtually overnight. Evidence of the Bay's usefulness was everywhere along the shoreline. Piers, marinas, boats old and new crowded the water. Fish, shrimp, and dungeoness crab sat in various stages of preparation at an endless string of seafood restaurants. Even the lonely island out in the harbor, Alcatraz, had once served a purpose in the maritime economy, as the site of the first lighthouse on the West coast. Later on the island adversely effected the shipping interests of certain members of the criminal class, as Al Capone could have attested had his syphilitic brain not melted into a pile of pus.

I spent the night at Fort Mason, where Hosteling International gives the less than wealthy traveler a chance to stay in the heart of downtown San Francisco. Mason has had many uses over its 150 year history, defending the city from possible attack, hosting exhibits for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, and operating as a storage facility and staging area during World War II. Now the Fort is stuck with me and a gaggle of smelly Europeans as house guests. Oh how the mighty have fallen down, cracked their head on the sidewalk, and bled out.

10 miles/4069 total miles

*Which means dank herb in Spanish, I believe

I Am Vegetable

2012-10-30T14:37:00.000-04:00

October 9

I packed the tent away, perhaps for the last time. The REI Halfdome 2 has served me well. Very little of my original gear has made the cross country journey intact. The tent is an exception, with only a minuscule crack in one of the poles to show for many months of wear and tear.
My body has hung together just as well. At this point last year I was suffering from back spasms and shin splints. As of today my feet feel like I could do another thousand miles. My brain, on the other hand, has told me that is a terrible idea.
We comprised and aimed for the University of California-Berkeley, only ten miles or so away on the ADT, one block away as the crow flies. The advantage of the ADT is the views and there could have been plenty between Inspiration Point and the Cal campus. The early morning mist had other ideas, drawing a curtain over the Bay Area, leaving me to imagine what lay below. Probably a duel to the death between King Kong and Godzilla, I conjectured.
I spent some of the morning getting lost and falling on the ground, but these foibles are part of my regular routine now, like brushing my teeth and taking a shower*. I shan't bore you with those details. Suffice it to say at some juncture I was spat out onto Grizzly Peak Road, where I was stunned to realize I knew where I was.
As I proceeded toward Cal-Berkeley I ran into a friendly bicyclist named Lovejoy. Curious as to why I looked like Santa Claus fallen on hard times, he asked for my story. He was intrigued, especially since he had recently met a Wounded Warrior in need of help while walking in San Francisco. Lovejoy found the man naked on the sidewalk, curled up in the fetal position. "R," as we will call him, was at first unwilling or unable to speak. With some gentle prodding he admitted to having done "terrible things" in Iraq, actions for which he felt he would never be forgiven. Ever since their run-in Lovejoy had been working to get R the assistance he needs. I promised to inform the WWP about R's situation if Lovejoy would send me the man's information. We parted shortly thereafter, but not before making dinner plans for that evening.
I descended to the Berkeley campus where I ran smack into a bear. The beast was a bronze statue of the school's mascot, thankfully not prone to moving, much less devouring hikers. I was hungry myself and headed to the International House^ for lunch. I wolfed down a lamb and hummus pita sandwich, as if anyone gives a flying fornication.
There was plenty of day left, so I decided to take advantage by checking into the hostel where I had reservations and doing absolutely nothing. The Piedmont House is a relic of Berkeley's days as a bastion of left-leaning thought. The 60s at Cal were a cloud of marijuana smoke occasionally interrupted by a hit of acid, a line of Ginsberg poetry, or a Free Speech Movement.
The Free Speech Movement was a student uprising in the middle of the hippie decade which began in response to the University administration's ban on political demonstrations. When an activist was arrested for defying the ban, huge sit-ins and protests resulted. Mario Savio summed up the feelings of those involved:
"There's a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious—makes you so sick at heart—that you can't take part. You can't even passively take part. And you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all."
The evil Dean Wormer eventually backed down. Cal students continued to rage against the machine throughout the 60s. They were at the forefront of the Civil Rights movement and later led student opposition to war in Vietnam.
The man who appeared to run Piedmont House could have easily been transported from that era yesterday. Yow was at times a brilliant philosopher and at others a flaky burnout case. Paranoid of bed bugs, he had my sleeping bag frozen. I wondered what sense this made since he left me my pack. My sleeping bag is normally stored inside, if one is infected surely the other is as well.
I hung out at the hostel, over the course of the afternoon meeting a few college students in residence as well as a middle aged man who had clearly overindulged in hallucinogens himself. I was retrieved by Lovejoy around six and we rode in his car to Cafe Gratitude.
The restaurant is more like a collective, growing organically out of the strongest of roots. Lovejoy explained to me that its origins lay in a game, the Abounding River, which the owners invented. Abounding River allows participants to examine their lives while receiving positive affirmation, free from judgments, from other players. Cafe Gratitude started simply as a place to host the game.

I found that story quite unusual, but you may find it even harder to believe my reaction to the Vegan fare they served. I am a committed carnivore. Until my twenties I found most vegetables repulsive and I have no love for raw vegetables even as an adult. When Lovejoy told me what Cafe Gratitude's menu was like I cringed inwardly. Be polite, I thought, just enjoy the atmosphere, socialize, and don't insult your host by spitting the food on the floor.
When the appetizer, I Am Grounded#, arrived I was stunned. The dish was essentially patatas bravas, but the sauce was not made from cheese, but cashews instead. I could not have told the difference blind-folded, except that the flavor was superior to any examples I had sampled in Spain.
I still doubted my entree would be much more than edible. When I Am Hearty landed in front of me, I admitted otherwise. Of all the experiences I've had on this trip, enjoying a Vegan meal would have seemed the least likely of them all not too long ago. At least I'm getting pretty used to being wrong.

10 miles/4059 total miles

*He actually does not shower very often - Editor
^Not affiliated with the shithole in Austin.
#All the dish titles relate to the positive reinforcement aspect of the Abounding River game: I Am Bold, I Am Dazzling, I Am Thriving, for example.

The Great Escapes

2012-10-25T13:17:00.001-04:00

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October 8

I have to say no to the devil. I have a meeting with my friend Mark on Thursday in San Francisco, so there is just not enough time to fit him in to my busy schedule.

The ADT takes a long detour over Mt. Diablo, whose heights allegedly provide a fantastic view of the Bay Area. I condensed these twenty four miles into merely eight by taking the less scenic route to Walnut Creek.

The shortcut put me back on pace to make my rendezvous. I felt free to sally forth on the ADT again and headed into a new labyrinth of trails amidst the hills. I managed to go a few miles without making a wrong turn, but eventually my extraordinary winning streak came to an end.

When I ran into a road I knew I was lost again. At least there was a neighborhood visible below. I figured I would venture down there, find a main street in Lafayette and reorient myself. A gate to the right was marked private, so I decided left was a grand plan. A few hundred yards further on I ran smack into another enclosed property. A normal person would have turned around, but thankfully I don’t suffer from that particular disorder.

I could see an escape route – black tarmac ready to release me from this private property trap. I responded by sliding down the steep hill on my butt, putting freedom only twenty feet away. There was still a major problem. A fence running behind the neighborhood blocked further progress. I looked for a home owner, but early on a weekday afternoon no one was present. Since I was still unwilling to trespass, I decided to see if the fence would lead me to an exit.

I started along a ditch, but the intercession of a culvert forced me back onto the treacherous hill, where I repeatedly slipped and fell on the slick surface. As I came to my feet I saw an older woman in her backyard, sitting poolside with a book. I opened my mouth to explain that I was not a burglar or serial murderer before she panicked and called the police. Then I paused. She was asleep. Simultaneously, I noticed a gap in the fence. I sprinted through in a flash.

I was unfettered, but where should I go next? I moved south, towards Lafayette, finding the BART* station there. I consulted their map, discovering that Happy Valley Road, which lay on the other side of the parking lot, would lead me straight back to the ADT. The road name sounded ominous, but I assumed I was too old to elicit much interest from Sandusky.

Two hours on Happy Valley and I met the ADt and was face with another decision. The trail ventures into East Bay Municipal Utilities District (EBMUD) territory and a permit is required to hike there. Lacking permission and fearing the fine, I picked a parallel course. My choice meant there was a high fence between me and Briones Reservoir and I was nearly out of water. A bicyclist stopped and gave me a few ounces, delaying dehydration only slightly.

Briones Reservoir

By six thirty I was desperate. When an opportunity arose in the form of a stream, I pounced. In my haste for water I never saw the “No Trespassing “sign or the barbed wire I must have stepped over on my way in and out. I braved the inclined bank, picking my way down to the water’s edge. I filled the bottles, then proceeded up the difficult grade. Only steps from the top I grabbed a sapling for purchase. The wood snapped, my shoes slid, and I prepared for the long fall to the bottom. It never came. Somehow I stayed upright, lunging in one stride to safety.

I had to answer one more question before I could rest for the night. Where was I going to rest for the night? Tindal Park was the logical choice, but how should I get there? The ADT went via Inspiration Point, via more EBMUD land. Other options were longer and dusk was beginning to settle. I couldn’t read the warning sign at the entrance to EBMUD, so I decided to chance ignorance as an excuse. I assumed I would see or hear any vehicles long before they would spot me.

The gambit paid. Forty minutes of walking with only the flashlight to guide me and I made the gate exiting EBMUD. Houdini was an amateur.

22 miles/4049 total miles

*Bay Area Rapid Transit

A Mazing Disgrace

2012-10-24T13:20:00.001-04:00

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October 7

In college we used the term apple-berry-pear to describe anything bordering on perfection. The adjective derives from an unusually tasty beverage manufactured by Tropicana at the time. The target of the phrase was usually an exceptional lovely lassie, as men in their late teens and early twenties are somewhat prone to horniness.

I feel apple-berry-bear is spot on as a description of the greatness of the San Francisco Bay I am currently entering, easily the best area for shipping on the Pacific coast. Despite the area’s obvious attraction as a safe harbor, Europeans were slow to settle the region. Either a dangerous slog over the Rockies and Sierras or an equally perilous voyage around the deadly Cape Horn were required. Few thought the riches worth the reward. The first permanent settlement did not come until the time of the American Revolution, when Juan Bautista de Anza set out with a smaller group of priests and soldiers. He explored more of the Bay Area than any European had previously, establishing future sites for the Presidio and the Mission de Asis in the process.

I followed in the Spaniards footsteps on the De Anza trail. The path was paved for bikes, taking an arrow straight route through the neighborhoods of Antioch. Hardly an echo of what De Anza and his compatriots experienced. When I entered Contra Loma Park, however, the degree of difficulty increased exponentially.

The trail was easy to find at first, the Contra Loma Reservoir providing a well-defined landmark in case of confusion. A host of ADT signs sucked me into the maze, providing a false sense of security. I climbed into golden hills, the tall grass looking more like wheat ready for threshing. Five miles in the trap swung shut. A fork in the road left me perplexed, the arrow not definitively pointing in any of the four possible directions. Murphy must have been a hiker. I chose poorly.

Contra Loma Reservoir

The punishment was delayed thirty minutes, until the easy downhill glide took me to a locked gate marked, “No Trespassing, Private.” This subtle clue led me to believe I had gone wrong. Getting here had been no problem, returning to the fork was a wee bit harder. The Bay Area is famous for steep hills and I’d put this one up against any. I would have spent a lot more energy cursing myself on the return trip, had there been an excess to give. I met a hiker familiar with the Park at the top, who referred to the trail I’d just climbed as “The Wall.” An apt title, I feel.

I now had three remaining tines to choose from and miracle of miracles the second guess was a winner - at least for half a mile, when I missed another turn. Mercifully I noticed the error rather quickly and corrected course. Passing Somerville cemetery, the burial ground of early 20^th century Welsh miners, I encountered another of Frost’s dilemmas. The ADT sign demanded a left turn, which seemed to take me back in the wrong direction. I took a leap of faith and obeyed, regretting every step for some time afterward.

I proceeded in a worried fashion for an hour, assured only somewhat when the trail bent in a more reasonable direction. Three Latino bicyclists leapfrogged me and I went by them in turn as they rested. On my next break they pedaled past once more. They returned shortly and asked me where I was headed.

“Clayton,” I responded.

“We have to turn back. We are going the wrong way,” the leader said, and they were off.

Was I included in “we”? Confused and demoralized I carried on nonetheless, waiting for confirmation of failure. Instead I was surprised by redemption, in the form of another ADT sticker. The homes of Clayton dotted the hills on the horizon.

I made my triumphant procession into town, visiting the library to research possible sleeping arrangements. I found a Day’s Inn situated between Clayton, Concord, and Ygnacio Valley. Which city was I in? Who cares, I’m pretty used to not knowing where the hell I am.

17 miles/4027 total miles

The Bridge of Death

2012-10-23T13:48:00.002-04:00

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October 6

I have reached the four thousand mile mark, a number so large it makes my brain hurt, although honestly about anything beyond double digits does that. You can’t undertake such a long journey without passing over hundreds of rivers, creeks, arroyos, unless you walk in a circle in Nevada. At none of these crossings did I feel the overwhelming fear I experienced today.

The trek started with a bridge, spanning the gap between Brannan and Sherman Islands. There were no trolls and he old man from scene 24 did not await me with his questions three. The danger still lurked on the horizon. I strolled onto Sherman Island with ease.

I could, however, see the devil by now, and I don’t mean Mt. Diablo, which dominated the background. In front and center the Antioch Bridge stood, perhaps the last major impediment on my way to the sea. The ADT does not approach it directly, instead taking a scenic tour around the Island. I was glad to oblige, putting off our inevitable confrontation as long as possible. Like an underdog boxer, I bobbed and weaved, scared to come too close for fear of the knockout blow.

Cows and sheep grazed around me, oblivious to human struggles, even those that could decide their fate. Water surrounded us, a seemingly endless resource, but a sign at Eddo’s RV Park and Resort spoke of conflict over its use:

California is one state, but split into two well-defined regions: the North and the South. Their civil war is over the content of the very rivers and sloughs by which the livestock and I were encircled. Southern California is a desert and as such is constantly in search of the life-giving liquid. Northern California is the economic center of the state and well-provisioned with rivers running out of the Sierra Nevadas. Governor Brown has stirred up the controversy with a proposal to build two water tunnels through the delta. The South claims their future is uncertain without the tunnels. Northerners argue that the entire delta ecosystem could be disrupted if the water is diverted.

I’d heard some of the Northern Californians seriously suggest seceding from the South. They feel the desert regions over-consume and under-produce and have become a drain on the much more successful and efficient North. These thoughts diverted my attention from the Antioch Bridge momentarily, but soon I stared doom in the face. I procrastinated, stopping to eat a can of Vienna sausages. When the last meatsicle went disappeared down my gullet, our meeting could be delayed no longer. The Bridge is almost two miles long, but the distance was not my main worry. There were two serious concerns, the first was immediate. There is no pedestrian walkway – you are on the same level as the vehicles, which fly by at up to seventy miles an hour. A few feet of shoulder presents the only zone of safety.

Once I had begun I marched in a robotic fashion, not wanting to pause for even a second. Trucks and cars roared by in packs, there were few breaks in the traffic. As I rose higher I crouched lower, terrified a freak gust of wind would blow me off the side and down hundreds of feet to the San Joaquin below. The climb felt endless, but eventually I came to the bridge’s summit, the end now visible, but not yet near.

There was yet one more obstacle. I was on the left, preferring to face the onrushing machines rather than having them at my back. The turnoff at the finish line was on the other side of the road. A small gap, opened up, giving me my opportunity. I hurdled over a concrete barrier and as I semi bore down on me, scooted onto the opposite shoulder. Only a few hundred yards left. I winced at the “whoosh” of every auto zooming by me, counting down every single step until….

Safety is green grass growing above a curb. I entered Antioch a victorious crusader, selecting a dingy café for a celebratory meal. If you had seen the smile on my face you would think I’d been invited to dine with the King of England.

My accommodations for the evening were equally unimpressive. The Executive Inn has probably not entertained any corporate bigwigs in quite some time, unless high ranking members of the Crips or Bloods count. The non-smoking room smelled like a Tom Petty concert and even the knobs of the dressers and the phone book had been stolen. I could not have cared less. The bridge of death was behind me.

17 miles/4010 total miles

Hey God, You Forgot My Receipt

2012-10-22T11:39:00.001-04:00

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October 5

The delta breeze blew softly, a welcome relief after the heat of Sacramento. A cloud of blackbirds swirled in the fields, their tight alignment and rigid discipline fooling me into thinking they merely numbered in the hundreds – until they broke into smaller divisions, revealing thousands of individuals. They moved as if one mind guided them, the close quarters they kept never leading to a collision.

The levee and adjacent farm land are mainly products of Chinese labor, brought to California to perform cheap and difficult labor no one else would. Many stayed on after the initial work was complete, opening businesses or toiling at one of the nine asparagus canneries on the delta. Not all were law-abiding citizens. The Bing Kong Tong, whose clubhouse has been preserved in Isleton, was a criminal gang much like the Italian mafia. The Tong’s members were just like other immigrants, except the new opportunities they sought involved extortion, gambling, and prostitution. I think there is a line in Neil Diamond’s song “Coming to America” about protection schemes.

Bing Kong Tong

I tried to find some traditional cuisine across the street from Bing Kong at the Pineapple. My search for an authentically spicy Szechuan chicken dish failed even here. The bland favors were a terrific disappointment until I doused the plate with red chilis. Do you need to know the secret password to get the real thing?

I cruised over bridges and past marinas. The marsh grasses and palm trees gave the delta a coastal feel, even though the ocean is still seventy miles away*. I finished up at Brannan Island, named after the man who instigated the madness of 1849.

When Sutter learned of the gold found at his mill, he feared the likely consequences and tried to keep the discovery on the down low. Sam Brannan, a Mormon elder, was responsible for releasing the proverbial genie from the bottle, selling out not only Sutter, but Brigham Young as well in the process. Brannan owned a store in New Helvetia, near Sutter’s Fort. When he noticed how many of his customers were paying in gold, his spidey sense activated and he quietly began hoarding merchandise and buying stocks in mining equipment. Once well-provisioned, he traveled to San Francisco with a bottle of gold dust, where he yelled, “Gold! Gold! Gold from the American river.” Then he sat back and watched the money roll on in.

Brannan had originally come to California as the head of a Mormon mission. Eventually, the head of the church, Brigham Young, sent a messenger asking for the Lord’s cut of his profits. Brannan’s supposed reply? “You go back and tell Brigham that I’ll give up the Lord’s money when he sends me a receipt signed by the Lord.”

Quiet, empty Brannan Island was a poor representation of the man, who has been described as brash, coarse, courageous, and even generous. Whiskey and a failed marriage led to the downfall of Brannan late in life. Darkness and fatigue led to my downfall late in the day, at an out of season campsite on the island. Unlike the dead millionaire, I do plan to get up again, hopefully tomorrow.

16 miles/3993 total miles

*This number is the driving distance. To discover the actual mileage I still have to cover on the ADT you can multiply by two. Or trace the curviest hilliest route possible on a topographic map.

When the Levee Breaks Me

2012-10-19T11:18:00.002-04:00

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October 4

“Mean old levee, taught me to weep and moan.” - Led Zeppelin

I found it hard to disagree with Mr. Plant after the way today began. South of the California capital I joined the levees protecting the north central part of the state from the temper tantrums of the Sacramento River. Even these twenty foot high barriers have failed to contain floods on occasion, most recently in 1993. They did contain me, however, leaving me trapped atop the levee between the water on one side and private farms on the other. The wine and fruit orchards provided bucolic scenery, but no place to legally put a tent.

The settlement at Clarksburg looked to be the last for many miles. I called Mom to examine possible options. As I’d feared, the next option was beyond Walnut Grove, which would make for at least a thirty mile day. Nothing to do except march onward. The light began to fade and so my spirit, which I admit is a bit of a whiner. A young photography student cheered me briefly, offering me a Tupperware dish full of rice and recording my haggard countenance on film.

Right before Walnut Grove lay her sister town, Locke. As the sun disappeared over the horizon I entered Main Street in search of a hot meal to reenergize me. Locke was originally settled by Chinese immigrants and their influence dominates to this day, a fifth column working to destroy America from the inside or regular people trying to get by in a hard world. Let your prejudices decide. The shops loomed over me in the narrow street, more like an alley. Most of the businesses were closed, only one last vestige of life lingered. The sign read Al the Wops.

You wonder during a long, tiring hike when the suffering will be worth it. You wonder, for what reason do I continue? The answer is to meet people like Rob Torres (and raise money for the Wounded Warrior Project, please don’t forget about them – this interruption has been made possible by the Wounded Warrior Project).

Rob was bartending for the night, a side gig. His main job is as a teacher at a local high school. I hope those kids know how fortunate they are. Rob immediately empathized with my situation, getting me sustenance even though the kitchen was closed, promising me a place to camp, and introducing me to the eclectic assemblage I had stumbled upon.

A couple of the regulars are well worth mentioning. Charles, who had worked at the Shelby Cobra factory, surfed professionally at Newport Beach, and smuggled drugs across the border from Mexico and John O. who supervised a propane company and hunted deer in his spare time. John O. was one of four customers of the same name, enough Johns to please any brothel. His resume may look pedestrian when compared to Charles’, but he had by far the best story. On John’s first assignment as a propane rookie he blew up the house. He was able to rescue the elderly lady inside and still managed a twenty five year and counting career in the business. Poor training by his employers was the cause of the disaster. Not exactly what one would call an auspicious start.

The current crew continues in the tradition of the founder, a character in his own right. The Italian Al Adami chose to open a restaurant in the heart of Chinese dominated Locke. He managed to thrive in spite or perhaps because of his unusual antics: cutting off customers’ ties (which he viewed as too dressy), throwing money on the ceiling, and stirring women’s drinks with his fingers. The Chinese affectionately dubbed him Al the Wop. Wop is an acronym for early 20^th century immigrants, mainly Italians and Eastern Europeans, which stands for “without papers.”

Adami carried on the business until 1961, when death cut his career short. Happily, the oddball flavor of his bar has lasted beyond his earthly presence. Hours previously I thought the levee might break me, so tantalizingly close to the finish. It merely led me on to insure I found the place I needed to be.

27 miles/3977 total miles

Meet the Fowlers II

2012-10-17T16:30:00.003-04:00

October 3

I work in the dark corridors, the spaces in between. Not by choice you see. the trails take me there and I feel impelled to follow at times, like Gollum searching for the one ring, but with a less disgusting diet and not quite as butt-ugly.
There may have been places of interest in the miles north of Sacramento, but I saw them not. Brief scraps of the Sacramento State campus, the Cal Expo Center, and an immaculately manicured golf course all flashed around me for seconds before the bikeway hid again behind a wall of shrubbery or headed down an ugly old irrigation canal.
At Discovery Park I emerged once again into open space at the edge of downtown Sacramento. The city was born in the 49ers stampede to California. Sutter's Mill, where the insanity began, is located a short distance away. John Sutter's name will be forever associated with the best known bonanza in American history, but the man himself was left trampled underfoot. The profitable ranch he had worked to build over the previous decade fell apart as his employees left in search of greater riches. Prospectors arriving in full gold lust rampaged over Sutter's land and destroyed all he had worked for over the last decade. The grist mill where the initial discovery was made ended up being dismantled, the timber used to construct a hotel in Sacramento for the newcomers.
The Sacramento waterfront retains much of its architecture from those early days. You can sit upon the docks and easily picture a boat unloading the day's fresh catch, a maddened crowd, dreaming of the wealth they would soon enjoy. The river system flows all the way to San Francisco Bay and out into the Pacific. A traveler from New York could technically reach Sacramento without ever touching dry land.

Later transportation and information networks cemented Sacramento's importance to Northern California. The Pony Express terminated here. The Transcontinental Railroad was masterminded in part by Theodore Judah, who insured the route traversed the Sierras into Sactown. The man himself never saw the completion of all he had worked for, dying in 1863, six years before the Golden Spike was driven in Utah. A museum on the waterfront documents the positive financial impact the railroad had.

Capitol Building

Major interstates and an international airport continue the tradition, but today's Sacramento is more than just a hub on the way to the Bay Area. California is the wealthiest state in the Union and the capital has been situated in Sacramento since 1854. Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and the Terminator have all occupied the governor's seat at the corner of 9th and Capitol.
Arnold may have been the one to utter, "I'll be back" but California's governors all seem to have a knack for returning from the political dead. Upon losing the governor's race in 1962 Nixon lamented, "You won't have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore..." Sadly he was wrong. Reagan lost the 1976 Republican primary to Gerald Ford before his two landslide victories in the 80s. Most amazing of all, current governor Jerry Brown led California in the 1970s and early 1980s, then disappeared from sight for fifteen years after a failed presidential campaign, only to reassume the throne in 2011. The suede denim secret police have returned.
For a second consecutive night I had a host. Rich Fowler picked me up at four, near the Sacramento Animal Penitentiary. If the surname sounds familiar, you may recall his brother Ron and his wife Kathy adopted me for a couple of nights in Johnson Lake, Nebraska.
At that time Rich was preparing for a one day, two hundred mile bike ride. The sixty nine year old completed the task, telling me the turning point came at the one hundred mile mark when he crested the most intimidating slope on the route. Rich was in a celebratory mood when we met; the Oakland A's had just completed a final series sweep of the Texas Rangers to win the AL West in improbable fashion. Both Bay Area baseball clubs are in the Playoffs for the first time since 1989. Be careful what you wish for Rich, I imagine you recall what happened during that World Series. Hints: Loma Prieta, Andy Richter, Freeway Collapsing Seismic Armageddon.
Later in the evening Rick's wife Cynthia arrived. She had been an integral part of Rich's exploits as training partner and participant. They rode across the United States together in 2000 on a tandem bike.
We all sat together and enjoyed a succulent meal of turkey, salad, and fresh vegetables. While we ate we watched the first presidential debate. Unbelievably, I was able to keep almost all of my food down.

20 miles/3950 total miles

Hobo With a Hamburger

2012-10-17T15:20:00.003-04:00

October 2

I wondered early on today if I was in England. Pedestrians on the American River Bikeway were consistently in the left lane, bicyclists passing to the right. The world turned upside down when compared to other bike paths. A list of trail rules explained the California system, which was indeed opposite of the norm. I adjusted to the change after briefly considering a one man resistance to the death.
As I moved south the surroundings became more ominous. Signs warned against trespassing and loitering. A tall fence loomed over the trail to my left, topped with menacing rows of barbed wire. I looked for a train rolling round the bend, but this was not the famous prison about which Mr. Cash sang. The lifers rotted out of sight of the Bikeway somewhere to the east. Instead I was seeing the new anti-terrorism measures put in place to protect the Folsom Dam and the city of Sacramento from and Al Qaeda attack.
Not a pretty present. Much of the past had been tarnished by the dam as well. Small communities formed during the gold rush era, like Mississippi Bar, Mormon Island, and Negro Bar had all been drowned underneath Lakes Folsom and Natoma, a smaller reservoir to the south. The old settlers would not even recognize the hills overlooking the river. They were badly damaged by hydraulic mining techniques used in later years.
The day was hot as I passed these tawdry leftovers of man's hubris. I drooped like a wilted flower with osteoporosis as I went. A voice came out of the shadows of Rancho Cordova Community Park, shouting at me. "Do you want a hamburger," he yelled. A short black man with a scruffy beard came running towards me. I demurred. He insisted. I followed.
Dave was a homeless man who had bought more meat than he could eat. He cooked on a small Coleman stove, a bottle of spices his only condiment. I don't know if I've tasted a better burger on the trip. He shared a beer as well. I gave him some money, although he had not asked for any. He had assumed from my pack I was a drifter as well. The most giving people seem to always be those who have the least.

Dave, his Coleman stove, and a praying mantis.

Dave was from Brazil, adopted with his sister by a pair of Minnesotans. He had worked a variety of jobs as an adult, but the accumulation of money was not a passion of his. I detected no sign of mental illness. Being homeless and wandering the world like the nomads of old was simply the path he had chosen. I felt blessed that he had come across mine.
My hosts this night were Kyle and Erika. Erika's aunt Shiloy is a friend of mine from Greenville. Kyle is her boyfriend. The young couple is making their way in the world in a more conventional fashion. Erika works for Mary Kay, climbing the complex ladder of the cosmetics company. Kyle's ladder is more literal as he toils in home construction, for a business run by his father. They have already purchased a home of their own, which they shared with me for the evening. A scrumptious dinner of pork carnitas (think Mexican pulled pork) and fried ice cream at a local restaurant completed the equation.

20 miles/3930 total miles

A Thoreau Accounting

2012-10-17T14:35:00.001-04:00

October 1

The American River felt harshly judged and called me back into her bosom for a second chance. I plunged toward her on the Cardiac Bypass Trail, which only kills the poor saps trying to pick their way out of the steep gorge. Once gaining a parallel course I swerved with the river on the overhanging bluffs.
I stopped at a tributary creek to fill up on the life sustaining fluid less long-winded types refer to as water. A feeling of tranquility overcame me. These emotions appear to coincide with proximity to water. Perhaps I am experiencing a primal instinct, a survival need met, a sense of safety bringing comfort and happiness.
My animal friends seemed to agree with this assessment. Deer, vultures, ducks, turtles, squirrels, and egrets were abundant. I even had my first confirmed rattler sighting, a Northern Pacific slowly slithering across the Pony Express Trail and down toward the water. The serpent paid me absolutely no mind even though I only stood a few feet away.
By late afternoon the river ceased rolling and so did I. We both had reached Folsom Lake, where a dam corrals the American, allowing her to be utilized by thousands of nearby residents and businesses. I rested a few hundred yards from shore, mind and body at ease. I see why Thoreau chose to live next to a pond.

17 miles/3910 total miles

Why America is Cooler Than Unicorns

2012-10-17T13:52:00.003-04:00

September 30


The Auburn Fire Station

For those like myself who believe in the greatness of our nation, the American River is a bit of a disappointment. I expected the waters to flow red, white, and blue, while the crackling rapids would bang out the "Star Spangled Banner" or at least "God Bless America." Dark green covered in a smattering of white foam was the pathetic reality. No patriotic tunes whatsoever could be heard in the quiet bubble. The river didn't even have the decency to swim uphill so I could fill my empty jugs. There was no choice but to head into the gorge after her sustenance.
Hundreds of others had gotten the same idea. The park along the river was flooded with cars and bikes, while others relaxed at the river's edge. Over seven hundred feet above was the Foresthill Bridge, a reminder of what might have happened to this beloved setting. The bridge is the highest in California, constructed to accommodate a much higher water level below. A dam was in the works, but plans were derailed by activists, who defeated the project in a running battle lasting over the course of two decades.
The opposition extended beyond the usual tree-hugging, patchouli-scented crowd. The American River did not have a stellar history with reservoirs. The Hell Hole Dam, located on a tributary named the Rubicon, burst in 1964, shortly after completion. The Greenville Bridge near Auburn was destroyed as a result, bringing into service the Mountain Quarry Bridge, a sturdy structure which had been out of use since World War II.
Mountain Quarry was the most expensive privately funded bridge in the country when constructed in 1912. Trains carried limestone across the gorge over the concrete arches four times a day, but only while supplies lasted.
A robust climb up to the bluffs and over led me to Auburn. Born in the madness of the gold rush of 1849, the city has taken pride in the past, preserving many of the old edifices. An impressive stone statue of a prospector panning for gold stands prominently at the entrance to the downtown.
The image of one of Auburn's early citizens might be residing in your wallet. Jean Baptiste Charbonneau arrived here in the first days of the gold rush and stayed on until 1866. You might know him better as Sacagawea's son, the baby who crossed the fledgling United States with the Lewis and Clark expedition. You can spot the infant's visage splayed across his mother's shoulders on the $1 gold coin.
Without a doubt the early citizens were in a hurry to reach the riches here. Recent visitors rush for a different reason. Racing has become a way of life in Auburn, and they don't do those little sprints. The city is nicknamed the Endurance Capital of the World. The Tevis Cup is the year's main event. The one hundred mile ultramarathon begins in Truckee and concludes at the Auburn Fairgrounds.
I ended the day's portion of my own lengthy jaunt at the Holiday Inn. Manager Tami went above the call of duty, comping the room, my dinner, and making a generous donation to the Wounded Warrior Project. The American River may have been a bit drab, but Americans are pretty bad ass. I ain't queer* or nothin' but I think they are way cooler than unicorns.

*He is indeed quite queer - Editor


The Foresthill Bridge

10 miles/3893 total miles

Dazed and Confucius

2012-10-17T11:03:00.001-04:00

September 29

In the morning we all returned to our normal lives. John went back to work, Matt headed off to the Sacramento airport to retrieve his wife Amy and infant son Everett. I joined the trail once more, laden with edible goodies courtesy of Matt, Andy, and Lorette.
I walked in a daze, previous events combining with future worries to overwhelm my frazzled mind. If as Darwin says, only the strong survive, why have my more qualified brain cells fled the scene? I had a feeling of apprehension, but I could not tell you what I feared. My surroundings had not felt so surreal since I returned to the Dali grind in April.
An odd monument did little to help. Aside the Foresthill-Auburn Road lies a grand memorial of stone and brick. The shrine of a president? An explorer? A famous religious figure? No, a great man or woman was not so honored. A horse was the recipient. Not Secretariat, Sea Biscuit, or the star of "Black Beauty", but a stagecoach mount, Old Joe, shot and killed during a robbery.
More befuddled than before, I trudged on, wishing for wisdom and clarity to repair my shattered thoughts. The middle finger of the American River calmed me momentarily, as water of seems to, then abandoned me, disappearing around a bend.
I still had to find refuge before Auburn. Mom had booked me a rest day there, but not until tomorrow. The Auburn Recreation Area appeared promising, but the camping sites were far from the highway. Too many people lurked about to consider the stealth approach. Finally I came upon an unused dirt path, the shadow of the trees beckoning me to hide underneath their limbs. I found refuge under one of the largest, within a sea of yellow grass, out of sight, out of mind. In the morning I hope the cobwebs clear from mine.

11 miles/3883 total miles

Whirlwind

2012-10-09T18:54:00.000-04:00

September 28

Dry and dusty I started once more for Foresthill. The omens were ill. Litter lined the road and trucks with giant tires flew by without acknowledging the possibility of a speed limit. I had low expectations for what lay ahead, certain Foresthill would be a dud.
I couldn't have been more wrong if I had told you the moon was flat and made of radishes. I should be in the Wrong Hall of Fame. The water situation was solved a couple miles before town when I met a nice fellow who filled me up a jug and threw in a Gatorade.
Once in Foresthill I entered the Red Dirt Saloon, where several patrons were already sipping brews a few minutes before eleven. These seemed like fine upstanding citizens, so I joined them, meeting Matt, John, and Suzanne in quick succession. I figured we would share a pint and I would go my merry way. At some point I let slip that I did not necessarily need to reach Auburn that day. I might as well have thrown a piece of meat at a tiger.
Suddenly I was being bought pints and shots, shooting pool, and observing the decor of old mining and sawmill equipment start to blur. The bar's surface, constructed of a single sugar pine tree, seemed a likely future resting place for my head.

I was saved by John, who took me to his house for a shower. While I removed a few layers of grime, he called in sick to work so that something as silly as responsibility wouldn't get in the way of further debauchery. Matt showed up, joined by their friend Andy and a couple of scuba suits. I was whisked to Sugar Pine Reservoir, where I enjoyed a refreshing dip while the others took turns using the gear. I didn't dive since I'm not certified. I like new experiences, but drowning is not one I plan on trying anytime too soon.
Andy's house was the next stop on our tour. He and his wife Lorette prepared us a spicy and savory meal of fajitas. I believe there was more beer involved, but memory is a hazy thing after a bout of this magnitude. Losing forty pounds has had some effect on my body's tolerance of the stuff as well. Only years of practice allowed me to fool my new friends into thinking I was not a drooling idiot. Then we went back to the bar.
At the Red Dirt John provided a distraction, a knock down, drag out verbal brawl with his woman, who was displeased at his decision to play hooky. I tried to help Matt mediate, mostly by not talking. I did have a rather interesting conversation with an older hippie-type fellow, and if I ever remember the content I'll get back to you.
By one A.M. I waved the white flag and convinced Matt to put me to bed on his sofa, where my eyes closed and snoring commenced. Tomorrow: The Hangover Part 296,892

9 miles/3872 total miles

Sleeping With Joe Pesci's Sister

2012-10-07T19:16:00.000-04:00

September 27

I've found the silence of the forest at night remarkable. The nocturnal creatures creep around as if they were in a library. The only noise is often the wind rustling through the trees.
Humans and their pets are not quite as polite. The evening's rest at Robinson Flat was repeatedly interrupted, first with the barking of my neighbor's dogs, then with the braying of a bitch in heat. She was heated anyway, proving the elasticity of the "f" word by using it with awesome frequency. I would estimated one of every two utterances within her screaming tirade. I'd almost feel bad for her man if he weren't likely the one responsible for bringing them here.

I left camp a little less than well-rested. Fortunately the route could be done while sleeping - the next twenty seven miles are on one paved road, heading mostly downgrade. The land is mostly uninhabited, mainly used as a recreation area. Snowmobilers, dirt bikers, and hikers all gallivant in the surrounding woods. On a weekday, however, few were in evidence.
My only problem was hydration. You would think a mountain range must be chock full of streams. The Sierras are well-stocked in that department, but with the snows melted and no precipitation of late the beds are dry. One lone rivulet I encountered early on supplied me for today. The tanks were low, however, as I searched for a place to camp. Goat Springs stood out on the map, a two bird killing solution. The ground was right, but the well empty. I had enough to hold out the night, but what of tomorrow?

18 miles/3863 total miles

An Interesting Collection of Heroes

2012-10-03T21:20:00.001-04:00

September 26

Migration patterns and infrastructure systems have been a repeating theme in our story, as I stalk the footsteps of previous wanderers. These long journey are taken for business reasons or personal necessity. There are, of course, rare, semi-mythic individuals who choose to plod insane distances for fun. These morons ply their trade in places such as the Tevis Cup Trail, where I spent my morning.
The Tevis Cup started as a one hundred mile horse race through the Sierras. Then one year a rider's horse came up lame just before start time. Not to be deterred, the fellow chose to race on foot. He finished in under twenty four hours and the Tevis Cup Ultramarathon was born. Competitors vie for the honor of being covered in glory, sweat, and their own vomit. Sign up today!
I admit I was jealous and lusting after my own adventure. Not the creative type, I opted for getting lost again. I was supposed to turn onto Soda Springs Road, but amidst the gaggle of unmarked roads I became befuddled. A dead end clued into the error. I would have to backtrack a couple of miles uphill and boy was I thrilled at the prospect!
There had been no water sources in a while and I was running low. A liter of brownish, sediment filled water was all I had left. O happy day the phone actually worked and there was a cavalry to call. I contacted Ted and he promised to be out with water in a couple hours. In the meantime I worked in becoming unlost. Two dirt bikers, A.J. and Chris, my first humans of the day, showed up to play hero. A.J. told me where I had gone wrong and offered to double me up to the place I had turned wrong.
A.J. was polite enough to ask if I would like to get stoned before the ride. I declined, but failed to wonder whether he was of sober mind until we blasted off. My suggestion immeditately pitched off the cliff and I clung tight to his shoulders, sure I would follow. He pealed around turns like a seasoned pro, as if I wans't even there (fortunately I still was). I was relieved to dsimount, the ride was one of the more exilirating experiences Iof the trip if also one of the dumbest.
I was back on trail, but the water bottles had not spontaneously filled themselves in the interim. The Oxborrows were in route, but there was no easy way to reach me. I sipped my fetid brew, spitting out dirt with each swallow. A new savior emerged from the forest in a white pickup. I asked him for water and showed the disgusting brown sludge, prompting him to reply, "Oh Hell no!" He rushed to the bed and grabbed two ice cold 16 oz. bottles.
Half of what he gave me disappeared in one slug, gone to quench my raging thirst. I rationed the rest while continuing on, hoping Ted and Trevor would arrive soon. They made the scene at five, water, food, and camera in hand. I apologized for bringing them out in rough roads that took them nearly three hours to drive. Ted and Trevor would have none of it, insisting how pleased they were to help me in this endeavour. They even took my pack ahead to the campsite where I planned to spend the evening! I think I might write-in their names for President.

18 miles/3845 total mil

Skiing Uphill

2012-10-01T10:39:00.001-04:00

September 25

The gentle birth of the Truckee is in stark contrast to the raging freeway above. The machines of man roar toward their destinations while nature flows at its own pace. Time is meaningless in such a place and I would be content to stay along the river's banks forever. Alas, dawdling is no longer an option. I've set a date to meet my friends at Point Reyes.
The Truckee seemed aware, suddenly forming rapids, rushing instead of lazily drifting. I'd ridden my first whitewater on rafts further downstream as a ten year old boy, an experience only now half-remembered, mostly lost in the dustbins of my mind.
I parted company with the river at Squaw Valley, a ski resort set in the High Sierras. The Winter Olympics were held at Squaw in 1960. The choice to site the Games here was an interesting one. At the time the decision was made their were no venues and the town was mostly undeveloped. The construction was accomplished but the whole competition nearly unwound when the United States refused entry visas to athletes from Communist countries. The IOC threatened to send the Olympics elsewhere and the American government backed down. Thirty nations, including the red ones, participated. The highlight for the home team was a gold medal by the Men's Hockey team, a huge upset over perennial favorites Canada and the Soviet Union. A young Al Michaels was not asked for his opinion on the matter.

The alpine ski events were not held in the Valley, of course, but up on high. I headed towards the stage where downhill and slalom heroes were crowned via the Granite Chief Trail. The path consisted of a wall of giant boulders, stacked one atop the other, with an occasional splash of blue paint marking the suggested course.
I climbed for waht seemed an eternity, picking my way slowly and steadily. The thought of a broken ankle so near to the finish fills my throat with bile.
At the top I found a picturesque tarn, where I filled my water and rested, satisfied - too soon, as it turned out. All my effort had only taken me to the base of the slopes.
A ski resort without snow is a mountain covered in dirt roads, each with no apparent destination but down. Or in my case, up, and I couldn't help but think there are more exciting methods of enjoying a double black diamond.
There does seem to always be a reward for such toil and the best are the unexpected ones. Until I summited I had almost forgotten the large lake I was leaving behind. There she stood, a blue jewel winking at me from the east, sucking away my pain and fatigue, leaving only awe.

16 miles/3827 total miles

Hobo of Last Resort

2012-09-30T21:39:00.002-04:00

September 24

I believe I can't fly. I believe I can't touch the sky. Stands to reason I was left with but one option to reach the Tahoe shore, the usual. Although less efficient than wings my feet were able to deliver me there promptly, an hour to the highway, then another to King's Beach.
My first act was to raid the Safeway. My food sack went from beggarly to bulging in minutes. Having starved myself the last couple of days I was in need of a calorie bomb to renew the engine. Not quite hardcore enough to follow Master Grylls' advice and down a stick of butter, I instead opted for a entire package of cheese. O cow, how flavorful art thou udder's innards.
I continued my circle of Lake Tahoe from beach level, passing into and beyond Tahoe Vista, Carnelian Bay, and Dollar Point. A sign informed me there is so much water here everyone on Earth could use seventy five gallons a day for five years before the well would go dry. Count on extra, I'm not taking my share of showers.

I also had a humorous run-in with an ignorant local. Late in the morning I walked past a woman and her two dogs. They sat next to a shopping cart full of either her possessions or valuables she was selling. I waved hello and thought no more of her.
One hundred yards beyond her a silver-haired patrician stopped in his car and asked me, "Are those your bags?" Since I was only carrying one I wittily asked him to clarify by mumbling, "Huh?" He queried further, providing the necessary transparency to his thought process, "Isn't that your friend over there?" pointing at the woman with the shopping cart. I closed our dialogue with another long-winded response, "No."
The man thought me a drifter. I wish I was still pushing B.J., that would have blown his small mind like a "Hobo With a Shotgun."
The hike concluded in Tahoe City, where I picked up my next set of maps, after some trouble with the post office. Apparently they were unable to decipher Colin's award-winning handwriting and recorded my name as McCarty.
Mom had also kindly helped me by purchasing a room for me at the Mother Nature's Inn. Luckily, the reservation wasn't under Alabaster Candlesticks. I'd had enough of mistaken identity for one day.

14 miles/3811 total miles

Californicating

2012-09-30T21:23:00.002-04:00

September 23

Lake Tahoe is used to playing second fiddle. It is the deepest lake in the United States - except for Crater Lake. It is the largest alping lake in the entire world - except for Lake Titicaca (I'll give you a few moments to repeat the word aloud Beavis). On the ADT, however, there is no rival in diameter. This liquid obstacle would not be navigated around quickly.
I continued on the circular corridor of the Tahoe Rim Trail, moving counterclockwise. The TRT runs one hundred and twenty miles among the heights overlooking the Lake. Constructed in 1984, this rimjob appeals to both hikers and mountain bikers alike, although the pedalphiles are restricted to certain dates and places.
I hurried through Tahoe Meadows, past Mount Rose, and up to Relay Peak, the highest point on the TRT. Lollygagging was out, I wanted to make the California border and also I was low on food. Rose's Knob and Baldy Mountain fell like dominoes that I had stepped on, bringing Stateline Point into view.
I was unsure if there would be a sign and in the usual sense of the word there was not. Someone with a GPS and too much time on their hands a creative solution. Using pine cones they drew a line and then wrote the word California on the proper side.

Soon thereafter I met my first natives, Harris and Susan. The couple, who have a second home at Tahoe, were out walking their dog. They asked a number of questions about the hike, then somehow the dialogue turned to politics, a taboo subject for me.
As a representative of the Wounded Warrior Project, even one they can deny the existence of, I am required not to push a political agenda. They are a non-profit, non-political organization and discourage partisan tomfoolery amongst their agents and employees. I managed to carefully express my opinions, whatever they may be, while delicately avoiding statements such as "Obama is a secret Muslim devil" or "Romney is a Mormon bent on the destruction of the good church of Scientology and all they stand for."
Neither my border crossing or idle chatter had increased the meager rations in my pack. I called Ted for advice. He suggested stopping at Highway 267 and hitchhiking to a grocery store at King's Beach. Armed with this knowledge an idea of my own formed. I ceased for the day within earshot of the road, ready to put my plan into action come the morn.

20 miles/3797 total miles