Strangled By Idle Hands

"So what are you up to these days?" "Not much. Mainly sitting on my ass, ripping CDs from the library and applying for jobs I don't want and won't get. If I get real ambitious, I might bike to the library and check out another stack, I think I'm up to M or N." I gaze out my window, where, for the 98th consecutive day, it's 50, rainy, grey, and thoroughly miserable in Portland. "On second thought, I guess I'll sit around and watch some Japanese pro wrestling DVDs".

"Ain't nothing wrong with that. Have faith in the job hunt, it's all about patience. Of course this is coming from a guy who ran out of patience and is heading off to India for three months".

It has been two months since ML and I cruised through the CA deserts in a celebration of prolonged unemployment. Since then he had abandoned all hope of finding legit professional work, invading the privacy of citizens as a census taker instead. I, on the other hand, was thoroughly wasting away in the Pacific Northwest, feeling the 12% unemployment acutely. Riding my bike to Trader Joe's for pre-cooked lentils and six packs of Simpler Times had become the highlight of my week. A far cry from the non-stop merriment and mayhem of the previous summer that influenced my decision to move to the hipster capital of North America.
"Man, we gotta do something. I've been thinking about some tours out in your neck of the woods...maybe a cruise down the Oregon coast or something."

"Nah, I gotta get out of this rainy shithole for awhile. How about Mt Shasta...it's halfway between us, I already have a guidebook on the area, and the weather should be great this time of year".

"Yeah! I've actually done a fair amount of Internet research on a bike tour that goes around the mountain. It'll be a cinch: 50 miles of forest roads, not much elevation gain. Two easy half days leaving us time for some hiking later. A final mellow cruise before I head to India."

Believing what people post on the Internet is an invitation to disaster; we had sent our RSVP.

Putting the Dick Back in Dixie

The expedition began with a stop in the pleasantly innocuous city of Eugene to spend time with the glorious and lovely SAC, who led me on a tour of the city's impressive network of bike paths. I wanted to get a few extra miles of riding under my belt, even though ML assured me our ride would be a veritable cakewalk. One thing led to another and I eventually found myself singing "Folsom Prison Blues" to a roomful of strangers in a hotel bar, partially atoning for my hideous rendition of "November Rain" in a Nelson, New Zealand club last year that led to the expulsion of myself and my two Swedish accomplices.

Instead of blasting down I-5 I decided to take a circuitous route to Mount Shasta via Bend. It gave me an excuse to check out a potentially vicious and beautiful bike tour up and around the Central Cascades. The primary reason, however, was to spend an evening with one of the greatest musical geniuses of our time: Mr. Sheldon Williams, aka Hank III.

Before I could revel in such pleasant tunes as "Thrown out of the Bar", "Smoke and Wine", "Gettin' Drunk and Fallin' Down", "Six Pack of Beer", "White Trash", "Drinkin' Over Momma", "My Drinkin' Problem", "Punch, Fight, F#ck", and the latest hit "Rebel Within" (which opens with the lines "The bottle's gettin' lower again my friend and the hard times are tryin's its best to win"), I had a few pints at the 10 Barrel Brewpub in the glorious sunshine. Bend, situated on the Eastern side of the Cascades, is blessed with lovely weather, good food, outstanding hiking, excellent beer, and a fairly high number of fit and attractive people. I was about to go looking for cheap rooms for rent when I remembered that I had just joined the Washington Air National Guard out of sheer boredom, rendering a relocation to Bend an exceptionally large pain in the ass.

It was still daylight when I entered the Domino Room, already packed with toothless rednecks half in the bag and metalheads in thoroughly impractical jean jackets adorned with patches of their favorite bands. Hank and His Damn Band hit the stage and immediately launched into the drinkin' and Hell-raisin' rave-up "Straight to Hell", sending the drunk and meth "enhanced" patrons to explode into a hillbilly most pit, an exclusively Hank III phenomenon. With no bouncers to spoil the fun stage diving and herb smoking became the order of the stiflingly hot night. Ever the consummate professional Hank played all the crowd favorites of his back catalog, including his anthem "I'm Here to Put the Dick In Dixie [and the C#nt Back in Country]" as well as legendary country standards like his grandfather's "I'll Never Get Out Of This World Alive".

Picture taken by someone with a better camera than I

I was embarrassingly exhausted by the time intermission hit. I had just enough time to chug $3 worth of water when Hank's metal band, Assjack, cranked up the volume with "Gravel Pit", and all Hell quickly broke loose. Hank turned over the vocal duties to the fearsome screamer Gary Lindsey while the fiddler picked up a Flying V and shredded with delightful ferocity. By the time they wound down the night with an amazing cover of Slayer's "Postmortem/Raining Blood" medley I was absolutely spent.

I had contemplated sleeping in the back of my station wagon, but that would have involved moving around a lot of crap for which I was not in the mood. I drove out of town about five miles until I found a dirt road heading out into a forest. Sounds of 1 am hippie drum circles and bizarre metal-on-metal scraping noises echoed in the vicinity. To tired to care, I crawled into my tent, dehydrated, ears ringing and face hurting from smiling so hard.

Preparing For The Ascencion

I woke up to the unmistakable tink of titanium on Surlyn. It appeared I had camped out right next to the public golf links. Surely the bespoke gents on the course were distracted by the sight of a dayglo orange tent by the side of the road. I didn't stick around to find out.
The cruise down Highway 97 was fairly tedious, convincing me that a bike tour on that road would be suboptimal. I rolled into Shasta City several hours ahead of ML, so I discussed our scheme with Richard, the Ranger who seemed to know his Forest like a book. He patiently explained the ideal route, taking pains to carefully annotate the tricky intersections and water resupply areas. Our tour would be a relative breeze, a little longer than initially planned, but a pleasant stroll through the backcountry. Satisfied that we had made a wise decision, I walked into the notorious Roxy's Vets Club for a few happy hour beverages.
It was just as I had remembered it: a cavernous place full of geezers and working stiffs bitching about their no-good kids while the grizzled Rose manned the bar with her gravelly whiskey voice. In other words, my kinda late afternoon joint. As luck would have it the flier on the bar indicated that Sapient (of Sandpeople) was playing a HipHop show that very night, with support from the Digital Misfitz. A few dudes were setting up some gear when a 50ish and thoroughly normal chap sat down beside me and ordered a Gin Martini, lots of vermouth, briefly swirled, no ice in a rocks glass, with three olives. Rose had a look on her face that said "You gotta be shittin' me". Clearly this guy had the makings of an asshole.

The fellow sitting next to Martini had to be 80 if he were a day. The Digital Misfitz assaulted the regulars with their brand of phat beatz during a brief soundcheck. Upon their conclusion the octagenerian declared, to anyone who was in earshot, that he knows how to play the harmonica, "mostly country and western. I don't know about this bullshit; I wasn't born in Africa. I was born in South Dakota, ever hear of 'The Yellow Rose of Texas'?" Before anyone could answer he played the tune on the harp he kept in his shirt pocket for such an occasion.

His passionate effort was met with uncomfortable silence, broken by Martini's haughty declaration of "That's all right, but I usually play the guitar at the same time". Not to be outdone by a pompous jackass, Geezer replied "I used to play a four-string banjo at the same time", picked up his coat, and headed out the door.

His only audience gone, Martini turned to me and began to engage in small talk relating to the Giants game on the TV. Since I don't give a rat's ass about baseball I completely agreed with everything he said, which was a terrible move on my part, since he then assumed that I was his bosom buddy. I learned that his name was Keaven (yes, he does spell it blatantly wrong) and asked the innocent question "What are you doing here at Shasta?"

"I'm preparing myself for ascension in 2012 by harnessing the power of the energy crystals that I buried out here in a past life. I aided St. Germaine, who led the effort to transfer the power of Atlantis as it was being destroyed in 999. This place was chosen for it's mystical powers, and I am here to put my full faith into them. St. Germaine, if you don't know, was the spiritual heir to Merlin and Christopher Columbus.

"You see, you should be thankful you are here now, when the heavens are in optimal solstice alignment to bring out the harmony of the crystals..."

At this point I was so befuddled I quickly grabbed a napkin and a pen and frantically tried to take notes on this nonsense. Some random gems:

"Pyramids have a manifestation rate of 137 times the normal rate..."

"You see, it's the Illuminati who control our information and have been keeping us in the dark..."
"You live in Portland, eh? I have to get you in touch with my good friend who is an Astrological Cartographer...he will pinpoint the optimal place in the universe to start a business or fall in love..."

"Don't you think how it's really weird that every time you look at a watch it says 11:11?"

"There is an intergalactic portal over Mount Adams that has been the primary gateway for extraterrestrial activity on Earth since the dawn of time. You know, our universe is the least evolved of all the universes and other life forms have been downloading information to our world as soon as they feel we can handle it. If we are on the same evolutionary plane as them, there will be peace and harmony throughout all the universes. How else can you account for the technological leaps of the past hundred years?"

"Hey look! My nephew just came into the game to close for the Giants. He spent the summer of 2001 with me at my condo in Hawaii...we had a great time. I actually wrote a song about his life to the tune of 'Cat's in the Cradle.' My music business connections think it has the potential to be the best baseball song since 'Centerfield'."

I finished by beverage and got the hell out of there. This is his actual business card:ML rolled into town at sunset like a hero of the American West. "So did you scout out an awesome campsite for us tonight? And did you talk to a Ranger about our plans?"

"The biking will be no sweat, maybe some tricky intersections. I was going to find a place to camp, but I ended up talking to this guy..."

A Sandy Slog

"You feeling OK? You're going mighty slow".

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's these big ass tires...I'm beginning to regret putting these on. They really slow you down". We had decided to take a lunch break at the Living Memorial Sculpture Garden, where USMC Vietnam Veteran Dennis Smith had crafted ten bronze sculptures in reverence to all veterans. Being veterans ourselves, we thought it a fitting way to take a load off and review the morning.
"That Ranger is a God damned idiot. There was no reason to go through that housing development with loose sand pits for roads. I was excited to see lava flows, but all I saw was a huge waste of time and energy. I'm a little concerned this could be bad news for the rest of the trip...if the forest roads are half that bad, we're in for a long haul".

"Naw, they are probably well maintained. Want any pineapple rings? That breakfast burrito is still gurgling around...damn thing was big enough to choke a bison".

"No thanks. That damn hippie grocery store was chock full of weirdo herbs and tofu and crap, but not a single hunk of salted meat. It's a staple of my diet these days, you realize. I don't have time for that hippie-skippy nonsense anymore. I bet you are really sick of it by now, living in Portland and such".

"If you keep talking like that, we'll never tap into the energy crystals. We gotta have faith, man".

"Shut up".
*******
"Aarrgh! It looks fine, but as soon as you get going you sink right in. This sucks. Thank God I put on my big ass tires". We had finally emerged from the paved highway and onto Forest property and Military Pass Road., which was nothing but a path of absurdly deep and loose sand, making forward progress a titanic struggle. ML had a mountain bike configuration, but my 700x32 cyclocross tires, ideal for Portland bar hopping, was as useful as a snowblower in Hell. He would pedal for all he was worth, sputtering and spinning, while I would push my loaded bike beside him. At least we had 2000' of elevation gain ahead of us.
"I don't know man. This really, really sucks. I hope you don't think this is what mountain biking is like. What are your thoughts about turning back...it would be a quick descent on the highway back to Weed". We were soaking wet with sweat with little shade and an endless, nearly impossible road ahead of us. We were barely ten miles in and our quads were on fire from the masochistic struggle. As far as I could see, the answer was obvious.

"No way! That would be so lame. We came all the way out here to do this, so it's gotta be done. What did you expect? This just gives us a greater sense of accomplishment when we get outta here. We're only quitting if it's a matter of safety".

"You are totally right. But I tell you what: I hope a bear eats us before we have to finish this God damned road".

***************

Several grueling and curse-ridden hours later we rolled into our campsite, which was on a very primitive logging road 50 yards or so from a babbling brook. ML, ever on the lookout for carnivorous creatures, was a bit concerned that there was a good chance something aggressive and furry was going to chew our balls off while we slept. Since we had seen absolutely no signs of wildlife all day, I had to disagree. Besides, it was getting dark and a quick recon of the road ahead revealed something I didn't want to see: snowdrifts blanketing the road.
"Let's worry about that crap tomorrow...we're at the highpoint of the ride anyway, I hope. So should I have things like breakfast burritos and coffee, or should I just stick to oatmeal? There's probably a lot of money in coffee, or else not so many people would be doing it". ML had decided that it would be a great idea to own an operate an oatmeal cart in Denver so office workers in a hurry could still enjoy a warm cup of gooey goodness in the morning. If nothing else, he would be a minor celebrity in town as "The Oatmeal Guy". "There's an oatmeal cart in Portland, right? I'll send you a list of questions to ask the guy. At less than a dollar a pound and at $4.50 a bowl, you gotta be making money hand over fist".

It was time to hit the sack after a bachelor-friendly meal courtesy of Trader Joe's. The time, of course, was 11:11.

Fightin' For Ever Inch of 'Er

Our night passed without any visits from nocturnal hunters. We were woken instead by the sounds of picks, shovels, and Spanish.

"Uh, I guess you guys must have biked up here...I wondered why I couldn't see any cars. Well, I just want to let you know you camped out on private logging property last night. I don't really care that much but, uh, there are other people who do so it would be great if you guys, uh, moved along soon, OK?"

We heard the message from the Good Cop loud and clear and didn't want to be around when the Bad Cop made his rounds. We felt like we were on stage as we ate our oatmeal being surrounded by quasi-legal workers wrapped up in headscarves earning their daily bread through repetitive backbreaking labor. It could have been something from Indiana Jones if it weren't for the abundance of Lycra and Clif Bars.



*****

"Christ Almighty! Next time I do this crap I'm taking a folding saw with me. It's like what my dad's friend Jerry the carpet layer says: 'you gotta fight for every inch of 'er'".

"Quit your bitching and take your seat post off so it'll fit under the tree...it'll be easier than trying to throw it over the top. I'm telling you mountain biking is nothing like this".



Mountain biking it may not have been, but our leisurely stroll around a 14,000' mountain had become the cyclocross course from Hell. The steep sand had all but ended, but in its place was an endless obstacle course of downed trees and slippery snowdrifts, sometimes both at the same time. To make matters worse, we experienced some "geographical difficulties".

"See, the road goes hard left and then gently turns right, just like the map shows. We gotta be at this intersection".

"I know what you are saying but I hadn't seen any other of these roads here and here, which we would have crossed before coming to this intersection. Do you think we were so focused on crawling around trees that we didn't notice them?"

"I doubt it. Who knows how old this map is...they could've let the unused roads be overtaken by the forest. We should have brought a topo map".

"Doesn't do us any good now. That way looks clear of trees, at least for a little while. Lets go scout it out on foot".

Our progress was laughably slow: maybe a mile an hour at best. After 4 hours on the road, we had spent perhaps 10 minutes on the saddle and the rest grunting, pushing, and swearing. Our bikes were nothing more than very awkward rolling luggage carts. I managed to cover myself in sap, and, eventually, as sorts of forest detritus. A second night in the woods was looking more and more likely.

"How can that Ranger be so ignorant about his own Forest? Those guys are usually really anal about safety and crap...surely he wouldn't send us out on these roads if he knew what we were in for. Man, I hate it when guys get a rise out of playing "expert" to clueless saps when in reality they don't know what the Hell they are talking about. In fact, the guys who wrote how great this loop was on the Internet have probably never even been out here. 'One long day' my ass! Hey, there's a sign up there...road 31? Well, we are on the right track, but about 5 miles further back than we thought we were".



************************
We both had momentary breakdowns, little tantrums to express our frustrations with our fate. It was more than a bike ride gone bad: it was a whole wellspring of anger and disappointment, a primitive commentary on a world that had rejected us like a bad liver transplant. All we asked for were ordinary jobs and ordinary lives, but economic and social forces spit us back out into the wilderness. The line between choosing this perpetual dirtbag lifestyle and it choosing us had blurred beyond all recognition. All we asked for was a little freedom, and now we were drowning in it.

**************************

After what seemed like a week of frustrated progress the trees and snow gave way to pavement...and butterflies. Like a Biblical plague we were surrounded by thousands of Monarch-looking insects, literally choking us with their presence.

"What the Hell is this all about?" "I've seen these before on mountaintops in Oregon. They are pretty strange...consider it a sign of good luck. I wouldn't be surprised if they were the reincarnated souls of the fleeing residents of Atlantis, guiding us to the wisdom of the mountain".

For all his perceived faults, Richard hit one nail right on the head: by completing a clockwise route the last several miles was a screaming descent on paved roads back into the middle of town. You could not pick a better way to end such a slog...cruising through town like we owned it restored our previously shattered dignity. As we paused to cross railroad tracks, we saw a crew of summer laborers clearing away trees from the road.

ML: "I really want to go over to them and tell them that they missed a few back there, but I'm not that much of an ass. Let's go find some chocolate milk".

Do What You Gotta Do

"I can't believe I ate the whole tub of salsa...not to mention a quart of chocolate milk chugged in less than 3 minutes. Ugh, I'm gonna be hurtin' tomorrow".

"That's alright...we can go check out the climbers at Bunny Flat in the morning...it's quite a scene."

We had camped out on the side of the Everitt Memorial Highway. We had taken baby wipe showers in the public bathroom and had consumed a sickening amount of food, more than making up for whatever calories we may have burned over the past several days. We were sitting contentedly on our asses when a carload of teenagers drove into our camp, scaring the bejeesus out of us. They were clearly looking for a place to engage in Friday Night Teenage Hijinks, but realized they had better take their business elsewhere and sped off.

"I've got a good hunch that in about three hours those guys are going to be anally raping us".

"I doubt that, but never underestimate the tenacity of the freaks and weirdos in this town. I think a pagan sacrifice is more likely".

"You can hang out here for another night if you want, but I gotta get outta this place".

**************************
Black Butte is the name given to a freestanding pillar of talus right off the Interstate. It looks intimidating and inhospitable, but there is a very mellow trail that cuts through the scree and takes you to the top without much effort at all. We decided to make that our "cooldown" activity of the trip since the trail to the climber's camp at Bunny Flat was completely snowed in. The steady and monotonous, albeit aesthetically pleasing climb was a perfect incubator for amateur philosophizing.



"For some reason I feel somewhat intimidated by all those guys and their gear, like they are judging me for wearing basketball shorts and running shoes. I'm probably going to twist my ankle on all these rocks, by the way".

"Well, unlike skiing or rock climbing, full-on mountaineering doesn't have much of a dirtbag scene. With all the expensive gear and exclusivity of location, the sport lends itself to white collar types who have a lot of money and pent up steam to burn. Plus, it's an acquisitive, goal-oriented activity that appeals to the Outside Magazine crowd". I was basically talking out of my ass (as usual), but I was harboring resentment for not being able to pursue that activity myself. I knew damn well that if I was still a corporate 40/50 man I'd be up there with expensive gear looking for spiritual fulfillment through checking boxes drawn by someone else.

"You gotta admit CRS, we made the best choice: get high-paying jobs, live like miserly bastards, and then live the dream. Just think: what we did back in April would be the only thing the average working stiff would be able to do all year with only two weeks of vacation. They couldn't even go home for Christmas, for Christ's sake. Work is for chumps. As far as I can tell, the only path to happiness is developing your personal values and sticking to them no matter what. And I want to make outsiders feel welcome when they want to do the stuff I do...if I ever start acting superior around newcomers, punch me in the face".



********************

It was late in the afternoon and ML had to make it to the Bay Area before the traffic became unbearable. We had just said our final goodbyes...we probably wouldn't see each other again for a long time (of course that's what we thought a few months ago). "Well, if you're still rotting away in Portland this fall, get your ass over to India...it's so cheap you practically make money hanging out there. That is if you don't get on the JET program and move to Japan. Seriously, you'd love the place, I guarantee it!"

I had just noticed there was a house on the corner that literally had a tree growing out the roof. It was clear that whoever owned the home had quite a challenge keeping the outside from coming inside.

"Excellent! That's EXACTLY the lasting image I want of this town: some completely ridiculous, impractical idea that sounded great while smokin' a joint 35 years ago and now is nothing more than a completely idiotic pain in the ass. I can't leave this place fast enough. Are you heading out now too?"

"I would, but it's hard to pass up free camping. I don't want to risk having to Motel 6 it tonight."

**********************************
After listening to Hank III for the past week almost nonstop, I was getting a little hankering for a touch of whiskey. Fortunately, the great bankrupt state of California is wise enough to sell booze in grocery stores, and the local Ray's was wise enough to have Jack Daniels on sale.



Campsite established, I sat my filthy and worn out carcass in a $5 folding chair with a lovely view of the mountain that brought that bizarre town and all it's inhabitants into existence. The sunset was pretty damn lovely, and I was feeling good with Hank's "Lookin' For a Mountain" playing in my ears and a bit of Tennessee's finest warming my gut. If I had a shovel handy I'd have buried my pointless driftin' then and there, said a few choice words, and headed back to the colorless and comfortable world of commuting, brown bag lunches eaten in silence at a cubicle, boring meetings and generally wasting whatever remains of my youth and dignity. On second thought, I decided to remain in place and watch the bottle get a little lower.