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.