Jacksonville, OR

Entering the vertical world, receiving assistance from three temporary fellow vagabonds (Texans, of course). Our backs took a week off while we developed some splendid blisters and callouses on our feet, for that is the initiation into the world of traditional cobbing. Never mind the fact that those ancient Welsh bastards had some draft horses! But our cobbing forefathers didn't have ghetto blasters with which to play Pearl Jam's "Ten" for motivational purposes.

On the social front, the typical initial awkwardness of communal living is melting into a cohesive whole where our roles are "organically" coalescing into a working team, smashing egos in the process (or so our collective ego has led us to believe). They say there is no "I" in team, but there are two "I"s in annihilate.

Workhorses: visited House Alive World HQ, an inspiring conglomeration of hand-sculped and even code-approved dwellings and meditiation spaces tucked into the Oregon woods. Years of backbreaking labor is the price you pay for a Permacultural Utopia: off the grid, self-sufficient, and an inspiration to Peak Oil Homesteaders the world around. And the covered wagon RV nestled right up close to sheer brilliance.

Jacksonville, OR

Quite surprisingly, no less than seven other schmucks decided it would be a great idea to throw down $2300 to spend six weeks in the Southern Oregon boondocks busting their asses to build a house for someone else. James Thomson, the mastermind behind this enterprise, should be given some recognition from the business world; a clear candidate for this years' "How to separate hippie do-gooders from their precious cash reserves without really trying" (previous winners include Greenpeace and the guy who runs the expat newspaper in Bombay with an army of paying volunteers to proofread for him). In addition to the ubiquitous Unemployed Homeless Veteran, we have the Sarcastic Computer Programmer Looking for Something Real; the Reformed Ski Bum; the Chick Who Is Really Into Herbal Remedies; the Blue Collar Guy/Closet Deadhead Looking To Do Something Beautiful and Practical; the Hippie Chick Who Plays Bluegrass Guitar; the Idealistic and Gregarious College Kid, Yet To Be Disillusioned By Life; and Guy Who Kinda Just Wanders Around and Hikes A Lot.

Financial absurdities aside, it is oddly satisfying about hauling wheelbarrow loads of gravel to fill a rubble trench, on top of which a heart-shaped cob kitchen will sit for perhaps the next 500 years or so, give or take a few earthquakes/landslides/volcanic eruptions/missile attacks. Something primal in man's nature compels him to create works of permanence and beauty that are "greater" than himself. The same cannot be said for pushing papers in a wobbly cubicle in the midst of a ginormous strip mall, stretching for as far as the eye can see, full of Radio Shacks, Game Stops, and Hollywood Video.

If Southwestern Ohio suddenly grew mountainous overnight, it would be rechristened Southern Oregon, where you are free to form an alternative community, bake bread, make goat cheese to sell to the local markets, eat your own chickens, and host 10 wandering vagabonds to build you a house (and the odd fund raising hoedown in the back forty), but pumping your own gas is simply out of the question. No sales tax and the rain is free and abundant.

Mount Shasta, CA

After quickly breezing through Arcata (where idealistic back-to-the-landers congregate to smash the system by habitual composting, having children at a young age, and studying the myriad uses for hemp), I arrived at the quarter-horse town of Mount Shasta "City". A fabulous place to stage a hackneyed television series in the "Small Town Murder Mystery" vein: Goretex-clad adventure tourists seeking a notch on their "man vs. nature" belts; natural-fibers-clad hippie tourists seeking patchouli-scented wisdom and healing; leather-clad bikers seeking winding "technical" rides through the redwoods; reverse snowbirds seeking a refuge from "those damn liberals in Sacramento who make doing honest business in California such a pain in the ass"; and locals sitting at Roxy's Vets Club ($1 PBR pints!) seeking the bottom of the glass, bitching about their kids (who are suspended from school for fighting and/or marijuana possession yet again) and giving each other leads on good DUI lawyers.

Meanwhile, the 14,000+ foot mountain looms amidst the abundant clouds. It is the source of the town's pristine, no-need-to-be treated water and the reason for the town's existence. All week Mount Shasta threw down bucketloads of water on those who felt compelled to climb all over her, notably uncharacteristic for early June. Nevertheless, hordes of climbers lined up at the famous Bunny Flat trailhead to have a go at 'er, from hardcore seasoned Alpinists with Reggae blasting from their beat-to-shit campervans to nervous weekend tourists about to tear their pants to shreds during their first exposure to the fine art of walking with crampons attached to their uncomfortable rented plastic climbing boots (no additional charge for blisters).

Then there are those wise enough to listened to the mountain's protests and decided to wait 'till she's good and ready. Among the wise were Don and Dan, a couple of gents perfectly content to take in the sights from the Castle Lakes area. Don, sixtyish with a hat displaying the mythical number 26.2, was on a quest to spread 1/5 of his wife's ashes on Shasta's summit (his four daughters have taken care of the remains of the remains). He will wait until better weather (albeit dicier rockfall conditions) in August. Dan is 70 some odd years young with a hat displaying the Pacific Crest Trail logo, a true wilderness veteran who has been everywhere you have been twice and can still kick your ass up the hill. He calls Mount Shasta his home, since it's mighty convenient to roll out of bed and go on an expedition, fueled in large part by the amazing raspberry scones courtesy of the Seven Suns Coffeehouse.

Two novel sights during the week: a bear browsing through the Castle Crags campground, nose in the air (my sour cream and chive instant mashed potatoes held no interest for it, apparently); and a National Forest in California largely free of permits, quotas, and tedious regulations. Definitely not a bad place to lay low, unless you get roped into some mysterious intrigue that may or may not resolve itself during the next episode.

San Francisco, CA

A well-needed 48-hour urban blitzkrieg of foreigners on holiday, indie electro dance bands, absurdly delightful record stores, cheap Indian buffets, and enough overpriced IPA to sink a modest battleship. In the midst of an ecstatic aural pummeling courtesy of the likes of The Juan McClean, it suddenly struck me that 1) The Weaver Ready Position is a great name for a band and 2) Vegimite (sp?), the notorious Australian toast spread, is to be used sparingly in conjunction with plenty of butter, if used as all. The city called "the Paris of USA", San Francisco is decidedly bicycle unfriendly. It may not have bike lanes, but it least it has plenty of absurdly steep hills.

Pinnacles National Monument

A brief sojourn to the rocks and hawks of Pinnacles National Monument. The campground is a Monumental ripoff, but the hiking is sublime and isolated. The lonely and forsaken lookout tower watches the proceedings in the scorching valley below, where white schoolbuses chock full of young men of questionable legal status rumble along the highways, pulling plastic shitters behind them. They are off to the Fields yet again for some more lettuce and cucumber management. Later on, after the said produce has been sandblasted of all nutritional value, someone will toss these vegetables in the rubbish after forgetting about them in the icebox for several weeks. They were a great deal at Sam's Club at the time.

Highway 1 Bike Tour, CA Central Coast

When a geezer decked out in neon, a fat German dude on a folding bike, and a hypercaffeinated hiker all tell you you are going the wrong way, perhaps they are right. There is a very good reason the guidebooks describe the the Pacific Coast bike route from North to South (as if there were no other possible way): the wind will kick your ass otherwise. After 3.5 days of grinding our way along the most beautiful stretch of highway in North America, we agree.

It wasn't all grunting, straining, and quads begging for a rest. We had the great privilege of meeting "Bucky" at Morro Bay State Park. This very sociable chap with a desert boonie hat circa Desert Storm was peddling around the Western US (from Alaska, originally) with a solar paneled trailer containing a dog, bongos, a guitar, and a hearty supply of frothy beverages (no sleeping bag, oddly enough). He makes a living as a starving poet/videographer who films "reality videos" of his dog in places where no dogs are allowed. Not a very lucrative career, but when you are a bike-riding homeless vagabond, money is a matter of small importance.

Commando camping: the true spirit of the Pioneers condensed into a night of crashing in a veritable rain forest of ferns and waterfalls. About as pristine as a primitive campsite can be within 200 yards of a major thoroughfare. The sort of setting that makes you forget you are halfway through a 215 mile ride slurping down instant mashed potatoes and ramen noodles. All in the name of a good time!