Santa Barbara, CA

Way out back in the frontcountry (almost at the front of the backcountry), wading upstream through low-intensity biological warfare. An otherwise pleasant and mellow backpacking expedition (complete with roasted marshmallows, for Christ's sake) made interesting through a veritable plague of voracious ticks and sprawling poison oak. Emerging moderately unscathed (give or take a few embedded mandibles), proceeded to bum around in a record store, legit enough to require you to deposit yr bags at the door next to the podium where the haughtily pretentious clerks preside over their kingdom of hipsterdom, quietly judging you by your underground ignorance and poor taste in music. I can empathise, give or take a few DDTs and elbow drops from the top turnbuckle.

Later...pedaled around town, taking in the hunt clubs, golf courses, and sponsored beach parties. Not our scene, so on we pumped and coasted. Deep discussions about the merits of scooters, why living cells are programmed to die at regular intervals, and how glad we are we are too old to care about being on the other side of the velvet rope.

Evenings whiled away with the NBA playoffs (contractually obligated to root for the Celtics, with or without Kevin Garnett), Yahtzee, epic music exchange sessions (70s punk for 90s rap with some 60s folk tossed in for good measure), and several gallons of frozen yogurt. It's so healthy, there is nothing wrong with scarfing a mountain of frosty goodness bigger than your head. Or at least so I have been led to believe!

Eastern Sierras, CA

Some people play golf, some people play poker, some people sit on their asses and bitch about things they know nothing about, and some people strap skis and boots to their packs, climb a mountain, and ski down the other side. Any activity that requires snow shovels and avalanche beacons is pretty damn fabulous.

We met up with a Sacramento resident who is a professional window washer (it's about professionalism, not cleaning windows) and bona-fide adventurer from the Hemingway school of battling Nature with a grimace of fatalistic determination and a belly fulla booze (slight exaggerations, but Papa was full of shit too). Camped in closed campgrounds (at least they had the decency to leave the latrines unlocked), next to hot springs with tubs full of naked skiers from San Diego (all dudes, naturally), and on the shoulder of "closed" highways. Tried to conquer a narrow couloir that simply laughed at us. Tried to assault a slope that pissed on our plans. Settled on a reasonable north face who accepts backcountry skiers like a down-and-out whore. Meanwhile, off for some sketchy scrambling over tricky talus. The pucker factor was in effect.

No epic powder, but plenty of epic driving. Consumed enough burgers and shakes to choke a burro. Beats ramen noodles and Indian MREs. Washing up in a sink, overwhelmed by the odor of sunburned flesh, dried sunscreen, muscle-straining struggle, and the occasional baseball-sized contusion with no apparent cause. A little bit of HAFS goes a long way in a packed to the ceiling '97 Saturn with Wu-Tang on the tape deck and philosophical musings in the air.

Sequoia Nat'l Park

Snow is deeper than a well digger's ass...need an escort for an overpriced beer run. Learning how to save people in the wilderness...or at least calm them down while they die slowly! Some people die from too much exposure; some people die from a lack of it (thanks Nick Cave).

An inspiring crew of First Responders: park rangers; fly fisherwomen, paramedics, conservationists (chop down some trees while hugging others); outdoor adventurers (ski bums, climbing dirtbags, and other inspirational folks pursuing their passions, naysayers be damned); outdoor rec dudes; therapeutic wilderness teachers; and even a guy who builds the most bad-ass adventure vans you'll ever see. I'd be proud to park it down by the river!

Crepitus, Jugular Vein Distension, and Pink Frothy Sputum would be excellent death metal band names.

Screaming in mock misery and/or focused spine assessments (but ONLY after a COMPLETE patient assessment, of course) by day, soaking in the bubbly and overflowing hot tub by night. Miranda the Brisbanian gave us the run of the joint...all the cranberry juice we could stand. Three decent slops with a cot & crapper...what more could an aspiring bum want?

Edwards Air Force Base, CA

Like Iraq, but with worse food. Out in the flat desert amidst the jets and poppies. Who would think you could turn such benign little flowers into heroin? A scientific breakthrough to be sure.

Managed to ride a bicycle around base with a constant headwind...no mean feat. Vicious sandblasting gales grounded the test pilots for another day. Might as well get right back into 'er. A thimbleful of 10 year old Talisker goes a long way.

Mojave Preserve

Barely April and already a furnace. Good place to hide out when you're on the loose: no entrance fees and lots of emptiness. Even has drinking water you can scam at the campground. Colorful desert flora, more so than the high-altitude bayonets I'm used to. Volcanic rock, plenty of handholds. Moon half-empty, plenty of illumination. Pissing without a headlamp, like God intended.

Painted Desert

Acoma Sky City, incorporated 1150 AD, give or take a few weeks. One of the few reservations keeping it real, or at least appearing to do so to this casual bystander. Fred told stories of his ancestors to a gaggle of white-haired Winnebago Warriors, like the one about the fellows who carried the vigas from Mt Taylor across 40 miles of unforgiving desert to the roof of the mission without ever allowing them to touch the earth and be defiled. Hardcore. As hardcore as the Native in the Bob Marley shirt hawking pottery outside his cut stone house.

Wandering through barren, scorched earth. Heavy load, as always (ultralight is a myth, albeit a good one). Innumerable mounds of red & white dirt, like a thousand pulverized middle schools and a few fire departments. Too bad our antiquated educational system was left firmly intact. Rivers of sand...a few wildflowers (probably named and boxed up, like the rest of us) popping through the desolation. Ranger was actually named Fozzy, "yes, with a 'y'" as he explained on the phone.

Rendezvous, Flagstaff, AZ. Good place for good caffeine and music. Broken Social Scene, Tortoise, Thievery Corporation, and other such snobby stuff.

Needles, CA is like Hell, but smells better.