Peeping Leaves: Golden Gate Canyon Bikepacking

Prologue: "I Wash My Hands of You!"

"But John wasn't interested in hunting, so he refused to go to the hunter safety course. Grandpa told him "I wash my hands of you!". "Tell it again daddy!".

It's Thursday afternoon in early October and we're in a Mazda 3 creeping along the eternally clogged I-70 west of Denver. We had heard the saga of John's refusal to learn how to wear blaze orange and always point the muzzle in a safe direction for the third time. Young NL thought this was the most fascinating story ever told, and ML to his credit told it admirably and patiently. The story is a good parable for our present situation: I had recently "washed my hands" of a situation that was going nowhere slowly and made the leap into far bigger and better opportunities, and now I found myself based in the Eastern time zone for the first time in 15 years. Ironically this return to a location-based lifestyle yielded the time and morale to finally restart my long dormant engine for adventure with ML, last undertaken several lifetimes ago.

In the years since our last epic quest we have experienced: 2 new children (ML), a mortgage (ML), moves to 6 different states(CRS), and 2 new US Presidents (both). Our disgust at our lack of activity grew by the day, until we had to wash our hands of our complacency, lest we allow ourselves to rot away in regret.

Our creeping slog back to Evergreen finally completed, we scarfed down green chile cheeseburgers from Freddy's and plotted our plan of attack.

Packing it all in

Due to various circumstances unknown to us on our previous adventures (familial obligations for ML, a job that had limited (albeit paid) time off for CRS), there was an element of desperation hanging over our plans. We were essentially limited to 36 hours to do as we damned well pleased; we resolved that not a second would go to waste. Like a stoner at Cici's pizza buffet we intended to gorge ourselves until we couldn't take any more.

After much planning, agonizing, mapping, negotiating (ML had questionable knees; I have had a poor track record above 10,000 feet), and endless fantasizing we devised a beautiful plan. We were to immerse ourselves in the most sublime Aspen fall colors Colorado had to offer while simultaneously subjecting our bodies to miseries not experienced in quite some time through ambitious bike touring and backpacking.

ML let me borrow a hardy mountain bike that was state of the art in 1995. Although on the small side, my knees didn't hit the handlebars and the brakes worked, so it passed muster. A quick few test laps around the driveway is no substitute for grinding up endless hills with a comically oversized and overstuffed backpack, but that was for my future self to deal with. We determined we were never going to be more ready, so the only thing left to do was to do it.

Tortoise and the Hare

Our 36 hours of blissful freedom kicked off with tears and tantrums as we tried to leave the house at a reasonable hour, immediately placing us in a pensive mood. However, our spirits were lifted by sightings of pockets of gold in "them thar hills" as we drove through the always enchanting canyons of Colorado.

We parked at some forlorn dirt lot complete with dilapidated bridge designed solely for lowlifes and miscreants to congregate. I had decided to wear my 75 liter backpacking pack on the ride stuffed full of gear, much to the horror of any person even slightly familiar with ergonomics. ML carefully and methodically packed, unpacked, repacked, and depacked over several iterations until his bike was the picture of efficiency and comfort. While he was doing that I was making the best possible use of my time by staring at my watch and pacing, knowing that the bottom of our hourglass of freedom is already getting sandy.

This parking "lot" tableau encapsulated our 12 years of adventures together: the unorganized impatient clock watcher and the methodical perfectionist working in some sort of unexpected harmony. I keep us from being caught in the darkness, but ML always knows exactly where his flashlight is.

With our loads secure, we began our trip in earnest. Almost immediately we were presented with the challenge of a very steep ascent of Douglas Mountain Drive. I used the pent up energy from the parking lot to all but sprint up the hill as if I were in the Tour de France and convinced I had a shot at the yellow jersey. I pumped, grinded, sweated, and cursed my way up the hill to the gates of Centennial Cone Park. Needless to say I was quite proud of my exploits, but I would soon grow to realize I had made a grave mistake.

Bikepacking Part 1: Centennial Cone and the Dastardly Robinson Hill Road

Centennial cone is an exceptionally popular mountain biking destination, containing trails for all ability levels. We took the Elk Range trail through the middle of the park over gently rolling terrain and relatively smooth trails. My previous efforts at mountain biking consistently led to damaged equipment and morale, so the equivalent of a bunny slope seemed just fine for me. The fact that I was without health insurance at the time did not inspire any risk taking on my part.

At one juncture we met an overweight surly man riding solo who gave us the most disapproving glare he could conjure. Our overstuffed packs were definitely unusual in these parts, and he clearly saw us as dangerous interlopers into what he undoubtedly considered "his" park. For all he knew we were full-on vagrants hell bent on organizing a drug-fueled rave destined to end in a catastrophic brush fire.

After some pleasant riding we arrived at the parking area at the other end of the park, which was very attractive and well kept. While shoving piles of various carb-heavy bars down our throats our old chum arrived at the trailhead. He glared at us some more and asked us how many nights we planned to stay out. I told him we are heading up to Golden Gate Canyon for the night, and he replied "Well I hope it doesn't rain too much on you guys tonight" in a tone of voice that indicated nothing in the world would give him more delight than to learn we were thoroughly soaked and miserable.

Thankful to leave that old bastard behind us we immediately faced a deceptively steep climb out of Centennial Cone to Robinson Hill Road. Once again I pumped and grinded, slowly rolling past a couple out walking their dogs and commenting on our outrageously overloaded bikes. Yes, it was as unpleasant as it looked. Soon enough we were on a very pleasant bucolic country road, the sort of road that makes you want to drop everything and live the quiet humble life in rural Colorado. Much to our delight dogs were either absent or properly restrained, as they tend to be a common hazard on otherwise lovely rural roads.

Soon we came to a fork in the road that featured a decaying building called the Douglas Mountain Ranch, which looked very enticing. Also nearby was a house sublimely decorated for Halloween, complete with several skeletons out in the yard. We soon discovered that those skeletons were actually the last fools who tried to do this ride fully-loaded.

The fun and games quickly ended as the pavement turned to dirt and the real climbing began in earnest. Almost immediately I had to take several breaks lest my legs explode. The road was brutally steep, and was soft enough to really sap your mechanical advantage. I hadn't experienced riding like this since the infamous Shasta Circle Jerk, something I wasn't keen on repeating. Being a dedicated mountain biker ML navigated this unholy stretch of Robinson Hill Road with more grace than I, but it was certainly no picnic for him either.

Eventually the dirt gave way to pavement, but the elevation gain kept on at a relentless pace. While we were busy trying to keep our lungs from collapsing we noticed that we were progressively entering gold country, with beautiful aspens aplenty. This glimpse of what was to come gave us the slight morale boost necessary to complete this endless climb.

Another morale boost came from an unlikely source. In the middle of nowhere on this third-rate country road someone had erected a small library, the likes of which you may see in gentrified neighborhoods in cities. Never one to pass up a smoking deal, ML grabbed himself a copy of some works of French diarist and Henry Miller advocate Annias Nin, which rendered the whole situation even more absurd. When you are packing 5 or 6 bags worth of multisport gear, why not add another pound of paper that you will certainly never read?

If Robinson Hill Road was unpleasant enough, it was mere training for Smith Hill Road. The good news was that we were now one step closer to the screaming descent down Golden Gate Canyon Road to our destination for the evening (at least as our poor overloaded bikes were concerned). The bad news was that Smith Hill road was every bit as steep as the early stretches of Robinson Hill road, with the added pleasure of being even sandier. My quads could take no more punishment, and I spent significant time on this stretch performing the humiliating bike tour walk/push of shame on the steepest parts. As a consolation the views and foliage were becoming increasingly more brilliant, so all our struggles were not in vain.

At long last we reached Golden Gate Canyon Road. From here it was a fast descent down into the park. We immediately realized the main problem here: As enjoyable as this stretch would be, we will have to backtrack up this steep hill tomorrow. The shoulders were non-existent and the traffic fast. Plus, tomorrow being Saturday the leaf peepers from Denver would be out in full force. Even at this moment of triumph we were filled with dread.

But that would be for our future selves to deal with. For the time being we were grateful to be on smooth pavement with a coast down to the park, where we would finally ditch our bikes and commence with the backpacking portion of the adventure.

"What am I supposed to do here?" - Backpacking Golden Gate Canyon State Park

Glad to give our sore asses a break from our bike saddles, we decided to get some info and take advantage of the restrooms at the visitor center closing in 15 minutes. Our chief concern was water availability at our reserved campsite in the Greenfield Meadow campground. I stood patiently in line while the visitor center staff dealt with the influx of folks venturing from who knows where to snap a few pictures of yellow leaves. The woman directly in front of me was likely 60 and seemed like the sort that read about the park in the local newspaper in the "Weekender" section. She walked up to the desk and asked the young fellow with clearly frayed nerves "OK, so what am I supposed to do here?". The look on his face said many things: That was the 76th stupid question of the day and I can't wait to get out of here in 15 minutes; I went $35,000 in debt for an Enviornmental Science degree and this is what I'm reduced to; I despise these Aspens and the morons they attract. With the poise that can only be gained through several weeks of holding one's tongue, the young ranger responded with a courteous but blunt: "Just find a place to park. That's all you need to worry about now." She was unsatisfied with the answer, but seemed to realize further interrogation may lead to an ugly scene. When it became my turn I quickly asked about the status of the spring at the campground, and he stated that we had better pack as much water as possible as it had almost dried up. I thanked him and left, well aware that there is no chance he knew what he was talking about.

ML and I performed our ritual of staring at watches and pacing vs. methodically packing, unpacking, depacking, and repacking as we transitioned into the backpacking portion of the exercise. The short October days meant our daylight was limited, making the watch staring ever more intense. Eventually we got on the Black Bear trail to make our ascent up to the campground. By this point my quads were howling in misery and I had developed a fine chafe to boot, making this easy little trek far more challenging that it appeared on paper. Nevertheless we persevered and reached our campsite right at sunset, if not a bit later. The views on the way up made us excited for the following day's exploration.

One of the chief benefits of being past 40 years of age is that time becomes more valuable and you tend not to waste it as much as you did when you were younger. ML and I both detest cleaning dishes in camp, so we elected to go full-on freeze dried meals for the first time. We could not believe we had not been doing this earlier. My Mountain House Asian Chicken and Rice pouch was rather nondescript, but definitely edible. ML's Chili Mac was far superior. Unfortunately fires are not allowed in these backcountry sites, which saddened me greatly but relieved me of carrying my boy scout-approved hatchet and other fire starting materiels. We turned in quickly into ML's legendary Eureka Spitfire tent that once had its very own website in its honor.

We were pleasantly surprised to discover that the adjacent campsites were unoccupied on a Friday night in peak season. Despite this auspicious sign, ML stated "Be prepared to have some company tomorrow morning. This place will be incredibly busy"...

The first group of leaf peeping city slickers walked by our tent around 6:45am, dawn barely breaking. They clearly embraced Colorado's early to bed, early to rise culture developed through the avoidance of perpetual afternoon thunderstorms. Following this vanguard was a steady stream of hikers that relentlessly trod all around us. Realizing that laying in peaceful slumber was futile, I walked to the spring that the ranger cautioned me was on the verge of drying up. I was happy to see he was completely wrong and it was flowing freely through the pipe, leading me to speculate neither he nor anyone working at the front desk had ventured beyond the parking lot in months.

Finding the crowds increasingly annoying we decided to have our breakfast on a rock outcrop about 50 yards beyond our tent. More freeze dried delicacies. I was a bit perturbed that my egg skillet breakfast tasted exactly like my Asian chicken dinner the night prior. While the quality of food left a little to be desired (the tiny bottles of Tabasco that come with MREs would have saved the day), cleanup took exactly 0 seconds, leaving more time to savor the views.

We were packing camp when a large group of daytrippers ominously walked up to our site. One of them commented "Let's take a break at this campsite" and proceeded to "take a load off" just a few feet where we were obviously still occupying our site. It was an egregious breach of etiquette, as if a group of loud morons walked into your house while you were reading a book and had a noisy conversation at your dinner table. As bad as that was, to really grind our gears a woman with an unbelievably grating rising inflection explained in gratuitous detail her child's (or maybe her dog's?) nut allergies. I was about to vomit myself. Despite the fact the whole situation was repulsive, several more groups of greenhorns decided to take a break right next to us, probably because they saw everyone congregated around us and figured that's where you are "supposed" to take a break. At that moment Edward Abbey once again seemed like a genius holy figure. With that in our minds we joined the conga line to see what all the fuss was about.

The loop around Frazier Meadow was truly quite sublime, the apens quite glorious. It really was the ideal time to be at Golden Gate Canyon, and although you were never out of sight of other human beings it was worth the grueling punishment the day before. We checked out other campsites for future reference (verdict: ours was fine, but there are others that would be much more off the beaten path), including one that someone had taken the time to write "Love Ass" with sticks in the middle of the tent pad. We were unsure if that was a positive or negative sign.

Alas, the clock was still ticking on our 36 hours of freedom and the day wasn't getting any longer. We hiked back down to the visitor's center, now a scene of chaos and bedlam. Some poor sap had the unenviable job of parking lot attendant, telling each and every car that rolled in they could only park there for 10 minutes, they had to pay a fee at the box on the porch, and if they were going hiking they had to park in some other lot. He looked exhausted and exasperated, and it was still midday on Saturday. Hopefully he was being fairly compensated in one way or another.

I had a long opportunity to observe him at his pitiable task as ML was packing, unpacking, depacking, repacking in an attempt to get back to his initial bike touring gear setup. He was reviewing pictures to relearn how he bungeed everything together when we noticed there was a large festering pile of dog shit right next to our bikes. This proved to be quite a distraction, making the packing even more of a chore. When all this was going on a group of stoked bros are carbon fiber road bikes pulled in. I chatted with the ring leader, who looked like pro wrestler Matt Riddle wearing sunglasses that would have made 1987 Jose Canseco jealous. I told them about our mission, and they were rather impressed we were foolish enough to go up Robinson Hill Rd, especially with our primitive bikes and multi sport gear dangling off the sides. Knowing full well we had a steep climb immediately ahead, we reluctantly shoved off, wishing we had expensive road bikes with no gear. And cool sunglasses.

Bikepacking Park 2: The Ups and Downs of the Road

The climb was not as awful as we had anticipated, a case of exaggerated negative expectations leading to a relatively positive experience. The ascent was steady but never too steep, just the way you want it. With relentless spinning we made it to the summit, glad that the first ascent of the day was already behind us. What lay ahead was one of the best descents I ever had in my life as it seemed to go on for miles on end. Perhaps only the day of riding during the Salton Sea Siege where we rarely pedaled over the course of 20 miles was better (and I don't expect to experience riding anywhere near that blissful again). The heavy traffic was a distraction, and my puny sunglasses not worthy of a 40-40 man were admitting too many road particles into my eyes, but it was exhilarating to be riding through such beautiful country on a loaded bike at such speeds. Moments like those are what make the grueling slogs and gear frustration all worth it.

Alas, all good things must end, and our descent ended with a turnoff back on our old arch-nemesis, Robinson Hill Road. We had a steep, twisting ascent back to where we initially got on it post Centennial Cone. This ascent was relatively short and very picturesque, so it was not too bad all things considered. We did pass a shipping container in the woods on the way up that was completely out of place. If we weren't on a set schedule we would have set aside a few hours to bust into that thing to see what it could possibly contain.

Ascent achieved, we were back on the pastoral roads by the skeleton house and on to Douglas Mountain Road where this adventure began. More bucolic beauty and good, traffic-free riding followed. This road also involved a fierce descent, but the sharp curves and dodgy pavement meant I was squeezing the brakes most of the time, nearly running over a snake at one point. The views here were also outstanding, but my focus was on the road immediately in front of my front tire lest I hit a pothole and go "ass over tincup" at 30 mph.

Eventually we reached the entrance to Centennial Cone once again where we were met by a curious cat, and we had to decide our fate. Should we cruise back down to the car and call it good (taking less than a minute over known territory) or venture out through a dirt road of unknown quality and then along a river back to the car? Knowing the day was long and the sands of freedom were running low, we had no choice but to take the more adventurous option.

Grinding Along Rocks and Rivers

The road back to the Centennial Cone trailhead was shockingly endless and grueling. We had no recollection of it being as challenging as it was, but we were different people than we were 28 hours earlier. Surprisingly tired by the time we reached the trailhead, we were happy to see that the parking lot was completely empty save for one vehicle. Instead of a bro full of stoke after a ride, it was a little old lady who asked us if we were camping out here. She told us that it would be a foolish thing to do as she lives nearby and can show us photos of all kinds of critters that lurk out in the hills after dark. We thanked her for the advice and reassured her our mission was almost complete. We were quite impressed by the cranky senior citizens who want to keep us dirtbags out of their sanctuary, lest we become more critters stalking the hills after dark ourselves.

Our descent back to Highway 6 was via the Travois, Juniper, and disconcertingly named Mayhem Gulch trails. These turned out to be formidable routes of travel for bikes with dozens of pounds of gear strapped to them and piloted by riders not accustomed to mountain biking at the end of a day and a half of nonstop action. Much to my shock and relief I made it all the way down without a single incident. It was nothing but jumbled rocks, steep terrain, and a very steep unforgiving dropoff if you get cocky. To a seasoned MTB rider on a modern bike with no extra gear it would likely be a bit of a bore but I was holding on for dear life. I was squeezing the brakes so tightly the entire way my forearms were throbbing and cramping. I was extremely happy to be back on pavement.

The final few miles back to the car were along the Peaks to Plains paved trail adjacent to Clear Creek. It was a perfect way to end the adventure, a leisurely cruise along a gorgeous canyon at sunset. We arrived back at ML's car, pleased to see that would be thieves believed the "Nothing of value in here" sign wisely placed on the dash. For once ML was waiting for me as he hastily chucked everything in the trunk, glad to be done with the packing, unpacking, depacking, etc.

Of course the important matter at this point was finding some grub. This was much more stressful than anticipated, due to a combination of FOMO, irritating health and safety restrictions, and the odd habit of Evergreen area restaurants closing early on Saturdays (like everyone else in CO they want to get up at 4am to be back at the trailhead by noon). We settled on takeout from Saigon Landing downtown. We returned to ML's quiet country estate and chowed down on his deck, listening to the Elk bugling nearby and reliving all the good times of the past couple days of action and adventure. It really was as good as it gets.

Epilogue: A Template for the Future

The next day was back to the world of responsibility, but we made the most of it with walks to old rusty cars in the woods and a very aggressive game of backyard frisbee golf. A lost disc soured the mood (why did they color the driver black and not dayglo orange?), but we had pizza and watched Tom Brady defeat his former team in a close, well-fought game that left everyone satisfied. We resolved that it is better to have short, dense, and somewhat rushed adventures that we manage to squeeze in vs long, epic adventures that never happen. It would be worthwhile to inventory the gear and practice unpacking, depacking, and repacking because I have a hunch we have many more multisport overnighters in our (hopefully near) future.

Never Summer Wilderness: Baker-Bowen Loop

Placing an end to this regrettable silence...

Prologue: Bros Be Gettin' Stoked!

"Blaaahhhhh...so what about riding from Albuquerque to Evergreen? Of course the logistics would be a bitch, maybe a loop around the Olympic Peninsula would be optimal, if it weren't so damned wet...". So goes the daily conversations via chat, the never-ending yearning for escape, adventure, and the unknown. Anything but fiddling with yet another half-functioning WordPress plugin or some PHP code that I cannot for the life of me force to bend to my will. Hours spent staring at maps, turning flat paper into gorgeous canyons, towering trees, pure gushing streams, and well-paved backcountry roads where there is never any traffic and the bucolic farmers daughters happily pour us lemonade on a sunny day. For far too long it remained nothing more than a fantasy, a cruel joke under fluorescent lighting and the nagging suspicion of wasted years. Injuries, laziness, boredom, and inertia were becoming the dominant forces of our lives, and we knew that hitting the trails as soon as possible was a matter of life and death.

Thanks to some abnormally smoking deals on Southwest Airlines, tickets were purchased and everything came together suddenly. ML put his local knowledge and striking attention to detail to great use, conjuring up an optimal route that promised to take us into an uncrowded backcountry full of aspens, rugged peaks, and pristine alpine lakes. With GD on board, we knew we would have gourmet food and endless entertainment from his legendary overpacking and awkward shitting situations. I, for one, used the trip as a great excuse to spend every waking minute of my precious free time roaming the Oregon backcountry trying to coerce myself into some semblance of shape. The fact I was sleeping on a cot in my dirty stoner house was a matter of no importance, for with an imminent adventure on our hands we were becoming stoke incarnate, and that is all that mattered.

Winter Park and Lake Granby

At the kitchen table everything is a great idea, especially when suffering from premature stokulation. The flat maps and overloaded packs resting comfortably on the carpet create an illusion that all will be glorious and pleasant. The table was groaning under the weight of several dozen pounds of trail mix, yet we were concerned it would not be nearly enough for 3 days. Four mile peak bagging detours seemed quite sensible, and backcountry blueberry muffins were a total no-brainer.

Delusions and illusions aside we packed the Mazda 3 to the gills and set off for higher ground...only to be immediately ground to a halt by notorious I70 traffic, the bane of all greater Denver area residents. By now we were positively vibrating under the spell of the stoke, and the best thing to do was to have another listen of Toll Booth Willie. I suggest you do the same.

Once we finally left the gridlock, we were pleasantly surprised to discover that the aspens were at their absolute peak, an auspicious sign. Before long we arrived at the Jim Creek trail head near the Winter Park resort. The trail promised to be a fine acclimatization hike for our trio of gimps and flatlanders. The mellow, relatively unused path provided incredible aspen viewing, and ample space for tossing around the pigskin.

At this point we decided to find a campsite before dark. Some astute map reading led us to believe that Forest Road 4 near Lake Granby was the move, and it certainly proved to be the case. Once we ventured past the RV latrines and houses with lighted Ferris wheels in the front yard (obviously owned by the sort of eccentric you'd expect living literally on the edge of the national forest) we found plenty of places to pitch our tents, take loads off, and smoke our proverbial bowls (somewhat tragic aside: we were in Colorado, yet none of us were indulgent in the cannabis). ML and GD spent the next several hours attempting to haul dinner out of Lake Granby (ML suddenly realized he had completely forgotten about packing food for that night, lending a certain urgency to the fishing). If golf is "a good walk spoiled" I view fishing as a good sit ruined, so I traipsed around the lake, amazed by the colorful sunset. It became obvious that "purple mountain majesty" wasn't some tossed together bullshit phrase.

The fishing was something of a failure, so we had no choice but to go to the pleasant town of Grand Lake, somewhat in between seasons given the large Christmas tree erected and lit in September. Not wanting to wait for hours at the only hopping joint in town, we settled on a Mexican joint with the seductive offering of green chile. As any past or present resident of New Mexico knows, green chile anywhere else is somewhere between a sad joke and an abomination. This proved to be all too true here. The service was very fast, mostly due to the fact they didn't bother heating up the burritos all the way. The cure for a disappointing evening? Ending it with a fire in the woods and enough s'mores to place you on the verge of puking.

Baker-Bowen Loop

Enough preliminaries: the time had come to set out to put the fantasy to the test. The weather was absolutely fantastic for late September, our earlier fears of deadly-cold nights and freezing rain had completely dissipated. The trailhead actually begins at Rocky Mountain National Park, but quickly enters the intriguingly-named Never Summer Wilderness. Shouldering our laughably overloaded packs, we headed up Baker Gulch, where the surprisingly numerous aspens were at their absolute apex. By this point in the trip the 9000'+ altitude and several days of trail food/mediocre Colorado Mexican food had given us a fabulous dose of HAFE, and we passed the time recounting tales of our most magnificent triumphs.

Unsatisfied with the previous night's unsuccessful bid at catching dinner, ML and GD made the stroll up to Parika Lake from the campsite to see if the backcountry would yield better results. I could care less about trout; I was mesmerized by the seductive peak rising above it just waiting to be climbed. It brought back memories of my days with the seasoned veterans of the New Mexico Mountain Club, where off-trail pursuits were the order of the day. However, that was 7 years and 7000 beers ago and I was sucking serious wind almost immediately. With the memory my old mentors Joe and Melissa by my side I trudged on upwards at a glacial pace, eventually reaching the top of the unnamed peak around sunset, thoroughly knackered yet completely alive. Some folks seek solace through drugs, some prefer sex, and others dig power trips over other saps. For me, nothing beats fresh air, sheer exhaustion, and stark landscapes. Amidst this near-hallucinatory state I came to understand the sound of the silence of the desert is nothing more than God laughing at our feeble plans. Once on top, I realized that coming down was no trivial task, and I more or less performed a scree glissade, arriving at the trail where I saw three mule deer running past, surely the holy trinity made corporeal.

In this trance I happened upon ML and GD, returning with their big haul: a single plump brookie. Proud of our successes, we met an older woman on the trail whose leathery complexion, quality gear, and all around aura of confidence gave the impression of someone who has done this before. Seeing our handsome catch she remarked "Well, I hope you brought some side dishes". Gutted from that pithy remark we returned to camp to turn the catch into food.

Processing a fish is challenging in the best of circumstances, but in the backcountry it is downright diabolical. The whole process of preparing the poor bastard along with other camp chores all in the dark cold conjured awful memories of Air Force ROTC Leadership Labs, environments of artificial stress where nothing of consequence was ever accomplished. The scene was right out of a dull and poorly-lit Three Stooges episode, with the slippery corpse of a trout simply would not stay properly wrapped and secured, at one point falling into the ashes as if to defy and insult its murderer. ML desired to "meet the meat" to justify being an omnivore, and the ordeal (which yielded a few decent bites) was enough to make one a vegan.

Day 2 of the backcountry excursion began with an immediate ascent above treeline up to a 12200' pass with fantastic views of the Never Summer Range and the craggy peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park. The rest of the day was more or less above treeline, with non-stop magnificent views. It was exactly as the brochure promised: gorgeous scenery, ideal weather, shockingly few people (it was Saturday in Colorado, for Christ's sake), wildlife (3 marmots and dozens of mountain goats that may or may not have actually been white rocks), and entertaining latrine stops.

Our reverie was brutally shattered when two fellows crept up behind us on their obnoxious dirt bikes. It was downright absurd, as blatantly inappropriate as bringing a fifth of Maker's Mark to a Sunday sermon. They were struggling severely to coax their wheezing and sputtering machines up the steep, narrow, rocky trail. ML gave them a brief lecture on the folly and illegality of their ways, but recognizing their limited mental capacities he decided that it was far too pleasant of a day for combat. Besides, it is generally unwise to engage in fisticuffs with dudes wearing helmets and body armor. Despite our protests, they forced their machines up the trail to Bowen pass, where they had a quick look and then rolled their bikes back down to where they came from.

With our faith in humanity crushed and the shadows becoming long, we realized at Bowen pass that we were completely out of water, with a considerable length of ground to cover. We made the decision to head back down where we came by several hundred vertical feet to get more water, but more importantly to have a good old fashioned do-over of the ascent of Bowen ridge, this time with some goddamned peace and quiet. The decision to continue on the exposed, waterless route was somewhat risky, but ultimately brilliant as it let to some of the finest hours of trekking in my short happy life. Despite the setting sun and tiredness of a second day with the burdens of a full pack at altitude, we were somewhat saddened to have to leave the high country for the wooded enclave of Bowen Lake. Fully expecting to encounter an army of weekend warriors occupying every possible nook and cranny near the lake, we were shocked to find nothing more than a solitary couple who no doubt looked upon us as invaders of their alpine idyll. Being as tactful as possible we took over a few campsites and proceeded to have a relaxing, kill-free evening, punctuated by a rare moonbow sighting.

One of the drawbacks of being a flatlander is experiencing mild altitude sickness when you spend considerable time above 11000'. For me this manifested in a total inability to sleep, making me regret sidestepping the numerous marijuana dispensaries on the way. I emerged the third day in a total daze, operating at 20% capacity. The simple act of rolling up my sleeping pad required multiple rests and a few prayers that I'd make it through the day without puking. In other words, I was hungover without the benefit of a night of (perceived) fun and merriment. I suffered through my misery while my mates were enjoying a sensational morning coffee view of Lake Bowen. They had surpassed any desire to fish and were content to just sit and the let the poor creatures be.

The rest of the hike was rather uneventful, especially after being spoiled by the high-altitude brilliance of the day prior. The undoubted highlight was encountering a bona fide cowboy on the trail mounted on his horse, complete with leather fringed chaps, denim everything on a hot day, and a Sam Elliot mustache. GD's initial reaction was that it was someone who was trying far too hard (likely he was sore that the encounter ruined the momentum of his story of a cub scout tentmate who shit his pants), yet we came to conclude he was the epitome of authenticity, and we were awed and humbled by his presence.

We finally crawled out of the wilderness and returned to the paved parking lot full of windshield tourists and grandmas waddling to read the signage. Full of the unique and invigorating pride that comes from a physically-demanding activity in solitude, we laughed, bathed in the stream, and decided to play "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" and embarked on our own windshield tour of the Park, gobbling a bag of buffalo wing flavored Snyders with a vengeance. After a spell we came to a visitor center with visions of soft drinks and Bugles, but the reality was a sinister parking lot as crammed as a Costco on Saturday afternoon, with hordes of tourists in line for the civilized restrooms and poorly-stocked snack shop, where we settled for vitamin water and chocolate milk. After several days in the wilderness as free as wild beasts, it was appalling and revolting to have such a shocking and brutal return to civilization. Edward Abbey never seemed so right. A couple was actually pickincking in the hellish parking lot in the bed of their truck, the sight of which both perplexed and enraged me. Needless to say we had to get the Hell out of there ASAP.

It just so happened to be the evening of a lunar eclipse, illuminating our ride back to Evergreen. ML was not impressed in the least, and his callous cynicism made quite a bit of sense: these periodic astrological "events" are as abstract as a Presidential debate or Broncos game, giving people something to witness and discuss, but ultimately without meaning. The flesh-and blood physical realities of thirst, hunger, aching shoulders, and sore feet are far more powerful and instructive.

Epilogue

Back to the dreaded, seemingly inescapable plastic indoor life where the greatest danger one faces is a spotty wifi signal. The sweat had yet to dry on our filthy shirts as we peeked at the Gazatteer once again, fantasizing about hidden alpine lakes, impassible crags, and colorful mountain meadows where moose and elk roam free. To turn that tantalizing world of contour lines and unmarked roads into a paradise of hardship and hunger is the eternal dream that we will chase until kingdom come. Until then, we return to the soul-sucking screens of the so-called civilized world, waiting ever so impatiently for the next adventure...

Manpower

"...and the last line on his post was: 'Dude, I'm chill as f@ck!' Can you believe this guy?" "Hey Sikes, that's what you should do when your sitting around bored: go on Craigslist, find the craziest and weirdest people looking for a rideshare, and then drive 'em around and write about their stories". BW is never short on brilliant ideas. On this dark rainy fall night in Oregon, we needed ideas badly. Six grimy high-minded and low-budgeted alums of House Alive sat around BW's table in the hipster haven of SE Portland feasting on magnificent culinary creations that only a desperate genius could concoct. The man is a mushroom hunter and knows how to fully exploit the fruits and fungi of his meanderings. Back into the civilization which he damns he is also a champion knitter, preserver of harvests, earthen oven builder/educator, bowmaker, slackline walker, plasterer, beer aficionado extraordinaire, and barefoot runner. Also gathered at the table were earthen home builders, troubadours, felt artists, beer brewers, tango dancers, bike tourists, raconteurs, and a chap who made a grain mill out of an old bicycle. All geniuses, all free, independent spirits, all leaders of a post-apocalyptic society where knowledge, skills, and work ethic will once again trump corporate stoogery and dogmatic obedience to societal norms as the path towards enlightenment and salvation. I was humbled to be in their presence. As for myself, I had been told that I need to go off fruit immediately in order to save my soul from eternal damnation (or my intestines from chronic inflammation). As the late Sam Kinison once said, "If salt and sugar kick your ass, the game's pretty much over". "Once again BW, you're goddamn right. I need a change of perspective, to look at situations as opportunities instead of obstacles...I need a story to tell!" Inspired by this council of bearded barefoot bohemians, I set off for some well needed action...

* * *

"The kazoo is a very versatile instrument...with practice, you can play a symphony!" Wednesday after Election Day 2010; proposition 74 was dead in the water much to the chagrin of snowboarders statewide. I came to Plan B to quench my metalthirst, but quenching a thirst for anything else would be a tall order as there was exactly one employee cooking, cleaning, busing, serving, and bartending, leaving hordes of ill-dressed scruffy young men leaning anxiously over the filthy bar clutching tattered dollar bills with eyes full of hope and yearning. I was one of those gents when the chap with a porkpie hat and Ghostbusters shirt wanted to subject me to his chosen instrument. "Actually, it sounds more like a marching band." But none of us, even Capt Kazoo (who later said "I saw Billy Joel back in Jersey before he had great hair") came here for plastic cups of beer and plastic instruments: we wanted to be pummeled into submission with 5 megaton blasts of blistering metal. First up was the female-fronted Cull, who lured us into a false sense of security with their 5 minute compositions of brutal beauty. Nothing could prepare us for the Trees and their seemingly random, rhythmless blasts of terror. Gigantic amplifiers hurled bowel-churning drop-tuned masses of sludge at us while the drummer, who probably supports himself by winning Charles Manson impersonation contests, pounded on the skins with a violent ferocity. Most distressing, however, was the haggard vocalists, whose reverb-drenched caterwauls were the very essence of hell, like he was channeling Satan in the way that generations of death metal vocalists have attempted to do. This fellow, who probably mops the floor at Starbucks during the day, annihilates those poseurs convincingly. Their set was 25 minutes of continual destruction. The audience was silent, save for a woman who was intensely involved in a game of Family Guy pinball. Evidently she was quite successful as the constant noise emanating from her machine accentuated the silences between the carpet bombing of noise, rendering the whole spectacle slightly ridiculous. Nobody knew quite what to make of it, and at the end of the set we all threw on our jackets and went outside for a smoke in a stunned silence. The most-spoken word for the next 10 minutes was "interesting". Next up: Monarch!, who came all the way from France to make us their loyal subjects. Louis XIV could not have been more abusive. Their music matched the Trees in intensity, but with the added benefit of rhythm and ethereal female vocals, whose sweet wailing nothings floated above and around the concrete explosions of power and fury. The guitarist, bassist, and drummer (incidentally the same drummer as the Trees) communicated via hand and head signals, leading us to believe their act was at least partially improvised. Their 30 minute set really ignited the crowd, all of us jerking violently in time to the carnage, cold cans of Olympia in hand. The "music" entranced us, while the rumbling distortions tickled your organs if you stood in the right place. Even the doorman peeked his skull-tattooed face through the fogged-up door to catch a glimpse of the harbingers of the onslaught. Once the noise was over, I realized I was starving, body completely drained of everything but cheap beer. I rushed out the door and biked to the Cart Pods on 12th and Hawthorne, celebrating Portland's culture of mobile cuisine with a deep fried chicken pot pie. The picnic tables were uncharacteristically empty tonight, save for a few punks and a guy walking around with a rubber chicken on his head. This being Stumptown, this was not seen as odd.

* * *

Brutal metal gave way to Hank III and classic rock anthems as my Jetta sputtered along Highway 26, onwards and upwards towards the high and mighty highlands of Bend and beyond. My accomplices (besides my constant companions Procrastination and Doubt) on this journey were J and P, one an actual German and one who is aspiring to be one. Like the great George Dibbern before us, we were on a Quest to fulfill our basest and noblest aspirations through a long dialogue with Nature. Unlike that particular German refugee, we were going to hang out at Smith Rock State Park, a rock climber's wet dream and high desert refuge for those of Portlanders who don't find the moldiest city in North America's eternal dampness to be "soothing". This was advertised as a "Man Trip", where carriers of the Y-chromosome are given free reign to express our authentic masculinity without kowtowing to the demands and expectations of the fairer sex.

* * *

Burgerville Sweet Potato fries were still sitting heavy in our guts when we careened past Mount Hood at sunset, where the damp dark forests of the Willamette Valley turned into the crystal clear skies and wide open expanse of the Cascades. The clarity of the atmosphere (and increasing altitude) infected us with high hopes and expectations, a near-ecstatic state of mind where anything is possible and the glass is always full, if not running over. The setting sun lit the sky on fire as the Desert spread out before us...with Dire Straits on the radio and our hearts full of the unmistakable and near-perfect joy of a soon-to-be realized fantasy, nothing could bring us down, for we were Men on a Mission, goddamn it.

* * *

Nothing deflates ecstasy like a cold slap of reality, especially when that slap comes from a headlamp introducing himself as Cliff. "I just want to make it clear to you fellas that I'm a light sleeper and will be in bed by 10 and expect you guys to be quiet...REAL quiet. Even whispering wakes me up. I just want to have this conversation now instead of later tonight...I've been here since May and I've had to have that unpleasant conversation many times. You know, the Bivouac area is a great place to socialize and play scrabble...just don't do it in your tents, OK?" "Whatever buddy". It was pitch black and we were blindly setting up our tents somewhere in the woods. It was clear that finding this spot later tonight will be a bitch. And we had the luck of pitching camp next to the biggest blowhard within 100 miles. "What sort of guy lives in a tent in a state park for 6 months? No wonder he has no social skills. Anyway, let's have a beverage before the other guys come in". Veterans of the Bum Around the World scene, the three of us knew the importance of being well-stocked and prepared for all possibilities. We had a small arsenal of Bourbons of varying degrees of drinkability and the legendary Simpler Times Lager, the premier cheap beer in North America (anyone who disagrees can contact me and will be proven wrong). P was just giving us an account of how his German driving instructor took them to Oktoberfest for a couple of liters so he can have a free ride home when a gangly man sat at our table and helped himself to some fags and hooch. Claiming to be from a climber from Prague but crashing in Portland for the time being (thereby making him the coolest living man), PP exploited our hospitality and returned the favor with some advice of his own. This was a Man Trip, and we had to discuss Manly things...spreading the gospel of masculinity as it were. Through drink and ecstatic conversations we were almost on the point of delirium when Prague asked, apropos of nothing at all, "What do you feel about abortion?" Shocked into sobriety, I exclaimed "Hey wait a minute, you aren't one of those Tea Party dudes, are you?" It was clearly time to put the festivities to an abrupt halt. Realizing that Prague was going out his mind ("and about to Wallace and Gromit", as P would say), J and P leaped into action to guide him back to his tent. Two snags to this plan: 1) He had no idea where his tent was, and 2) He quickly developed a habit of running into trees and falling down. Solution: 1) go to every tent and see if anyone was in there...his would be the empty one and 2) drag him. Being the thoughtful and industrious person I am I went straight to bed, but I was able to chart their progress through the startled gasps of "Hey buddy, this ain't your tent" echoing throughout the campground. Something told me he wasn't going to meet his climbing partner on the wall at 7 sharp as he had planned.

* * *

The next morning was achingly gorgeous: blue skies, a crisp breeze, dry air, and the sight of massive walls of welded tuff, beckoning hardy men and women to scale them. The daylight also revealed that we had camped on the edge of a cliff, and it was a minor miracle that nobody had a plunge whilst wandering around aimlessly the night prior. By early morning our companions (who arrived just in time to see Pragues' sudden collapse) were practically jogging out to try their hand and the vertical game. The rest of us, by lack of courage, equipment, and/or properly functioning joints, were relegated to pleasant day of wandering and wishing. The park is small enough to see in a day, but complex enough to give a serious climber a lifetime of challenges (the route guide is as thick as most small city phone books). Out plan was to see the park on bike, but that idea was abandoned after we embarrassingly failed to find the bike path. To ask for directions on a Man Trip was obviously out of the question, so we contented ourselves with walking around, taking pictures of climbers with particularly graceful figures, and discussing the merits of starting a brawl with the dude who was wearing a shirt that said "Fight Me I'm Irish". The highlight of the afternoon was watching three of the ballsiest human beings imaginable make their descent from the free-standing pillar known (for good reason) as Monkey Face. Our knees were buckling watching those young men smoke and joke while one false move would've guaranteed a dirt nap. More than likely they have bum jobs (perhaps even sharing a shift with the Trees frontman grinding espresso), but for a few minutes they have transcended themselves and the world below to become Heroes for the world to admire. Every man, whether they'll admit it or not, yearns for powerful ascension, channeling their impotent fury into that one moment when they have the power of a God. It is a rite of passage that few will ever know... Our pale and pasty Portland complexions deeply reddened, we went back to the picnic area for a quick snack before heading to Bend for a feed. Regrettably for everyone, Cliff was also having a bite, talking to every passerby unlucky to have avoided his gaze. A girl at the table next to us confided that her party had heard "the speech" the night prior as well and that the poor schmuck currently accosted was too much of a nice guy to tell the wannabe Ranger to go blow smoke up his own ass for once. "He made the mistake of wearing his UO sweatshirt...it's been nothing but college football for the last 20 minutes...and poor Jake doesn't even care about sports! Say, did you guys hear those drunk guys wandering around into other people's tents last night? That was pretty creepy". "Uh, that would be us". Right about then a dude with a patched-up puffy jacket and a massive beard (actually, that could describe 75% of the camp patrons) jumped up on the permanently-affixed slackline and proceeded with a skillful slack-juggling routine. I recognized him as C, a fellow attendee of last year's Cape Diem housewarming party, who identified himself first and foremost as a climber. His juggling act reminded me of the Spirtualized song "Straight and Narrow", where Jason Spaceman sings of the difficulty of staying on the wagon. It's like the essential challenge of modern masculinity, juggling your own desires and dreams while playing your other socially assigned roles and trying to maintain personal integrity and dignity. Selling out is unavoidable (except maybe for a complete outcast like Cliff, but who wants a life like his?), but the trick is to do so gracefully. Unfortunately, most of our slacklines are much more than two feet off the ground, and before you know it you are juggling chainsaws without any practice. Without realizing it we had consumed a horrifying amount of cheese-and-peanut butter tortillas, Trader Joes Indian MREs, enough crackers to choke a burro, and dried fruit. Since eating again for the next several days was out of the question, we decided to soak in the hot pools in Bend. It was a dimly lit regal affair, with large murals (and voyeuristic security cameras) on the walls and several fountains that suggested some sort of ancient nobility. In short, an excellent venue for some Council, where Men can assemble to discuss their challenges and receive non-judgmental feedback from compassionate open-minded fellows. It's the sort of constructive healing process that eases burdens and cleanses souls, and no amount of booze and sex can compete (although it may be worth trying...). We had evolved from solipsistic beings imprisoned in our mind forged manacles to a fellowship of compassion and commiseration where there were no problems, merely challenges and growth etc. It was all getting a bit, er, Greek, so we brought the conversation down to terrestrial levels with a discussion on the hazards of foregoing underwear as a lifestyle choice (conclusion: don't knock it 'till you've tried it).

* * *

Leaving our comrades to battle the rock for a second day, the 1.5 Germans and I headed to Sisters, where a mountain bike ride awaited us. Grease, metal, speed, dirt: it was high time to get some sort of action in before a return to reality. The ride starts and ends in the town square, home to the the most vile public restroom west of the Mississippi (wait 'till you get to the woods, trust me). Few activities, save watching pro wrestling, can make grown men feel like carefree children like riding a bike through the woods...it has the in-the-moment bliss of rock climbing without all that brink of death business (brink of concussion isn't nearly as intimidating). The cross-country excursion finally burned off the last of the tortillas and we hit up a brewery for some well-deserved beer and burgers. In fact, we were so ravenous we considered helping ourselves to a lovely leftover rueben from the adjacent table. J: "Why don't you just snag it? It's just going to waste, and you know how much you can't stand seeing good food thrown away". He knew how to push my buttons. "But...someone will see me". "So? you'll never see these people again. Who cares?" Apparently I did because in the midst of the debate the table was cleared. J, with a look of severe disappointment in his face, said "I think we all learned a nice lesson here". Carpe Diem indeed.

* * *

By the time we hit I5 the skies were gray and the ever-present Willamette Valley rain was falling. Despite the less than uplifting environment, our sensibilities were still riding high. We vowed to make Man Trips a quarterly requirement for us, no matter how convenient the excuses may be. While it may not have been the most hardcore adventure we have done, it demonstrated the importance of Getting Away From It All, not to escape but to get a fresher, healthier perspective. Stone Temple Pilots brilliant Core was playing (critics be damned!), Rockstar was being consumed, and Rambo was quoted more than once. By now we had accumulated a preposterous amount of testosterone. While it isn't necessary to make moccasins or climb rocks to become a Man, it is necessary to challenge yourself and give/seek mentoring from those who give a damn. When your hungry you gotta eat that rueben.

One Last Ride

After 12 months of living in the proverbial "van down by the river", I had a craving to iron the chinos and rejoin the "real" (i.e. "working") world. However, before settling into the dreaded 40/50 lifestyle (that's 40 hours a week, 50 weeks a year, for too many years) an old colleague convinced me to launch a siege on the Salton Sea in proper dirtbag bicycle tourist style. Read about that nonsense at http://saltonseasiege2010.blogspot.com. This is the last post on Submissive Rebellion; now go out and do something adventurous before it's too late.

Back to the US

Love is terribly overrated; all you really need is metal. Celebrated the sale of my car (yes, I got bent over severely, but every bum in the world was selling their 13 year old station wagons in Auckland at the same time) by attending a great show at the King's Arms featuring some hard and heavy bands, one of which was the premier Metallica tribute band in New Zealand (the fact that they are the only one is irrelevant). A hell of a fun time to be sure with much sweating, yelling, and jostling as one can take.

But it was time to say goodbye to the most beautiful place on Earth (that I have been, anyway) and on to another session of intercontinental public transport. The flight was with Qantas, which meant we were treated like civilized human beings and not diseased cattle unworthy even of a proper butchering. Finally saw Inglorious Basterds and was incredibly amused; too bad it had to be on a 2" screen. However, the US has the TSA, which is bureaucracy at its absolute worst...ironically it's the most prominent a Soviet-style relic in use today.

Eventually I arrived in Portland, where all dirtbagging journeys begin and come to an end. Before I place my neck back in the corporate noose, the Belmont Station calls with it's St. Patrick's Day Stoutfest and, more importantly, German thrash legends Kreator are rolling in to town...like calculus, metal is a true international language!

Final Road Trip, Northland, New Zealand

"Life's a banquet, and, you know, most poor suckers are starving to death". Thus spoke the artist from Ontario, trying to explain why the average sap is miserable and bored. However, when you are lounging on a beach in the north of New Zealand, wrapped in the velvety embrace of Patron Silver and endless sunshine, words are unnecessary. The two Canadian gents teamed up with a Dutch lass for a few days of jolly good times on the coast. I was fortunate enough to be invited along in the festivities. I can't tell you where we were at because at this point, after damn near a year of traveling, place names are meaningless.

Before I ran into them, I spent a few more days in Auckland, trying to determine the sort of drugs the traffic planners were ingesting when they put pen to paper. Despite the endless traffic snarls and confusing streets, which seem to change name and direction at random, I found myself at the King's Arm Tavern to see some outstanding local rock action. Starved of international touring acts, Kiwis have become very adept at entertaining themselves. Too bad the audience consistent almost entirely of the other bands.

However, decent music was not enough to keep me in town. The sea beckoned, so I heeded the call up North for one final road trip. Back to the Bay of Islands, back to Kauri country, back to Cape Reinga. At the latter point (this time at Spirit's Bay), the heavy ozone odor in the air, combined with the exquisite landscape, gave the place an overwhelming aspect of sacredness. No wonder the Maori consider it to be one of their "holiest" locales. I almost felt undeserving of such a privilege.

...so now I'm back in Auckland for the last time, facing the moment I've been dreading for months: selling the car. Unfortunately, every other bum in the Southern Hemisphere is trying to do the same, pushing prices down to outrageously low levels. I've got half a mind to buy a dozen campervans, mothball them for the winter, and sell them all for huge markups in October. Alas, Portland calls with it's cheap burritos, tasty beverages, and urban planning that makes sense. Perhaps I'll smuggle some plates to take to the banquet...

All Over the North Island, New Zealand

Back in Auckland, it took all of 2 hours before I was in the garage of a Scottish car salesman, drinking beer and playing Tiger Woods Golf on XBox. Before I knew what happened I was sitting on a picnic table, spreading the Gospel of Dr. Dirty John Valby by reciting some of his excellent limericks to a gaggle of expats (one of whom was from Portland, of course), holding the audience in stitches. Decided that I couldn't top that performance, so I hit the road the next morning (the lack of available lodging helped in that decision).

I spent 3 restless days in Taupo on the assumption that it would be a decent place to get a job and settle down. It has a strong triathlon scene, so I can easily find neurotic fitness freaks to make me feel lazy rather easily. I could've sold Merino T-shirts at $70 a pop at Kathmandu, but a night of bar-hopping with degenerate expats (making up 70% of the population) told me that Taupo would not be the best place to chill. Sorta like a developed and polished Franz Josef, but without the pride of being senselessly hardcore. Not enough drunken fishermen, either.

What's a drifter to do? Drift! And drift I did, with a vengeance. Up to that point I hadn't explored the Hawke's Bay region. so I blasted down to Napier, which happened to be celebrating Art Deco Days, giving people a damn fine excuse to pretend it's the 1920s again (ignoring social upheval and the last gasps of colonialism, of course). Goofy hats and nice cars were the order of the day. Looking for something less kitchy, I headed up to Gisborne. Maybe it was the weather, but it was a place where you (and by "you" I mean "I") instantly think: I could hang out here for a very long time. That's exactly what the pudgy bearded Englishman felt when he signed up for 6 weeks of grape picking in the local area. Good luck, I hope he doesn't get too bitter.

Ah, but a drifter must drift and I drove relentlessly up the East Coast at a ridiculous and unnecessary pace, stopping only at the eastern most lighthouse in the world (or so the plaque said). Stopped in Whakatane and then cruised through he Bay of Plenty (kiwi fruit country) to the Coromandel Peninsula. I received some disheartening news when Permaculture hero and Teutonic genius David K. informed me that his autumn will be given up to working the night shift in a kiwi fruit packhouse, possibly the most soulless and degrading work outside of outright slavery. The sad fact that a sustainability warrior is reduced to robotic drudgery to keep afloat is an unfortunate commentary of the state of economics.

But fortunately seven years of being a warmongerer left me rather flush, so I can dick around in the forests and beaches of the Coromandel without worrying about subjecting myself to such indignities. As ol' Dave Mustaine said, "Killing is my business...and business is good!". Anyway, the dreadlocked vegan on the mountaintop told me I must go to the Great Barrier Island...especially for the legendary Thursday night open mic jam session at the Irish pub. Hopefully distasteful limericks go over well there...