Memoirs, Volume Two

The Thirty Mile Fire

A couple of clicks and pokes on the keyboard and it was all sorted out. Work was found, the day was saved, and all would be ok. Of course I didn’t have the job yet, but felt like I was headed in the right direction and had that sparkling intuitive hit that things were going to work out.

That feeling is always at its highest, most tuned point when you are living on that edge-walking the razor, not taking up too much space. I was in that place, and for some time had been stumbling about on the last of my colones, that had once been quetzales that had morphed from pesos, exploded into cordobas, and then retreated back into dollars. A lot less dollars.

Funds were low, but adventure was still on the horizon. I gave my step dad the green light to sell my truck, and then started looking for a job. I wanted to stretch this trip as long, sticky, and gooey as was possible. A few quick calculations had me sorted out until May if I played my shabby cards right and didn’t get robbed and kidnapped again. Felt good about my chances and about the idea of fighting fires for the summer with the Forest Service. It was a world I had been on the periphery of before and always felt a strong pull towards. Fire! Pulaskis! Forests! Travel! Hazard Pay! It was a perfect realm to transition into after bouncing around Latin America for the past year.

By the time I crash landed in San Diego, I found out that there was only one National Forest that had any interest in me. It was the Wenatchee , buried deep in the heart of Washington State, and it sounded like Shangri-la. I found it on a map and without hesitation agreed to bus and train my way up to the northern woods for what I anticipated would be some good living, hard work, adventure, and hopefully some cash to fill my depleted treasure chest.

It was one of my first forays over the Cascades and onto their Eastern slopes. Everything changes as you transition from the wet western side of the mountains into the raid shadow and semi-desert country of Eastern Washington. Douglas firs turn into Ponderosa Pines. Big berry bushes are replaced by low shrubs and eventually sage as you head East. The air dries up, the horizon expands, and everything feels bigger and slower.

The Lake Wenatchee Fire center was just a hair’s edge on the Eastern side of the pass. Walking in the woods you’d see all of these trees and plants mixing and dancing about. Western red cedars and delicate maiden ferns competed for water, ran from the sun, and crawled deeper into the shadows. Life was spiraling towards the west and its water, and rambling for the East and its sun. I fell in love with all of it in the first few moments and did my best to adjust to the strange new world I was now entering.

In hindsight, it appears that I may have been going thru some culture shock. I had spent a year out of America. During that time, Gore lost to Bush, friends got married; a new millennium started, and for most, the wheels had just kept going round and round.

For me, that year had rocked my world often and hard. I had faced demons, climbed volcanoes and threw my heart into some big projects. It was a year of fierce leaping, falling, stumbling, and growing. I started out as a young naïve idealist, and grew sometimes by forced doses of miracle grow into something strong, something different. I had sailed to Cuba, been kidnapped in Costa Rica, and helped get a school built in Guatemala. I ran with Internationalists and spent long debaucherous nights debating life and exploring its madness. I have faint memories of solving some of the world’s greatest problems, and then losing the strands of thought in some late night bottle of Gallo. But the solutions were let out on some of those nights and I’m quite sure they still dance about the world in strange conversations in not so distant lands.

The bounce to my walk had changed, a different glow hung about my shoulders, and the world and all her madness were being filtered through a new set of lenses. I was riding the high ridge of good living and thought Id sail right into the fire fighting world with a seamless transition. I figured there would be fellow adventurer types gathering forces and heading out into the burning woods to see what we could see. It would be just like traveling in the distant lands of South America I imagined.

But the gears came to a screeching halt as I sat around the crew table that first day of work. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore, and had to sort through a few layers of bullshit before I realized where I had really landed. Most of the crew were kids from the backside of the Cascades. They were young, loved their off rode rigs, had Jesus, and jiggled about with nervous excitement as they contemplated summer love, money, and bunk life without parents around.

There were 20 of us and only a few exceptions to the rule. A couple of the crewmembers were from the west side, and had lived a bit. Our crews boss and second in command were both weathered fire dogs who seemed to know their shit. They were a bit older and had definitely been around the block, or the forest, or a burning bush a few times. I got a feeling that first day that this was going to be a long, strange summer.

I was assigned a bunk house with a couple of other federales. On the compound we had backcountry trail folks and a botany crew as well. I leaned towards the botany crew who we affectionately called “Hot Bots” on account of all the fire time they got. I spent time with them and found common ground in our mutual love for plants and stumbling about in the woods. Their scene was quite a contrast to the mad, macho world of the fire house and would later serve as a nurturing, protective force from the crazy hurricane that would soon engulf us that summer.

After settling in, sorting out my new digs, and passing the “pack test” I was starting to feel a tinge of comfort back in these states, and particularly in this state of being that I would be calling home for the next four months. I rolled with the flow of the day in those first few weeks: Physical Training (PT) in the morning, line cutting until lunch, then hiding out in the woods and playing hackey-sack with the crew until the day was over. I figured I could get used to this for a while.
But nothing lasts forever, or ever really feels stable. It’s all an illusion, and the world is constantly conspiring to teach me that lesson. In this case, the lesson came in the form of the most bad ass fire fighter I had ever met: Cary Stock. Cary was an old surfer from my neck of the woods, so I could relate to him. He had even spent time in the California Conservation Corps(CCC) a place that had been good to me. But besides that, he was one scary dude who made most of the young firefighters tremble in their squeaky new fire boots.

He always wore dark, wraparound sunglasses. Inside, outside, nighttime- all the time. You could never look into his eyes or get a sense of what he was thinking or who he was. He also had a tobacco chewing habit that put the most devout addict to shame. Every dip was a four finger one, and his dedication to the art was almost fanatical. On the grade he was always spraying thick, black splatterings of tobacco juice. Inside, he carried a gold spittoon that he spat in with the reverence of a true believer. The first time I saw him, he was making a presentation on the behavior of fire. It was a huge, well lit room. And in the front was this guy who looked like he’d walked out of some Mad Max meets Terminator film. He was a caricature in a lot of ways, but boy did he know his shit. He was a true fire wizard, and taught me some good lessons that summer.

I reluctantly “joined” his fire engine when he told me that someone from the hand crew that I called home the last few weeks had to come on to the truck. I told him I wasn’t interested, that I really wanted to work on the hand crew, get some experience and hopefully make a move for a hotshot crew late in the season or the following year. The hotshots were the second most elite wild land fire fighting group in the federal system. They were constantly in action and often went out of state on assignments. Every season they took on a couple of new guys towards the end of the season to give them a try out. I was banking on that.
But Cary told me he had hot shot connections, and would get me sorted in that direction if I joined forces with him. He also made it pretty clear that I was his guy and I really didn’t have much of a choice.

So the winds blew in that direction and I got taken for a ride. That was the start of a series of fateful twists, turns, bumps, and bruises that linger deep into this day.

Those brief weeks I spent with Cary on the engine were memorable. He worked us hard, loved doing elaborate physical trainings, and was obsessed with being ready for the ‘big one’. We walked old fires, analyzed the way trees moved to avoid the heat, and practiced laying hose in some pretty ridiculous terrain. We also got to make presentations to campers at the local state park with our own Smoky the Bear. I became the lead presenter and was notorious for making the lucky fool who volunteered to be Smoky, give the audience their money’s worth. I explained that Smoky had recently returned from a trip to Paris where he learned some new moves in modern dance, ballet, and of course the cabaret. The crowd got into it, and the reluctant volunteer could often be coerced into doing some ridiculous dance improvisation. But really, we were just killing time, waiting for the forest to dry out, the lightning to strike, and fire to call us into action.

Cary really wanted me to get some experience with fire, so it was his idea to bump me on the list of crewmembers for the next off district fire. He put me ahead of Liz, the other engine crewmember who had experience from the previous season.
A few days later we saw two huge columns of smoke erupting in the north. The Libby fire was starting to heat up and we all figured we’d be getting a call soon. “Pack your war bag!” was the order and we all stood by with excitement and anticipation. This was the first big fire of the season, and everyone was ready for some excitement.

The call came shortly after midnight. It wasn’t so much a wakeup call as it was a, get your stuff and let’s get going call. We met at 1:00 am at the firehouse, and then drove down to Leavenworth to rendezvous with the other crews. There was a bit of confusion in that first hour because Cary was supposed to be the supervisor of our crew. His name was up on the list, but no one could get through to him on the phone. Apparently, he got in a fight with his girlfriend that night and ripped the phone out of the wall in anger, or maybe to throw at her. Next up was Elreese Daniels, and another twist of fate played itself out.

We piled into a van and met up with the Leavenworth folks and a crew from the Naches Ranger station. Around 2:00am we sorted out who was going to be on which squad. As they rambled through the names and assignments, I was the only one not mentioned, and not assigned to a crew. Apparently, I wasn’t on the list…I was a last minute addition. That slip up sparked a conversation about what crew I should be on, and I got passed back and forth like a hot potato, until finally landing on with Thom Taylor and his squad. Another piece of the fate pie fell into play.

Confusion was in the air from the start, and a couple of hairs were already starting to dance on the back of my neck. ‘Who were these people? How did I get here? And where was I going?’ Were a few of the questions I was starting to ask, but I must have fallen asleep on the long drive to the Okanogan National Forest, because I never did find those answers.

When dawn peaked her red and oranges over the hill, we were in a ranger station parking lot being told we were not going to go fight the big Libby Fire. Instead, we were being rerouted to a smaller fire that had been started by a runaway campfire. The deflated air of our expectations nearly knocked over the forest supervisor who tilted back and forth on his heels as he explained the logistics to our slightly fatigued crew boss. We all figured we were getting screwed out of the big fire, which really meant the big bucks. We wanted a two week stay on this one, hoping to fill up our pockets with treasure and get some experience on the fire lines.

By the time we got on the little fire that would explode and come to be known as The Thirty Mile Fire, it was already starting to get warm. No one knew it at the time, but this day, July 10, would be the hottest and driest day of the fire season. It would also become singed into history and infamy before the sun would set again.
But it all started out simple and innocent enough. Our bosses met with the bosses that were on site and had been fighting the fire the previous night. We overheard bits and pieces of the conversation, and felt disappointed with the news. ‘The hot shot crew had ringed the fire the night before with line. The fires were small. There wasn’t much work left to do. The crew had got tired and was sleeping in the park down the road. Not much to worry about,’ were some of the snippets we overheard.
In the glorified paramilitary world of fire fighting, we waited obediently to be told by our supervisors what we were supposed to do. It went through a couple of cycles then finally fell on the shoulders of the Crew Boss in Training to give us the low down. His name was Pete, and he wore his arrogance on his sleeve. He tried to wing the briefing and was schooled by one of the veterans that was observing. Eventually it all got sorted out, and we were dealt our assignments from a crooked deck of cards that would soon be sending us all to the edge of the abyss, and a few unlucky ones over and into its oblivion.

The slow process of getting sorted out and jumping through the bureaucratic hurdles of federal fire fighting allowed the fire to warm up a bit, and start getting active. By the time we had received our line assignments, the flames were licking up from the ground and starting to crawl into the thicker brush.

We crossed an old growth Douglas fir that had fallen across the creek a few seasons before, and immediately got to work doing what we had been practicing for weeks. We were cutting line, and it was amazing! I was assigned to the saw and would take turns running it with a young buck named Nick Dreis. Our job was to cut through the thick brush and carve out a line that the rest of the crew could cut down to mineral soil.

This kind of firefighting was real simple, real logical. If you could remove burnable materials from the path of the fire, it would burn itself out when it hit the soil and couldn’t find anything to burn. Of course, there were a few dozen other factors that played out in the mix, but on a grunt fire fighter level, it was simple. But not easy.

We ripped through the thick tangles of alder, vine maple, small Doug firs, and a variety of berry bushes. We were in the flood plain, and everything seemed to be growing and competing for life here. As we tore at the brush with the saw, the flames of the fire got closer and closer. At its most glorious moments, we were just a few feet away from the creeping fire. It was still morning, and we all thought that we could contain this little fire.

As Nick tore through the brush with his saw, I would frantically clear the brush he just cut before the fire could gobble it up. While I waited for his cutting, I would swing my Pulaski to help sketch out a line for the rest of the crew to tie into.
Behind us, our squad was lined out with shovels, pulaskis, and a few McClouds to knock down and cut out brush that was in the path of the fire. Everyone was spread out, keeping their dimes, and making good progress.

Our loose plan was to tie into the other squad and complete a circle of line around the fire. I could hear the shouts of other crew members and bosses over the coughing wale of the saw periodically. At one point, Nick and I got pretty far ahead of the crew. We were taking a moment to rest, dehydrate and fuel up the saw. We were finally taking a few minutes to slow down and appreciate what was happening, what we were doing. We were stoked! The fire was being tamed, our crew was working well, and we were celebrating our first fire together. Then we heard a booming sound, and a tree next to us was completely engulfed in flames. The tree was at least 50 feet from the flames, but totally on fire.

Tom yelled, “Run to the river!” to us and he sounded panicked. We gathered our gear and headed in that direction. Thom thought the fire might engulf us at that point, but it stayed isolated in that tree. Apparently everything has a flash point, a temperature at which it will erupt into flames, regardless of flame contact. Fire fighters call this phenomenon “candling”. It was an extraordinary sight.
Eventually we rallied our way back to the squad and tied back into the line work. At this point, the noise on the supervisor’s radios started squeaking and popping. It was getting hot. The fire was gaining momentum. Something wasn’t right. But we kept hacking our way through the brush, trying to tie in with the other Tom’s squad. We could see and hear them now, and figured we were close.

Pete came running through the brush from where we thought the other squad was and barked a bunch of orders to our squad boss. Thom took the saw from Nick and went to town on the brush. I stayed by his side and threw his brush as he frantically sawed his way to the other squad.

When the line was connected, the rest of the crew cut through any remaining piece of shrubbery or wood debris and linked up with the other squad. The assignment was complete, but we all knew it wouldn’t hold. By this time the flame lengths were three feet high, the wind was picking up, and everything was drying up and raring to explode.

Thom sent a few folks to walk the line and check for spot fires. Spot fires are started from embers that the fire, with assistance from the wind, sends over the line. When a fire is really ripping, these embers can travel miles over a line and start a spot fire deep into safe country. Our crewmembers reported multiple spots in the few minutes that our line had lived. It was hopeless. The line would not hold.

Pete gave the command to get back to the lunch spot. We had lost the fire. As we walked our line back to the creek, I heard a rumbling, thumping sound that I thought might be more trees candling. I stopped in my tracks and peered into the swirling smoke. A helicopter with a 250 gallon water bucket was making one of its first drops on the fire. It was a few hours late, and was now just a symbolic backdrop to the once simple and innocent runaway camp fire. But it sure was cool to watch it do its magic.

When we rallied back at the vans, fatigue was dripping from everyone’s pores. I had drunk four quarts of water and was itching for more. Most people collapsed into sweaty piles, stuffed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into their mouths and passed out.

I couldn’t sleep. As the afternoon sun was peaking into its hottest moments, the fire activity was spectacular. What had been a creepy crawling campfire was now a massive canopy fire ripping its way through the trees and up the canyon. It was roaring! Branches were breaking, and everything was heating up. I wandered over to the creek to watch the show and take a few photos. I was mesmerized by the twisting, turning, and exploding fire. But before I could surrender into the awe that was now exploding in front of me, I heard someone calling my name. It was Thom, and it didn’t sound like good news.

Two fire engines that had been called in for support in the morning were now engaging the fire up canyon. Someone, in some high up place had made a plan to hold the fire to one side of the canyon. The idea was to use the dirt road as a giant fire line and make sure the fire did not jump the line and burn up the other side of the canyon. So, the engines were off fighting the spots and had called for support from the hand crews.

The Forest Service wild land firefighting system is set up just like the military. They use helicopters and airplanes. Have Special Forces that jump out of airplanes and engage the fire in remote, hostile territory. They move people and machinery around like chess pieces as they hone their attention on “defeating” the fire. We were those pieces, and I could feel the not so gentle hands of the man behind the curtain pushing me forward.

I was a fatigued mess of a firefighter at that point, and just went where the orders told me to go. With urgency, we were rounded up from our lunch spot, loaded into a van, and sped off up a road to join forces with the tanks(fire trucks) that were blasting(watering) their way through the fire.

Embers from the east side of the canyon were starting spot fires on the other side. Our job was to find them, cut line around them, and put them out with water from the trucks. In the last of the calm moments, I recall cutting line around one of these little spot fires and looking down at the ground. I noticed a fire shelter on the ground and assumed it was from the girl next to me. “Your shelter fell out of your pack,” I commented. She looked at me and said, “No that’s your shelter.” Sure enough it was, and I felt like an idiot. She helped me get the shelter back in my pack and reattached the not so sure piece of Velcro that was flapping about, uncommitted in the breeze.

Sixty seconds later I heard Elreese on the radio and someone speaking urgently to him. “Get out! The road is burning over! Get out!” Then I heard Thom’s booming voice, “Run! Get the fuck back to the van. Run!” And off we went.

We threw saws, pulaskis, and packs on the floor then twisted and turned our way through them as the van sped off. Driving past another squad, I remember Thom yelling something like, “Run. Double-time.” I don’t know why we didn’t pick them up. But it wouldn’t have made a difference.

We ran into a wall of flame that had gobbled up the road and was chomping its way for us. Elreese maneuvered the van into the quickest 8 point turn I’d ever seen. We were on a narrow dirt road with an oversized van going the wrong way towards a wall of flame. The heat bit into the van as we edged up against the flames in the mad dash to reverse direction. I remember someone saying that we were all going to die-I took a photo.

When we finally got our direction sorted out, the crew breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the other squad and made our way to what we thought would be safety. But Elreese kept slowing down, like he was looking for something. Someone near me said, “Let’s drive out of here. Take this road and get us back to the other squads.” At that point the news that we were on a dead end road somehow trickled its way to the back of the van, and shut us up into a clammy silence.

We trolled that back road, stopping frequently, hoping to find a calm place to wait out the approaching fire storm that we all knew wasn’t far behind us. What we found was a turn in the road, a small beach, and a rocky scree slope. According to the eye in the sky that was flying over us and the man behind the wheel, this was that safe place, that harbor where we could wait out and hopefully just watch the fire pass.
Before we even stepped out of the van it seemed that the whole thing had broken down. There was a reluctant crew boss and two squad leaders amongst us. It seemed that all three of them had different ideas, and no one was sure who to follow. I leaned into the shadows a bit, took a few steps out of my body and watched the whole scene unravel.

Thom Taylor, my squad leader looked at the trees around us, and suggested we take a saw to them. Elreese, the crew boss, waived it off as overreacting. He tried to reassure everyone that we would be fine here. He reminded us all of his time fighting the Yellowstone fires of 1988 and how they had been trapped and got to watch the fire burn right by them, but not over them. It was just like that time he suggested.

But we all knew he was wrong. Most of us were rookies, many were teenagers, but all knew that the shit was going to hit the fan. As the revelation of our predicament started to hit rock bottom, each person spun off into their world of survival distraction. Some clumped up with friends, others gathered around Tom Craven, the squad boss from Naches, and some just stared at the fire column that was growing and heading our way.

I looked up the scree slope to where my squad boss had positioned himself and wondered what he was doing up there. From the little I knew of him, I had a sense that he knew fire and that perhaps he was in the right place. I glanced at the other Tom, and some of the young crew that gathered about him like he was some messiah. They sat on some boulders above the rocks and I heard him say with calm assurance, “Worry when I start to worry. I’m not worrying right now.” That was enough for me to know that those rocks weren’t where I wanted to be. As I contemplated place and time, I felt a panic welling up from the heels of my boot up to my throat and beyond. Things were going to get worse. I had to find a place to hunker down. My gut was saying stay on the road, just sit down and wait. However, my most comforting moments come from when I’m on the move-walking, biking, bussing…I just need to move sometimes.

Anywhere but the road would have killed me so I looked for an anchor. I patted myself down, looking for my safety blanket that’s never too far away. I found a small journal I had used to take fire notes on in my shirt pocket. I got a pen out and went back in time. I wanted to write about how this had all happened, when it had started, how all this madness had come to be. When the pen hit the paper, scraggly words poured the story out. But time was racing against me, and before I could sink my teeth into the prologue, black embers started falling from the sky. They had traveled almost a mile from the fire that was starting to pick up speed and ferocity as it tore its way up the canyon. I started jumping through time, hoping that my writing would catch up to the present and somehow document the intensity that was unfolding all about me.

By the time I got to the now, the sound of burnt fir needles bouncing off of hard hats sounded like hail on a cold northwest morning. Then a few glowing orange embers got mixed in the downpour and started burning my hands and neck. I brushed them aside at first and continued to write into the now time. I looked up and saw the sky darken, and the glowing embers transform into a fiery snow. It was almost beautiful.
As the sky went from black to red, I drained the last few words I could from my head to the pen to the paper, and put it back into my pocket. I took a few photos, hunkered down next to a couple of fellow firefighters, and waited for the brunt of the storm to hit us.

A moment before I wrapped myself into my fire shelter, I saw spot fires starting down canyon. Those floating embers were lighting up piles of dry branches and leaves. Soon the slopes were dotted by what seemed like dozens of campfires. The last human voice I heard before going into my shelter was Elreese’s as he said to get our shelters out and cover our buddies. The sky was falling fire, and I briefly covered both him and myself with a shelter. It was a futile and rather stupid idea that lasted about 15 seconds.

Super heated air and gases hit us with the force of a small tornado and convinced me that it would be better to die in my shelter then sharing it like a beach blanket with my boss. I struggled from a prone position to get into my shelter-something I had never trained to do. Getting up seemed like an insane idea. Just a few feet of elevation seemed to be the difference between life and death, and I wanted to cling on to life for at least a few more moments. Had a few things I needed to say.
By the time I had twisted and wiggled myself into the shelter, flame lengths of over 200’ were just across the small river and bending their way over us. Before they struck, hurricane winds hit us. Trees and branches came crashing down all about us. It felt as if the gods from above were reaching down trying to pull off my shelter. I spread myself out and channeled every ounce of muscle strength I had to hold my shelter down.

When the winds passed, I heard the first screams from above and knew that death was in our camp. As I struggled to get my shelter fully spread out, I started hyperventilating. The fire was on us now, and two bushes outside my shelter caught on fire. They were burning my elbows, and all I could see were specks of orange flame glowing through the pin holes of my shelter. As I gasped for air, I felt my insides starting to burn. I realized this is how you die from a fire. You burn from the insides first, before the flames ever get to your skin.

The air was too hot in my shelter. I knew that I would die if I kept breathing the way I was breathing, and understood that the mix of heat and gases in the air was set on killing a few of us. I could still hear an occasional cry from above and from a few of the shelters around me as the fire raged on all around us.

When I felt the presence of death in my own shelter an epic argument began. I screamed silently into that dark air, that dark place, that dark feeling, “It’s not my time death! I have things I’m supposed to do.” I argued. I screamed. I cried. As the darkness grew deeper, my argument changed. I thought of my dad and step mom and how they had just lost her father. I figured that two deaths in such a short time were too harsh, too unfair for them. I thought I had a couple of good arguments, but still felt its presence in my shelter. I knew I was breathing too deep, and that I was arched to high above the ground.

So I went to the dirt for air, hoping to find something cooler, something that might chase death out of my shelter. It still wasn’t cool enough. I dug my hands into the dirt road, desperately trying to dig deeper, to find cooler air. My nails broke and my lungs kept burning. Then after a long stretch and wiggle about, I found my leatherman, opened it up to the pliers and started digging deep into the earth. After a few jabs, I would cup the hole with both hands and take a breath of the earthy, cool air. I dug and breathed, dug and breathed. Somewhere along the way death left, and the fire burned over us and continue its rage up the canyon. After what seemed like hours, I heard a voice commanding us to jump into the river.

I had been wedged between the thin veil of life and death for some time now, and felt it was hard to snap out of the rhythm that had just saved my life. I was in shock, but had enough sense to question if leaving the safety of our shelters made sense. By the time I staggered out of my twisted and burned shelter, I watched the last of my crew jump over a burning log into a small channel of the river. As I untangled myself, the two civilians that had been trapped with us, asked if I was ok. I think I nodded and staggered with them to the burning log. I remember watching them both go over and especially remember the woman placing her hands into the flames as she propelled her body over the log. I was the last one into the river.
Its icy contrast seemed the perfect remedy to the firestorm that had just torn through us. There was a sense of joy, survivors bliss in the air. People were laughing, a few jokes were floating about and everything seemed good until Thom’s sober voice shut us up and started a role call. We were missing some people and that quieted down the jokes.

At this point I was sharing my shelter with Rebecca who had giver hers up to the civilians. We were all still hunkering under the shelters, unsure of the air around us, and if the fire would be making another run. As the somber reality that some of us were unaccounted for, we had time to feel the icy waters that were soon bringing on the first stages of hypothermia.

I suggested to Rebecca that we embrace one another to keep ourselves warm. She had been burned on half of her body and started complaining about the burns and panicking about her friends that were missing. To comfort her and my own uneasiness around the instability of our situation, I started telling her the story of Ernest Shackelton and The Endurance.

When I was working for the Alaska State Parks, I remember one of my cold weather survival trainings. It consisted of my boss telling us the story of The Endurance. His point was, if you want to live, you can live. He had all kinds of evidence that suggested people survived because they really, really wanted to. It was all about will power, and it left its mark, its memory on me.

So, I started telling her the story of the Endurance, and I could tell it was working. She calmed down a bit and started listening to my teeth chattering rendition. I rambled on until the chattering of my teeth and the deep desperate breaths I was gasping overcame my ability to make consistent sounds come out of my mouth. Shortly after that, Thom commanded us all to get out of the river and head up to the small beach that ran parallel with the river.

Within a few moments of getting out of the water, we heard the eerie crunching and crackling of a large tree branch breaking off and watched it fall into the water where half the crew had just been. A 30 foot section of an ancient tree had broken off and the rest of it was leaning our way. It was still on fire and didn’t look like it had much life in it before it would fall. We started shuffling about to safer ground until we heard a loud Boom! Then another, Boom! It sounded like bombs were exploding. We looked behind us and saw the civilian’s truck engulfed in flames. Two of the tires had just exploded, and after a few seconds the other two went off.

One of the bosses said something about turning our backs to the potentially exploding truck and covering our backsides with our shelters. I think the theory was that it would be better to get exploding shrapnel in our backsides rather than front sides. It made sense. However, we had to turn our backs on the leaning, breaking, engulfed in fire old growth tree as well. Rebecca and I were still sharing the shelter, and crept up to the edge of the river. I suggested we jump into the river and take our chances floating through the unknown, rather than wait for a tree to fall onto us or a truck to explode into us. Just as she was warming up to the idea, we were rescued.

Out of the lingering grey smoke that still clung to the road and cracked boulders, we heard voices, then saw the bright helmets and yellow fire shirts of the Eniat Hot Shots poking their way towards us.

Ever since word of our entrapment had reached the crews on the other side of the fire, a rescue team had been logging their way to us. The fire swept through the canyon like a hurricane. It uprooted hundreds of trees, threw them all about, and sprayed them across the road. The rescue crew had to cut dozens of trees to drive their way into us. It took an hour and a half before they reached us, but their timing was impeccable.

Just as I was readying myself for a plunge into the river, into the unknown, I heard them shouting from the road. Their voices knocked us all out of a drunken stupor of hopelessness and inspired us to stagger our way back onto the road. Actions and words blurred from there.

It was smoky. Everything was grey or black. Nothing seemed alive. There was commotion up near the rocks, and I could just barely make out some burnt silver of someone’s shelter. “It’s too hot. I can’t get up there!” someone shouted. Then we were directed to get into the van. I was one of the first ones in, and just about fell over this burning shell of a man who was in one of the first rows of seats. It was Jason and I swear his hair was still smoking. He held his hands out like a zombie, and had a blank stare stretched across his face. It was a strange scene that took a turn for the wicked, when I noticed his hands. Most of his skin, muscles and tendons hand melted off his hands. But they were still just barely attached, like melted cheese, hanging delicately from the bones.

As we piled into the rig, one of the Eniat Hotshots who was an EMT jumped in to attend to Jason and his wounds. Turned out that Jason was also an EMT and remembered from his training that he was probably in shock. He figured it was better to be in the van rather than the water. He seemed extremely calm and collected for someone who had just melted both of his hands down to the bone.

Once the crew was all bundled into the van we drove back to the other squads. I thought it would take us a long drive to get there, but it was just a few minutes. We were never that far away, though it felt like we were landing onto a different planet.

When we stumbled out of the van, it was like we were a different species from the crews that had avoided the entrapment. The people on the safe side of the fire just watched us from a distance. Then news of the deaths trickled our way. I remember people calling out names of the fire fighters that were lost, and breaking down into tears. Some folks had people to hold. Others stumbled off into the trees to be alone. I wandered off somewhere in a stupor and collapsed into hysterical tears until my body remembered that it was hypothermic and the icy cold water that was still lodged in my pockets began dripping back into my reality.

Alone, I went back to the van and dug through my war bag for some dry clothing. I bundled myself up, and went back into the woods. At some point I was intercepted by Pete, the crew boss in training. He had taken control again, and suggested that all of the survivors write down what had happened for the investigators. We were then told that we would have to wait for several hours before leaving the site.
Apparently the police had to come and verify that people had died or something like that.

I dug through my pack looking for something else to write on, since my trusty pocket journal was now soaked. I ripped a tattered brown grocery bag into small pieces, and started writing everything I could remember. ‘How did we get here? Why did this happen? Who were the people who died? What was it I felt in that shelter?’ were the first questions I tried to answer. It was the start of a scribble that went on for months, as the reality of what had happened and the cover up that was carefully being prepared and layered became clear.

I hunkered down in that mad world for as long as they would let me stay. I mounted my trusty steed of righteousness and charged repeatedly into bureaucracies, old boy networks, and dysfunctional macho man personality disorders. I won a few battles, and did manage to make my voice heard once or twice over the disturbing cacophony of Uncle Sam’s fire machine.

Despite threats and bribes from the Forest Service, I did everything I could think of to make sure the story got told correctly, changes in firefighter training occurred, and the families of the victims had someone they could talk to who wasn’t afraid of telling the whole truth.

I rode a wave that held me up as a hero, a villain, a turn coat, and a celebrity. I pissed off all the good old boy supervisors on my district, but was quietly supported by a collection of old fire wizards who wanted nothing more than the truth to be told, and significant changes in the fire system to be made.

My boss Cary covered for me and kept me on the clock as I took federal vehicles to secret meetings with members of the press to tell the whole story and share my photos. Calls came in from different parts of the western states from fire supervisors that encouraged me to keep telling the truth. Envelopes with photos and investigation reports showed up in the mail for me.

The feds pushed me on a teeter totter that propped me up with dream job offerings in the federal system and pushed me down with the threat of going to jail for not turning over photos I had taken of the fire. I rode it as long as they let me.
I called every family up who lost someone in that fire and gave them free access to me, to my memories, to my photos, to my writings. I had dinner with parents who lost their children way too soon, and many late night conversations.

When the fall rains finally put out the fire season, I was coincidentally the first fire fighter to get laid off. I took a few souvenirs, and ran as fast as I could for that greyhound bus back over to the west side of the cascades. The last thing I saw as we humped over the pass were a series of bridges burning brightly, which caused me to smile, and think to myself, ‘my work here is done.’

Special Note: The following words are what I actually wrote in the journal just before deploying my shelter. I had to stop mid-sentence, then returned to finish the writing after the fire had passed.

July 10, 2001
Blackened pine and fir needles are falling on our heads. We've been cut off from our escape road, backed into a dead-end road (needles and ash are bouncing off my shirt, off this notebook).
The roar of the fire is getting louder, louder. The column twisting, several fires joined, it sounds like a tidal wave is coming our way. The sun is a bloody red, the smoke dark and high. The falling nettles sound like hail on a cold Northwest morning. The wind rips through the canyon, I watch the top of trees swaying violently from the high winds that the fire is creating. It's changing and twisting all around us
The beach and the creek are our last stand; we may be jumping in soon.
I hear a chopper, or is that just the roar of the fire rapidly coming upon us It's changing, rolling, screaming!!
I feel the heat, I smell the smoke. The sun is free of the tall column, sending dusty rays our way through the haze. Its close now, its close now!!!
Rolling right by us now, just across the little creek, the creek that may end up saving our lives.
Here it comes. Again the sun is covered, bright orange, then yellow, then red.
There is a strange calm, coolness in the air amongst the crew. For the first time, we can see the flames. Its licking, its rolling, its alive, its screaming at us!!!
There's a spot fire in the rock scree, just above us.
And now it's gray, here comes the flame again. It's snow…

If I could finish off those moments, it would go something like this:

It's snowing fire. A snowstorm of burning red embers is falling on us. I brush red-hot embers from the back of my neck and hair. The noise and wind are so intense I can hear nothing from the crew.
I unfold my shelter without thinking, and within seconds find myself curled in the fetal position, thinking, `Oh my God, how did this happen?'
I began to hyperventilate, sucked in some hot air, felt like I was going to die, confronted death, argued with it over my life, heard screaming. I fought the urge to jump out of my shelter, and felt the winds trying to rip it off me.

Then I felt as if I were being pelted by a thousand snowballs as a barrage of embers, broken tree branches and ash pelted the shelter. It came in several intense waves and at one point I thought surely I would be dead before this was all over. I thought about my family and friends and got lost momentarily in desperation.
Then I got out my Leatherman, started digging a hole and focused on getting as low to the ground as possible to suck the cool air from the hole.

This kept me focused until I heard the call to run for the creek. I stumbled with my shelter through the smoke and heat, jumped over a flaming log, and met my crew in the cold icy waters of the Chewuch River. We redeployed our shelters and spent the next 30 minutes up to our neck in those waters, not sure of what was happening all about us. I shared my tent with a fellow firefighter, and we spent most of the time embraced, assuring each other that we would survive this.

Eventually we were told to get onto the beach, where we had about one minute to feel safe. Suddenly, the loud boom of tires exploding met us, and we gazed at the civilians' truck, which was engulfed in flames. The tires were exploding one by one. We all thought the truck was going to explode into us. We heard the breaking of a tree and watched half of a burning tree break and fall on top of the shelters we had just been deployed in.

We backed into the waters of the creek, expecting the rest of the flaming tree to fall on us, and the truck to explode into us at any moment. Just when we thought the shit was really going to hit the fan, a truck with several firefighters showed up and yelled at us to get into the van, and get the hell out of there. They had logged out the road, and cleared a safe evacuation for us.

Rutman's account ends there. He has returned to work, stationed at Lake Wenatchee, where his primary assignment is on an engine crew. He offers this epilogue.
The four firefighters we left out there will forever be a part of us. I tell this story so the public can understand and empathize, and so my fellow firefighters can better understand what they may have to confront. I plan on returning to my duties and fighting for more safety training so others don't meet the same fate as Karen, Jessica, Tom and Devin.


Apocalypse Alaska

“Shot me right through my side,’ the old weathered Eskimo man said, as he pointed to a gnarled bunch of scar tissue that matched his story. We were both waiting for a bus that would take us to the outskirts of Anchorage and beyond. My fellow traveler had been in Vietnam and was telling me a story about how his tour of duty ended. He had the horrific luck of being wounded, then evacuated onto a medical helicopter, then shot off of the gurney as they transported him to the chopper.

It was midday and last night’s drunk had just about drained itself out of his system. His eyes sparkled a bit as he told me the story, and I hung to each word like a passenger staring at a horrible wreck on the freeway. I was enthralled and disgusted as he showed me scars, and gave me details about various organs that were damaged and destroyed as bullets tore into his flesh.

All this was compounded by the fact that I had just spend eight days in the backcountry of Alaska building trails in the most gorgeous lands I had known. On my first foray back into civilization, I watched Saving Private Ryan in the theatre and felt like I had just landed and waded my way through the beaches of Normandy. Now I had skipped a few wars, and was tromping my way through the jungles of Vietnam with a bus mate. It was a ruff start that needed one more push to get me over the abyss of sensory overload.


Talkeetna Blue Grass festival?

Alaska explodes into 24 hour mad, camp-out, multi-day music celebrations in the summer. Its Grateful Dead meets Road Warrior, and if you are in the right head space, it can be extraordinary.

When I stumbled into the Talkeetna Blue Grass Festival after a couple of hitches out of Anchorage, I thought I had taken a wrong turn. Leather clad, bearded, Hells ‘Angels motorcycle warriors stood guard at the entrance, and soon I found out that they were the hosts of this so-called bluegrass event, that seemed to have more blue gas tingeing the air, then bluegrass music.

Chainsaws were ripping down trees in the parking lot to make room for more camping, more people, more booze, and more drugs.

I staggered through it all to find my trail crew who supposedly had arrived the day before. By the time I found them, it was too late. They were a day ahead of me on their debaucherous journey into the rabbit’s hole, and I felt a strange distance from them and the whole scene that was unfolding.

As the day faded into a night that never was, the energy shifted and went into a higher level of parking lot mayhem. Rockets were launched over head, music turned up, drinks poured faster, and everyone was smoking something.

I hung with my crew and made several half-assed attempts to meet them somewhere on their horizons. That road led to the dance floor, and a few valiant attempts to find a rhythm and connect with a different energy. The dance moves never came to me, but I did bounce into Shioban and her friend the lion lady-who my crew had discovered earlier. Shioban was all sparkles, glowing with vitality, life, beauty, and all the things that make you happy to be alive. I fell under her spell, but above her radar and stayed a bit longer then I should have.

When the music stopped, I staggered back to the crew camp under a late night haze of smoldering fireworks, blasting sound systems, coughing chainsaws, and a thousand conversations. I hit rock bottom before arriving at the camp, and decided I had to leave. It had to be around 3am and nothing was slowing down. I felt like I was about to implode from all the mayhem, the culture shock, and the day’s earlier events.
I sketched a quick note to my friends about a possible rendezvous site in Denali National Park, and hit the Parks Highway just as the rains began. Tricked by the light in the sky, I figured I could catch a hitch and get as far away from this strange place as possible.

After wandering an hour with no cars in site, I looked again at my watch and realized it was almost breakfast time. I was exhausted, in the middle of nowhere, and surrounded by deep, lush forest, that looked darker and scarier then I had remembered.

Intimidated by the unknown, I decided to play it safe and went to sleep in what I found out to be a road drainage ditch that paralleled the highway. I woke up a few hours later in the midst of a downpour and was caught up in a small river that flowed through and over what I had been calling my bed.

Everything was soaked, spirits were down, but an idea was percolating, and like the smell of coffee after a ruff night, tricked me into believing everything would be all right.

Just the year before, I had worked in the giant machinery of Aramark Industries, which was an 800 person operation that ran all the workings at Denali National Park. I had been a pizza slinger at Lynx Creek Pizzeria, and had a glimpse into how the gears worked, and how they could work for me.

So, I decided to put on my best game face, walk into human resources, and walk out with a job-which in my world, translated into a warm cabin and access to the all you can eat employee kitchen.

I didn’t need the job, or want the job, but I figured I could buy myself a few days rest and relief while my friends partied their gourds out down at the Hells’ Angels event.

House Keeping

I never thought of myself as the house keeping type. But, that was what was available, and somehow I made a convincing argument that I was their guy…and really the only guy. Within minutes, I was issued a cafeteria card, a cabin, and a uniform. I was back in action!

My first plans involved a major laundry load and a gorging at the employee cafeteria that involved copious amounts of salmon and halibut.

I found my employee cabin, and to my delight was told that my roommate was out of town for the next week. I had the place to myself, until I crossed paths again with Shioban and her friend the lioness.

They were twirling juggling sticks, and dancing in the sunshine when I saw them at the gates of the park. I fell in love again, and approached them with caution and a swirling sense of excitement. The stars were lining up and I had this feeling that something exciting was going to happen.

I queried them, cornered them, lassoed at least one of them, and before I knew it, I had two new roommates. I fed them and myself with my coveted employee id card and managed to avoid work for the first day with a couple of worn out excuses.

I holed up in bed with Shioban, and without saying much of a word, found myself caught up in the sweet web she had spun all about the place. The first night she landed in my bunk bed, with the lioness taking over the vacant roommate’s bed. The place was big enuff for four, and we reveled in it. When the lights finally went out, Shioban and I gravitated towards each other’s lips, and the beginning of my most memorable traveler’s romance. When she opened her legs, I went down on the sweetest, wettest pussy I had known up till that moment, and made her squirm with delight. The lioness woke up, cracked an eye my way, and smiled. I was in heaven.

The pounding on the door the next morning, wasn’t in the script I had been following. My new “boss” wanted to know why I hadn’t showed up to “work”. He didn’t realize I was just here on vacation, so I made up another excuse, told him to leave us alone, and shut the door on his way out.

I rustled a few more plates of food for me and my new housemates from the employee cafeteria, and waited for the good old boys from the south to rally themselves from the Bluegrass festival, and show up for the adventure that we had planned several weeks before.

Wal-Mart Rafts

It was a simple idea that at the time didn’t cause any of us to pause in the cautious reflection that I have since learned to practice. Atilla, our Hungarian leader, suggested we buy rubber rafts from Wal-Mart, reinforce them with duct tape, hike in the backside of Denali National Park, and raft a wild, glacier fed river out to the front side of the park. We had survived a few earlier trips, and were itching for a new adventure. Apparently, Atilla had got the idea, and a number of other ones from an old National Geographic magazine article that featured a couple of reckless adventurers that had done all kinds of crazy trips involving rafts that were much better then what Wal-Mart provided us with. Even with that gear, they had almost died a few times.

My tent mate Miles was from Alabama, and game for anything. He had three knives, the best manners I had ever seen (he said more Pleases and Thank Yous in one sentence that I did in a day), and was certifiably crazy. He had stabbed himself in the heart once before (bad mushroom trip?), and lived so deeply and madly in the moment, that you couldn’t help but get a buzz from him if you were standing nearby.
The rest of the boys were from Virginia, and had been recruited like me, by their old friend Atilla. We were a crack squad of idiot adventurers, high on Alaska, off from our parks job for eight days, and itching to spend some wild time in the national park-backdoor style.

By the time my trail crew showed up, my charm and luck with Aramark Industries had just about worn off. I managed to hole them up in my cabin and fill everyone’s bellies with one last fine meal from the employee cafeteria. My fifth time around with two plates must have tipped someone off, because the next knock that came on the door didn’t have any southern hospitality.

It was security, and my number was up. I had been fired and was given specific instructions on how my termination would be carried out.

The timing was good, so we decided to start our adventure then and there, and walked into the backcountry. Our packs were full, rafts were attached to the sides, and we had two lovely additions to our adventure party.

The girls had decided they liked what they saw, and were interested in an adventure as well. They planned to walk out the river while we rafted it. I was elated and found myself playing house (tent) with the beautiful Shioban every night. The lioness fell for our mighty leader Atilla, and off we all went into an adventure that had been sketchily planned out on a few pieces of scrap paper.

The boys were still sweating out the drunken world of Talkeetna, so the going was slow at first. Atilla found us a route into the backside of the park, circumnavigating the tight restrictions that the feds put on it. We spent several days bushwhacking through dense vegetation in the lower elevations. There were no trails, and our only guide was the river. We sang songs in honor of the grizzly and black bears that roamed this backcountry, leaving highways of paw prints in the muddy flats of the river. We figured if they knew we were heading their way, they’d get out of the way.

When we finally busted through the brush and into the high tundra, spirits were high. We had all suffered a number of scratches, bumps, and bruises as we tripped our way for days through the tangle of brush below us. Up in the high country was another world. The only thing that grew were the ankle high shrubs that Alaskans referred to as the Tundra. Most of the ground beneath their shallow roots was permanently frozen, leaving only a small amount of soil and minerals to hang to. The snows were epic, and fell year round. As far as the eye could see, were the huge, snow-capped, wind worn glaciated peaks of the Alaska Mountain Range. Denali was the crown jewel, and peaked above its comrades at a height just over 20,000 feet. It was gorgeous and we all fell in love with the change of scenery and the proximity of the next phase of our adventure.

I was lost in that moment until I noticed that my raft was no longer attached to my pack. I searched madly for it, thinking perhaps I had relocated it, or maybe it had just fallen off within eyesight. Frantically I scanned the grounds as far as I could see, hoping it would be visible. My mind flashed over the terrain from the previous days-the stumbling, the tripping, and the sticks that poked and scratched everything. It didn’t take long for me to figure out what had happened, and my stomach dropped out of my guts into the disappointing tangle below. I knew it was back there, way back there. Having no trail to follow, made the idea of a search party pretty ridiculous.

Naively, I had planned to raft out with my crew and didn’t bring a whole lot of food. We figured we would cover several days of walking in just a few hours of rapid river movement. I ached with sadness and regret, until I looked over at Shioban and her tangled blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and big smile just for me. Things could be worse, I imagined and smiled back.

The Southern boys continued on with the mission, and I parted ways to walk out with the ladies. We trekked through the most gorgeous country, but really had no idea how far away we were from the park roads that would get us out. We combined our food, and realized that the rations were meager.

Peanut Butter Blues

The first night we shared a bag of top ramen, a few bits of chocolate, and the dusted remains of some stale trail mix that had lived on for one too many days. But the sex kept at least Shioban and me going and distracted from the evening pings and pains of hunger. We were in the midst of traveler’s love. We may not have been in love with each other, but we were certainly in love with the same moment together, and we loved those moments up to their fullest.

The next day we rode fumes, and arrived to another camp with even less grub to share. It was a miserable night that involved the splitting of two fig bars three ways. I felt like I had failed my comrades, since I had the least to share. I vowed to the gods that night, that I would always have extra food strategically placed in my pack.

On our third day of this adventure that was unraveling into a tragic-comedy, we came across a couple from Israel having a picnic by the river. We stumbled into their camp, put on our best charm, and were offered the most delicious bagels and peanut butter I had ever tasted. Savoring the sweet and crunchy yumminess of the peanut butter, I made another vow to the gods that I would never again be without peanut butter in the back country.

We found out from our new friends that were just a few miles from the road and a free bus ride back to the park entrance. On the bus ride out we saw 12 grizzly bears and the most magnificent grey wolf that had stopped on a ridge to admire the setting sun.

There wasn’t much of a rendezvous plan with the southern men, but we of course crossed paths with them again and had a chance to swap stories. They were all lucky to be alive, with only one out of four rafts surviving the adventure. The river they had attempted to ride was swift, cold, and dangerous in the all the mysterious ways rivers can be. Hidden strainers, massive boulders, and deep channels, were just a few of those mysteries that tempted their fate and swallowed their rafts. They too had spent much of the time walking their way out with limited food resources.

Outlaw

Lingering aches in our bellies inspired me to test the waters one last time with my employee food card. This time, however, we pushed the envelope a little too far. We were short for time, had to hitch our way back to Whittier, and knew every moment was precious. So, like a pack of confident cowboys, we walked our dusty selves confidently into the cafeteria, threw our packs in a corner, and took a table during the rush hour of lunch. I activated my card, filled up plates of food, and delivered them to my comrades until security showed up again.

By this time, I had become a known entity on the compound and was escorted out of the cafeteria by a firm grip on the shoulder by one of the security guards. Figuring I would be getting another warning and slap on the hand I played along with this new character. As we walked out, he got on his walkie-talkie and called for the police. I was being reported for criminal trespass and thievery, and this time no one was smiling.

I was in a jam, and when a moment of distraction caught my captor’s eyes, I wiggled free of the shoulder hold and ran as fast as I could back to a friend’s cabin where my trusty backpack awaited. I lost the security amongst the dozens of employee cabins, caught my breath, mounted my pack, and wired a message to my crew via a friend from the year before.

When the horizon appeared safe and clear, I made a run up the hill and landed safely at Lynx Creek Pizza. A firm bridge was still in place there, and I used it to fill my hands with a couple of slices of pizza before giving one last farewell hug to an adventure that had done me so well.

I found my travelling companions a few miles down the road and took my place in one of the most ridiculous hitchhiking scenarios I had ever seen. There were six dust crusted men and two gorgeous, though slightly faded woman all standing with thumbs in the air. Scattered about the road were large internal backpacks, piles of sticks, canteens, and few other random items strewn about. It was a scene, but this was Alaska, and it didn’t take too long for things to fall in place.

A few cars pulled over and broke the group into smaller pieces. We said farewells, made plans to meet up on the train back to Whittier, and started the long bumpy ride back to work. I stayed as close to Shioban as possible. Our ride dropped us off for the night along the Talkeetna River. I set my tent up, and had one last night with a woman who for many years burned bright and lived long in my heart.

She mounted me a little before dawn, her wild, almost dredded hair flying about, and tears streaming down her face. I thought I had hurt her, and tried to wipe the tears away. But her face turned to a smile, the tears rolled down to her breasts, dropped onto my face, as she told me not to fall in love with her. ‘This is just now,’ she said. ‘We will never meet again, just love this moment, this night with me.’ It was too late, she already had my heart; but I agreed to follow her instructions and loved her as long as I could that night, and for many lonely nights after we had parted.










Ghost Taxi

The lions of the Serengeti are no different than the bandits who lurk on the outskirts of airports and other transportation hubs in developing nations. They lurk in shadows, calculate the odds, and carefully watch the passer-bys. They pay close attention to who is sick, who is old, who is weak…and ultimately, who would be easiest to chase, tackle, and eat.

After a 24 hour mad dash from the burning highways of Quito, Ecuador to the sweat clogged streets of San Jose, Costa Rica, I became that sick, old, weak prey that came stumbling out of the airport doors at high noon. Any other day, any other airport and I would be navigating through public transportation and making my way into the city on local time. But, I was in a hurry. I had to meet my mom and step dad in Guatemala, which was three countries and a couple of days by bus from where I now stood. Every moment would be crucial as I mapped out the hopping of buses and border crossings that would consume my next 48 hours. If I did everything right, I would show up right on time at the airport in Guatemala with a “Welcome to Guatemala!” sign and hug.

To manifest this vision, I opted for the quickest, easiest, and first transport that appeared to me: a taxi. I figured this would get me straight to the bus terminal, and that much closer to Guatemala. When I jumped in, there was a driver and a woman sitting in the front passenger seat. They both seemed nice, so I relaxed a bit into the back seat. Immediately, we picked up another guy who sat next to me. He seemed well dressed and it all seemed to fit for the place and time.

As we puttered off with a full boat, I made a little chit chat, but was met mostly with icy stares and indifference. When we steered off the main road, I sensed, even through my fatigued and frayed wiring, that something was amiss here.

When I questioned the driver, the guy next to me explained to me that we were taking a “short cut” to avoid paying the toll charges on the main road. This helped me relax a few degrees back into the seat, but the feeling didn’t linger for long.
We got caught in traffic, somewhere on the outskirts of town. Peering about, I tried to analyze my surroundings and get a sense of the scene that was unraveling faster than I could decipher. Steel boxes and cracked windshields covered my immediate vision. I noticed the housing up on washed out hills. They were shanties that started out with concrete blocks and ended in tarps and cardboard boxes.

I questioned the driver again, but this time was met by fierce arguing amongst the crew of the cab. I just wanted to know where we were going and when we would be there. As their rapid fire and heated conversation blasted out the last bits of calm air in the cab, I started to get nervous.

“You know, you can just let me out here” I suggested. The response was a switch, and then a locking sound that came from the cockpit and ricocheted about the taxi. I noticed that there was no way to manually open my lock on account of some careful monkey wrenching that had been done.
My eyes darted about the cabin, searching for an angle, for an escape. I figured I could break a window, but then what. Maybe I could scream and inspire someone stuck in traffic to rescue me was another idea that passed through my cob webbed mind in the last seconds of traffic we sat in.

When the congestion thinned out, I knew matters were out of my hands. The crew continued to argue, sometimes yelling at one another as they took a few more fast slices onto roads that changed names faster than I could translate. When we crossed over from asphalt to dirt, I ventured a query into the stressed out environment. “Where was the bus station?” I naively asked. One of the companions, obviously enjoying the ruse, said we were approaching the back side of it where there was less traffic. I knew it was bullshit, took a deep breath, and steadied myself for something that all my spidey senses were telling me was going to be bad.

As the car came to a sudden halt, my smooth talking neighbor choked his hands around my neck in a move that was perfectly timed with the lady in the front. She leaned back, and pinned my arms to their side with an unexpected ferocity. The man who was slowly crushing my Adam’s apple with his thumbs said something along the line of, ‘give us all your money or we will kill you.’ As he said this, the third musketeer quickly patted me down in search of treasure and loot. He found my wallet immediately, but to his dismay, there was only a $20 bill and an Oregon driver’s license in it. Patting me down, he searched madly at first, then reluctantly as his hands crossed the southern line of my equatorial zone. His macho ways guided his previous steady hands into a not so thorough search of where he imagined a money belt might be resting.

Fortunately, the belt had slipped deeper south then either of us had expected. Coming up empty handed, he looked at me crossly. Quickly, I pointed to my over-loaded internal frame back pack, and explained that all the loot was in there. He glanced it over, and accepted the deflection without a fight.

When the pat down came to an end, another flurry of fast jabbing Spanish bounced and stabbed its way about the cabin, leaving me in the dark for most of the conversation.

The result was the speeding up of the car, the opening of my door, and four rough hands pushing me out of the moving vehicle.

I resisted the pushing hands, and bought myself a few seconds of think time. I anchored my ass into the seat, and lunged for the small backpack that I carried my essentials in. With one hand countering the push, I put up a decent battle for the bag that held my South American journals and five rolls of slide film I had taken during months of high living and adventuring. The cargo was special, and I fought hard. The strangler had two hands available and once he jumped into the battle, I knew I couldn’t win.

But, he was distracted, and in a flash of what was probably my most brilliant moment during this whole mess, I let go of the bag, grabbed my passport and got pushed out of the now coasting vehicle.

Placing my left foot out first, I was quickly tripped up, pushed out, and run over. As the wheel rolled over my foot, I wiggled out of the loose laces, and managed to hobble out on one foot as the car ran over my left-boot.

When the dust had settled, I was on the ground, and quickly lacing up the slightly deformed boot. Like some mad hyena, my eyes darted about looking for something to smash that car with. I found two rocks, swiped them up, and ran like a lunatic after the now speeding car. I ached for a clear shot, and wanted to break the windows and anything else I could get in my aim.

The dirt road abruptly teed into an asphalt road, and the now obvious ghost taxi roared off. I panted my way to the edge, hoping to get off at least one shot. But, the madness had worn off just enough for logic to rain in on me, and give up at least one pipe dream. This of course, made room for another.

At the junction, a man sat on an idling motorcycle. I approached him, carefully dropped the rocks, and explained to him what had just happened. I tried to hire him into being my driver on what would be an epic crusade of justice. I picked up the rocks and explained to him that he could get me close to the car, and I would throw rocks at it. Of course, we would knock the car off the road, and tear into it like a pack of wolves hungry for revenge. I would give him some money, or at least an opportunity at some glory or something like that. He looked at me like I had just escaped from an institution, snapped a quick “No!” and buzzed off on his steel ride before I could counter-offer. I watched the ghost taxi fade off into the horizon, and what could have been my hero steering his ride in the opposite direction.

I calculated a variety of scenarios as I kicked dust, pulled out my hair, jumped up in the air, and slapped myself about in frustration and self-loathing. I could report the incident to the police. I could go to the embassy. I could buy a gun, and hunt down the ghost taxi. Or…I could just let it go. A few rounds on the merry go round of logic made it pretty obvious, so off I went to go find my mom.

I dug into my pockets, checked my money belt, and made plans to get out of these funky outskirts of town before the sunset. I hopped a city bus, explained I had no money to pay, and started a rocky love affair with the goodness of human beings one strange event at a time.

Within 24 hours, I had purchased a new backpack, some underwear and socks, and most importantly, a journal. I spent long hours bouncing through Central America, writing, and thinking about life and all of her surprises. I was a day and night behind schedule, and several sketchy border crossings away from meeting up with the folks, at what would now be our Plan B Rendezvous Site.

About half way through the trip, I found myself again at the crossroads of faith in humanity. Through a miscalculation, or perhaps my subconscious yearning for danger, I arrived late at the border crossing between Honduras and El Salvador. The hot night dripped with danger, as I gingerly stepped my way across the bridge that separated these two counties. During the day, this border would be steaming with people and action. I would pay a few cents for a bike carriage ride, and be off on another portion of the trip. But, at night, the whole thing comes to a grinding halt. The lights are out, the bugs are on, and the glaring eyes I see in the shadows, unfortunately are not crocodiles.

My wits were already pretty worn down, and I could sense that once again I was that wounded, old animal; hobbling about in the lightest part of the night, acutely aware that there were several predators lurking in the shadows with much better eye site then mine. And sharper teeth.

With nothing much left to lose, I figured a late night hitch couldn’t be
much worse than the fate that was lounging about in the shadows. I stuck out my thumb like so many times before, said a quick prayer to the gods and left it up to Zeus and his fickle temper once again.

That ride got my out of a jam, into another, and full of pupusas before it was all said and done. He was a nice guy, who may have had the wrong idea and perhaps intention. I flared out my most macho heterosexual signals and scents, and the scene unraveled under the safe lights of a pupusaria instead of a destination of his choosing-which was offered.

With a full belly and the easing of sexual tension through good conversation, communication, and food; my new friend guided me towards a safe hotel to spend the night in, and the promise of a friendship for life. I accepted that offer, and recharged my batteries for one last long push into Guatemala City and the search for my mother and step dad.

The Baja 2000

The Baja 2000


Whittier-

The first time she caught my attention was in the post office of the small, strange, surreal town of Whittier, Alaska. To arrive in this twilight zone, you had to take a train through a mountain and several dimensions of reality.

Upon arrival, you find a city that is barely 50 years old and that up until recently had no road access. It was created by the U.S. Army during World War II as one of its "secret ports" and most of the older buildings date back to its days as an Army post. The majority of the population live in one of these building called the Begich tower, which used to be the tallest building in Alaska. The town was built to house 30,000 people at its peak. Now there are only 300 characters calling this place home year round and of course the wayward characters like me that worked here seasonally.

Located in the towers were all the essentials to a thriving ghost town. You could find the library (open with very limited hours), the mayor’s office (never saw him), a bowling alley (it was broken), and the post office (where I met Sunny).

I loved the post office. I wrote to friends from various adventures along the way and eagerly looked forward to hearing back from them. It was one of the highlights of my “city days,” when we were in port after spending 8 days in the backcountry.

That summer I found myself again working for the Alaska State Parks and living some of the best months of my life in the backcountry of Alaska. Between stunning wilderness experiences, forging new friendships, learning how to build trails, and running into beautiful woman in strange, exotic places, I was convinced this was a slice of heaven on this bread of earth I danced on during the summers.

Sunny was a kayak guide, the daughter of our “boss”, stunningly gorgeous, and absolutely bonkers (as I would find out later in the episode). Her real father was a native, and she had all the beautiful characteristics that ran rich in that blood line. He, however, was not in the picture, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Her “adopted” father was a big dog in the state park command and we all respected that from a distance. At least at first…

When I saw her in the post office I felt like I had been knocked off my horse. The combination of light, lust, and a deep hunger for a woman zipped and zapped its way through my body like a course of electricity looking to blow a part of me out of the way so it could escape.

I didn’t say anything to her in that brief moment, but some ancient communication unfolded and I knew it wouldn’t be long until a series of events linked us between here and a tent on a late summer night.

She was like a wolf. She wrapped herself around me and rolled me several times in our sleeping bag, out of the tent, and into a meadow. It was late summer, which was really early fall, or for us lower 48 types, early winter.

We were at one of her favorite places in the Chugach Mountains just north of Anchorage. I had quit my job early, just as the torrential rains were soaking in, and was living the good life. My boss had issues with this decision, but quickly balked when he found out who I was going to be spending my time with. Unspoken, I felt like he said, ‘great, have fun, show her a good time. It’s the boss’s daughter!’

Her crazy ways had the perfect balance to the summer, and I rolled with it, and with her. I had no idea to what depth her madness lived and before we parted ways we made plans to meet up in Oregon, and go to Baja for New Years Eve, 2000.

A few weeks out of Alaska and submersion back into university life sobered me up a bit. When I finally met up with Sunny, I could see the cracks in her shell, and the mad light that was starting to spill out. Her thoughts bounced around like bits of popcorn, and I tried my best to hunker down into her tractor beam and make sense of the strangeness that dribbled from her lips.

They were sweet yummy lips that I was eager to taste again. I think that got in the way of a few layers of logic, and before long, and despite a thousand and one warning signs, I fell back into a pattern with her. Of course she was in love with someone else as well, and that was quite the distraction. But the rains were coming, and she was going to Mexico. I had the time and nothing better to do, so off we went.

All of us: Sunny, her beautiful malamute puppy dog, me, and all my bullshit. It was a hastily laid plan that was spilled out over a night of wine, sex, and arguing. Luckily we had a map of the Baja that my step father Mike had written years of adventuring and discovery on the peninsula into.

The map helped us find sweet camping spots well off the beaten path. But they did nothing for the mounting tension, dysfunction, and escalating weirdness that were filling up the space between Sunny and me.

Seemed the only cure was a nighttime drowning into Ballenas- giant 40 ounce bottles of beer. We fell into a ritual of making camp, eating food, drinking large quantities of beer, and fucking like a couple of mad hyenas.

Up until our last night before hitting the bottom of baja, and the bottom of our downward spiral, her squirrely malamute puppy had been nothing but a good charm. At multiple military checkpoints, the young men with big guns were in awe of this beautiful, sky blue eyed puppy that looked like an arctic wolf. Instead of a series of demanding, suspicious, stabbing questions about what we were doing and where we were going; we were instead met with the sweet side of human nature.

The boys in green put their weapons down, gathered around the car, and took turns petting the sweet puppy from the north. They asked all kinds of curious questions, and looked more like a pack of school boys, than army soldiers with an attitude. The dog charmed its way thru every checkpoint and we rallied behind its cuteness, and almost bonded back into a dysfunctional family. I was a big fan of this puppy until that last night.

Puppy Love-

We must have been under a full moon spell. Or maybe it was the tequila. We tore into each other with a passion that was almost sweet. Then I ripped her underwear, she screamed with delight, and our mad animal spirits took over. We tumbled to the ground, rolled around on the sand until all of our clothing had been torn off. She was dripping wet when I entered her- I remember her juices running down her legs, down my mouth, onto my fingers. She was about to explode and I rode every precious moment I could. We were lost in the moment, drunk under the moon, fucking like we were possessed by some wild, carnal spirit.

When I felt a tongue in my ass, I thought momentarily that this woman was absolutely amazing. Somehow she had flexed in some gravity defying way to access that special place that most men don’t like to talk about. It was a new experience, but seemed to fit right into the night. Then the tongue was on my balls, and a few physics calculations told me something wasn’t lining up here. When I looked back, under my own legs, I saw the puppy. He was excited, he was inspired, he wanted to be a part of this, and all of a sudden we had a three-some.

It was a hot moment that I didn’t want to ruin, so I tried to slyly kick the puppy away from the scene. Sunny wiggled underneath me, completely oblivious to her mischievous dog and his curious ways. She was on the way to an explosive moment that I wanted to keep intact as long as possible. I changed my focus back to her, lowered my kicking legs, and figured a good kick had taught him a lesson about place and time.

It must have been Sunny’s cries, or maybe he was just moved by the carnal memories that ran deep in his DNA, for once again the puppy wanted in on it, and he went straight for my ass.

I tried to fuck and kick at the same time. A few minutes stretched into several lifetimes and one little death as we both came and collapsed into the sands. It was one of those powerful, bonding; I think I am in love with you moments. And that is about exactly how long the feeling lasted. We held each other on the sand, and I tried to forget about the strange ways of her puppy. It was the last night of any semblance of sweetness between us, and I tried to soak up every last drop of it.


Not My Drama-

When the dust settled and dawn had washed away the night, we realized we were almost in Cabo. It would be a few more hours of driving and then we would be at the tip of the peninsula. The where and why part of the trip that had been skipped over in previous discussions starting bubbling, or perhaps boiling to the surface. Turns out that Sunny’s ex-boyfriend, the love of her life, was living and working down here- with his girlfriend.

Before long, I got caught up in this drama as it got played out in our first encounters. I was that guy, at that party, who was kissed by that girl, who was hoping that other guy would see. It was a scene right out of a movie, so familiar, so dirty. I only let that one play out once, before I walked off the set.

Our next stumbling was at a dinner party arranged for the “two couples.” I sat with the dude’s present girlfriend and tried my best to console her as she burst into tears over this mad twist of fate that was tearing apart her world. As I started to fathom the dimension and details of what was going on, a sick feeling washed over me and the beautiful scenery that should have been paradise, but instead felt like a prison.

I backed out of the house, out of the drama, and back onto the beach. Reality crashed into Sunny like a massive freight train. I caught up with her and a box of booze on New Year’s Eve on the beach. We fucked one last time; she rolled off of me, and down the beach to meet some other guy.

I lay under the stars on New Year’s Eve and waited for the world to end. It was 2000, and anything could happen.

On January first, I learned that the world had survived. And I had no reason to still be on this beach- with this debauchery, this mad woman, and her lustful dog. Plan B was formed, a bag was packed, a hasty goodbye was made, and a thumb led me back out on the open road and whatever might come my way.

In Search of Jesus-

My first and only ride was from a group of young Canadians. They were classic Canadians with a white VW bus and giant red maple leaf on the back. They reveled in the northern culture and even sang me their national anthem. The oldest one couldn’t have been more then 19 and they smelled like they’d been living in the bus for weeks. The alpha male of the pack said he could get me home to San Diego if I didn’t mind stopping over at an orphanage to volunteer for a few days. With no reason to say no, I jumped in with two feet and joined their circus.

The orphanage was just a bit south of Ensenada, and was an impressive site. There were over 150 kids and a mostly Canadian volunteer force running the project. Apparently, one of my companions had an aunt that was living and volunteering down there, and that was our bridge into the cafeteria, bunk housing, macadamia fields, and baby sitting some little ones.

I really had no idea what I had gotten myself into. The orphanage was definitely under the watch and payroll of Jesus Christ and Associates. I remember the cafeteria having a huge sign that said “Your life will be changed forever…” as you walked out its door. Everyone there floated on some kind of light that seemed to bounce about the place, making even cold, dark corners dance with some celestial sparkle of hope.

I had never seen kids so well behave, so appreciative of cafeteria slop, so happy to just be. I watched, ate, and then fell into the routine of being a “volunteer”. We swept and mopped the floors and were then led out to the macadamia fields. The whole operation was funded by a combination of Canadian goodwill and the marketing of a variety of yummy macadamia treats. They had grafted macadamia trees onto hardy, drought resistant, native desert trees and had a huge orchard. We gathered nuts, ran them through a skin cracking machine, and then finished the job with our fingers. It was tedious, but bonding. I had a chance to soak up the character of my Canadian counterparts, and was relaxing into my new world of stable, sane, good natured people. It was the other side of the dark world that I had been rolling in with Sunny during the last week and a half, and I was most appreciative of this calm place and the feeling of giving to something beyond me.

Our last day at the orphanage brought me as close to Jesus as I’d ever been. Everyday had a religious service of some sort at the orphanage. This last day was special for a reason I can’t seem to remember- perhaps it was just a Sunday. We were each given a baby to care for during the service and invited into a large banquet room. They wanted the kids to be exposed to the love of JC right from the get go, regardless if they could walk, speak, or understand. I sat there with a little toddler in my arms and watched the scene unravel.

It started out just like they usually do: Some praying, some bible reading, some singing. But then it took a turn into a deeper place. People started to stand up one at a time and share some real deep struggles and how Jesus, or the bible, or maybe it was Mary had stepped and given them inspiration. The sharing was deep, real, and moving. And then the instruments were brought out.

I don’t know who these people were, or where they really came from, but damn could they play some music.

I felt like I had been transported up to the Appalachia Mountains. Someone was playing a saw, a woman was on the piano, a whole bunch of stringed instruments started appearing, and before I realized it, there was a full on JC inspired hoe down going on. The music was gorgeous, the songs had something to do with god, and that glossy eyed feeling of love, connecting, and perhaps the spirit started waxing over the congregation.

The baby I bounced on my knees fell for it, and before I knew it, so did I. I felt the love, I felt a connection, I felt something that seemed to be other worldly. I thought to myself, ‘maybe this is Jesus….or the spirit of Jesus. There had to be some reason people jumped on his train, and if this was it, I might just hop on board for a while.’

That all lasted until the baby started crying, a wet spot appeared on my knees, and that funny baby piss smell got clogged up in my nostrils and shook me from the moment. I gathered up the now shaking baby in my arms, found a path to the door, and set a course for the nursery.

I had walked with the man in sandals, or at least his spirit, or maybe it was just the madness of his possessed people. Whatever it was, it was sweet, and helped float me back to friend’s house in San Diego, and a train ticket back to Oregon. The computers had survived the big 2000 scare, and now it was time for me to plug back in.

Cuba, Si!

CUBA SI

You stupid, racist, mother-fucking, lucky son of a bitch fascist was the thought I had bouncing madly about in my head, as I reluctantly entertained the world traveler’s tales on the deck of the ferry to Isla de Mujeres. He told me wild yarns of sailing around the world with a running side commentary that profiled all non-whites he met along the way as stupid, lazy, ignorant, and inferior. Of course he fell in love, or in lust with one of them who was dangling from his arm like a piece of beautiful scenery that seemed surreally out of place.

She was Columbian, and I was in love. My Spanish was far superior than that of my new found racist “friend” and we hit it off. She was closer to my age then his by about 20. I mentioned that I was on my way to Cuba by plane so I thought, and he saw a bridge back into the conversation. He told me about Captain John and his boat “Serious Fun” located in the marina at Isla de Mujeres. John was looking for some help to sail his boat to Cuba and my Austrian counterpart recommended I look him up when I got to the island. Then he whisked his woman away and I was left on deck as the sun was setting and new ideas brewing about.

A few days later I tracked down John and his boat at the marina. In hindsight I should have known better then to get on board a boat called Serious Fun, but these were simpler times. John seemed like an able seaman. I questioned him about his experience and was satisfied when he told me about the years he had served in the US Navy. John also mentioned that he was going to Cuba to marry a 27year old woman. He was 67 and had created a scheme to wire his social security checks to a Mexican Bank which could be accesed via ATM card from Cuba. I figured a man like that had an incentive to make sure we would get to Cuba safely. So I took a deep breath, looked at him in the eyes, checked in with that little voice on the inside and said “Yes!” to helping him steer his boat to through the Gulf Stream to the taboo lands of Cuba.

Captain John wanted a couple of deck hands to take turns watching the boat at night, making sure we didn’t get run over by any super tanks. He recruited another volunteer named Sergio, who was a drug dealing anarchist from Spain. We bonded immediately. The captain told us to get enough food for about a 24 hour crossing and meet up the next morning. He made it sound like it would be a quick, safe, and fun trip- Serious Fun.

The next morning we took off. It was a day after the hurricane season had officially ended and the skies were blue. A slight wind was stirring in the marina, but all seemed relatively calm. Of course, I was a total novice so what could I know. My boat experience up to this point had been a few rides on giant state ferries in Alaska and some quick speed boat trips to backcountry drop offs. I had never been on a sail boat and had no idea what I was getting myself into.

We motored our way out of the marina and hit the open waters. Immediately the wind picked up and the swells hit the boat creating the feeling that we were on a teeter totter. As the captain started unraveling the sail, he lost control of it in a gust of wind. It rattled about, and slapped repeatedly against the metal cables that held up the mast. As it whacked about the cables, the sound of fabric ripping combined with the wind lit up my inner-oh-shit-what have I got myself into-ometer.

Before the Captain could regain control, our main sail ripped about 4 feet along the seem. A good seaman of course would have an extra sail stored below deck, but that was something I only learned about years later. This captain did not have a spare sail, however, he did have a role of duct tape.

Once the sail was set, he instructed Sergio and I into a three man sail fixing crew. Since I was the tallest, it was my job to use my giant wing span to stretch pieces of duct tape along the seem of the sail. Sergio hung on to my waist as I stretched precariously over the side of the boat to carefully place the long strips of duct tape that the captain was ripping off. Within a few minutes, we had “successfully” repaired the sail. My inner sailor instinct was telling me this was a bad idea, so I reached out to the captain for reassurance. With confidence he said it would hold. I had nothing but doubts, and settled into an uncomfortable position on the boat and watch Isla de Mujeres disappear on the horizon.

We were out on the open sea with no land in sight. This had been a fear of mine for years. I had grown up in the ocean-surfing, fishing, swimming, and snorkeling. I had spent two seasons working in the remote back country of Alaska, a place only accessible by boat. However, I had never been on the sea without sight of land. It’s a comfortable feeling that’s easy to take for granted, and most noticeable when its not there. As I tried to adjust to this new reality and slowly started coming out of the inner shell that was shielding me from the strange twists this adventure was taking, I noticed the captain doing something strange.

He was throwing up over the side of the boat. Throwing up! What the hell is an experienced sailor, an ex-navy guy doing getting sea sick! Sappy white goo was dripping from his lips as he turned his attention to me and what must have been a most disgusted look on my face. Don’t worry, he said as he explained to me that he sometimes gets seasick. Then he went below deck to “rest”. I sat with Sergio in silence and noticed a peculiar look on his face. At first I thought it was the look of the repulsed, pissed off, holy shit, what have I got myself into feeling that was presently roller coasting its way through me. Then he too leaned over the deck and started throwing up!

Within a few moments, our crew of three had been reduced to just one. I found out that I don’t get seasick and was left with the boat, an open sea, and a series of “oh shit what am I going to do thoughts” rambling through my mind.

The plan was pretty simple. We would each take a few hours during the night to be on watch. What exactly we were watching for was still a bit unclear to me. I stayed above deck through the afternoon, the sunset, the evening, and then darkness. Apparently the only real cure to seasickness is to close your eyes and get away from the shifting horizon that is a permanent part of sailing. I figured at some point the Captain, or Sergio would reappear and we would talk about our “simple plan”.

What made my crew mates sick, acted as sleep inducer for me. The boat was a giant cradle, and the sea was gently rocking me into a reluctant sleep. Captain John had mentioned that we would be sailing through a major shipping lane come evening, but what that meant in terms of boats was still a mystery to me. As the evening passed from one day into the next I would find myself sleeping for a few minutes then waking with a startle. ‘Where was I? What was I doing? Were there any boats coming towards us?’ were the questions that banged around in my fatigued mind.

In my ever romantic-naïve-perhaps slightly insane interpretations of the world, I had already figured out how I would survive being ship wrecked at sea if we were to accidentally be sunk by a larger vessel. It was quite simple. We would be hit. Our boat would break into pieces. I would enter the water and hold my breath for 2 minutes as a big ship mulled us over (two minutes was my record when I used to practice holding my breath to pass the time in high school classes). Then I’d swim to a piece of the wrecked boat. I’d float on it until I was rescued. I also had my “oh shit” bag with important survival gear always nearby. It was fool proof I thought. I was a survivor, and I could get through this make-believe scenario in my head with an amazing feeling of confidence.

At around 2:00am I awoke from one of “cat naps” and looked quickly about. Where was I? Somewhere in the middle of the fucking Caribbean! What was I doing? Sleeping while on watch! Where there any boats coming towards us? Holy-fuck! There was a giant super tanker all lit up going parallel to our little 37 foot piece of scrap wood. The tanker was so close to us I could see the profiles of people on deck waving to us. Deck was several hundred feet above the surface of the ocean, and the length of the boat had to be at least several football fields. ‘Where did this boat come from? How long was I asleep? Is this how I die?’ seared themselves into my foggy head as I tried to wrap myself around this new reality.

I had never seen a super tanker before. Immediately my fool-proof plan of survival was thrown out the window. I would not survive being run over by this goliath vessel. Its size, its mass, its ominous presence sent lightning bolts of fear down into my toes. I was rattled, speechless, in awe. I looked up at the waiving figures and hypnotically waved back. Then I went below deck, fired up some water, and drank instant coffee the whole night till my piss ran black and as thick as molasses. I did not fall asleep again.

As the sun poked itself around the next morning the Captain and my international drug dealing anarchist friend stirred themselves awake and like vampires coming into the light, staggered into my reality. They came up, I went down.

After a few hours of fit filled sleep, I emerged again to do figure out how the rest of this deal would be working. The Captain was functioning, though definitely in a fog. Sergio was feeling better and going off about capitalism and exploitation. I tuned into the ocean, and started to enjoy the beauty of sailing through the Caribbean. That only lasted a few moments.

The Captain informed us that the wind was not cooperating with us. We had not covered nearly as many miles as he thought we would last night. We had to change course, to tack back and forth out of the way in order to catch the wind. I stated paying closer attention to this man I had lost enormous amounts of confidence in these last 24 hours. I noticed he had two huge scars on his chest that formed a cross like the one you would see on a crusading night’s shield. I asked him what they were from. The news added one more layer to the ominous onion I was now peeling. He had triple by pass surgery a couple of years ago.

So, here I was adrift with a couple of sea sick sailors. The captain was also an older fellow with a bad ticker. The Spaniard was an anarchist who had a chip on his should, knew shit about sailing, and comfortable puffed and tripped his way through the day. I got the feeling that I was all alone, and the only stable mind and body on this boat. I started to ask questions, to pay attention to the boat, the navigation system, and the sails. I became an apprentice to the beleaguered captain and got a crash course in how to make this boat work in case it fell upon me to get us safely to shore.

The next night was a night that was not suppose to be. We should have been in Havana. I should have been sipping a mojito and practicing my charm with the local ladies. There was a million places I coulda, shoulda, woulda liked to have been. But alas, I was once again on board the tiny boat Serious Fun, and my comrades were both passed out below deck as the sky darkened and hardened into night.

Once again I was the reluctant sentry, this time with coffee in hand, ready to weather another night. But, my body must have maxed itself out on caffeine. No matter how much I drank, I still found the rocking of the waves soothing my weary ways to sleep.

Startled again from half lit dreams, I saw a series of lights on the horizon that rocked me into full awareness. It looked like the headlights of cars at night and there was a whole bunch of them. My mathematical mind started calculating there place, our place, distance, speed, movement, and other variables. The results were bad. As far as I could tell, we were on a crash course with at least one of these might vessels that were gobbling up more and more of my horizon.

Then I caught a glimpse of silver off to the starboard side of our boat. The moon was shining on something. Sharks I thought. Fuck! We are so fucked, now the sharks are circling us. Ominous times, I thought as I gulped in more air to steady the light feeling that was airing out my brain. Then on the port side I saw more shiny silver flashes. I looked closely and noticed they were not sharks. They were dolphins! Five dolphins on either side of the boat were riding our wake, steadying our course, and perhaps I thought, lingering out on a limb, protecting us.

I had a long history with dolphins and considered them to be my favorite animal. I had grown up surfing in San Diego and often shared the water and the waves with them. I had also studied them a bit and had learned that throughout history there were accounts of dolphins saving shipwrecked sailors, protecting swimmers from sharks, and guiding boats through dangerous waters. There is a sensitivity that dolphins have to humans in peril, and it was this sensitivity that I was now feeling…or perhaps hoping for.

As my eyes honed in on the super tanker caravan, I discerned that most of the boats were going to cross through our course before us. However, there was one that seemed to be on course with us. As the tingle of fear started my shivers, I decide to rouse the captain up to hopefully take action. Wiping sleep, age, and sickness from his eyes took some time. When he finally made a grumpy interpretation of the situation, I was disappointed. He was going back to bed, there was nothing to worry about.

I kept a vigil on deck and noticed the dolphins were still with us. I also noticed the lights of that one super tanker were getting brighter, and according to my ruff mathematical calculations, we were on a collision course. Again I roused awake the Captain and brought him to deck with a bit more urgency in my voice. I explained to him in rapid fire that we were in danger, that we had to change course, that my eyes were better then his, there were dolphins….

Awareness finally dawned for him, and this time he agreed with me. By the time we sorted out the ropes, sails, and our change of course, we tacked just in time and passed parallel to a massive tanker that was larger then the previous night’s goliath. I watched the tanker move swiftly and stealthily to the place our boat would have been had we not changed course. The tanker was massive. The captain told me that if the boat wanted to stop it would have taken 5 miles for it to come to a complete stop. Get out of the way or die, was their motto.

Having avoided a guaranteed last swim in the Caribbean, I figured we were safe for the night. However, the dolphins were still with us. I told the captain my theories on the presence of the dolphins, and stories of their escapades. He laughed them off and said the dolphins were masturbating. That the wake from the boat stimulates their sexual organs and that is why they were riding with us. I countered with a explanation of the Greek origins of the word Dolphin, explaining how Apollo, the God of the Sun & the Mind turned himself into a Dolphin & led a group to DELPHI, the sanctuary that was the center of the World, home of the Oracle of Delphi, the most powerful political & spiritual figure of the times, named from the same root as Dolphin, meaning Womb, Source of all Life & Wisdom. He laughed off my theories and called them cock-eyed.

Yet the dolphins stayed, and all my senses told me this evening was not over, that danger still lurked in these early morning hours. Within a few moments, we saw another set of lights out on the horizon. Again, it looked as if there was a caravan on its way to Cuba. They could have been super tankers full of oil from Venezuela, or Russian tankers full of sugar on their way back to the mother land. It was as if we were in the middle of a race course for large vessels.

This time we did not wait to the last possible moment. We tacked and turned our way out of several more of these scenarios before the dawn’s light started breaking through. The dolphins stayed by our side throughout the evening. I finally went below deck when the horizon was clear and the dolphins had moved on.

A good night’s sleep, or in this case, a good day’s sleep was all I needed now. It had been almost 48 hours, most of which I had been awake. Hearing “Mateo! Mateo, come up, quick!” was not the wake up call I wanted. The captain was calling my name with some kind of disturbing urgency. I walked up into the heat of the Carribean sun, and was in awe of the beauty around me. We were close to land, the sea was sparkling, the sun was shining and we were still alive. Seemed like the start of a good day.

Then the Captain started talking and everything went down hill. He explained that while I was sleeping the winds had picked up and ripped the sail to shreds. In addition, the motor of the boat was not functioning. He ended his report with the question, “What should we do?”

I wanted to scream at him. Through the fog of my fatigue I was thinking of a variety of insults and vulgar words that might chop him up into pieces and show him how I was feeling. Instead, I jumped into the ocean. I was hot on the inside, on the outside, and boiling mad. Before doing something that I might regret, especially on account of being on a small banged up boat, I opted for floating and thinking.

Ignoring the captain, I swam about the boat, floated on my back and savored my first views of Cuba-which looked just a few stone throws away. As reason slowly filtered its way back into my now cooling mind, I came up with a few plans after getting over my anger at being asked what to do, and got back on the boat.

My first idea was to take the small rescue boat to shore and find us a sail or repair kit for the boat. I explained this to the captain who calmly replied that the nearest port belonged to the Cuban Navy. It was clear that a couple of shipwrecked Americans and a drug dealer from Spain would draw suspicions, and perhaps make an international incident, if we came putting in on a dingy. Next I figured we could use the radio to call for help. There were plenty of boats around- most of them were probably fisherman, who Im sure would help a boat in distress. Using my best Spanish, I put out a call for help on every station. No replies came.

A slight breeze was slowly blowing us around in circles. As we rotated, I began to see the mega outlines of super tankers coming our way. It appeared that we were still in the middle of the thoroughfare, and this time we had no way of moving. Desperation was lighting a fire under my ass, and my brain started firing on all of its rusty, water-logged cylinders.

I suggested we tie up the sails where they had been wrecked, detach them from the tacking cables, and manually tack the sails to catch the wind. The captain, who now had a detached look and feel of defeat, nodded his head and let me play MacGyver with his boat

Alaska, Part Two

Alaska, Part Two

The idea was simple, the distance was long, and a postcard led the way. It was from my friend Chris who was making pizza at Lynx Creek Pizza, in Denali National Park. He told of fantastic stories, gorgeous woman, easy work, and beautiful vistas. My options were simple: nurse my infected finger back to working order and try to find a pace with John the con; return home with my tail between my legs; or head back onto the ferry and into the unknown. Unknown seemed to be sparkling these days, so off I went.

Denaili National Park was about 1500 miles to the north, and would require boat, and at least one other air or land based form of transportation. I went with the Alaska state ferry again, but this time the weather sunk in, and soaked us from start to stop. And, there were no beautiful traveling woman to chat up or outlaws to share in stolen loot. It was time to be lonely, to be sad, to indulge in the inner chatter of the mind. Unfortunately the ferry went only as north as Haines.

Armed again with a big vision, and some loose ideas on logistics and reality, I walked off the last solid ride I would be having for days and went into the wild grey yonder of coastal Alaska. I had a big pack on, and a thumb itching to strike off on its maiden voyage of hitchhiking. The first ride was easy. I went about 30 minutes and listened to another born again Christian trying to save my soul. It was the fourth one in just a few years, and I was starting to think that perhaps there was some secret agenda sent out from their national office with my picture on it. Fortunately it was a short ride, and I entertained the notion of JC with an open mind.

I was only about 30 miles outside Haines, but it felt like light years. My ambitious agenda skipped picking up food in town, and naively I thought that Id be passing a store or gas station at some point to pick up some grub. Alaska was notorious for its kindness towards hitchhikers, and I figured it would be just a few minutes before the next ride and hopefully some food.

Had I taken the time to peak at a map, I would have known that I was on the edge of the last major AK town and hundreds of miles of wilderness and then the mighty Yukon Territory of Canada. There were a couple of towns spread out over hundreds of miles of a road that seemed like a giant hiking trail cut thru the wilderness. Everywhere I looked were massive old growth timbers and dense, dark, green forests that grew to the edge of the asphalt. Beautiful, intense, overwhelming, other-worldly. I was in awe.

And completely distressed after an hour went by and no ride. Dozens of massive RV’s were steaming past me without a hesitation or glance. I began to write suggestive notes in my journal that I held in earnest as they zoomed by. Things like, “Please”, “Jesus Would”, and “Help” were a few of the lines I used for several hours. As each one passed, the air cooled, and the edge of desperation creped a little closer. I made a deal with the gods that I would turn back to town and return home if I did not catch a ride in 5 hours. The times were desperate, and that little voice on the inside was suggesting that perhaps Id bitten off more then I could chew, and that cutting my losses and returning to safety might not be such a bad idea.

On the fifth hour, I got a ride. A chain reaction was set in motion that continues to unravel today. My life was changed forever.

His name was Mel and he was a retired teacher who raised miniature horses. I learned a lot during the 100 or so miles we traveled together. He had a “hitchhiker log” that he had all the hitches he picked up sign. It was old, ragged, and full of adventurers. I liked him immediately. We chatted up education, Alaska, and of course miniature horses (share a cool mini-horse fact here). He told me that he was on his way to pick some hay and straw at a farm for his horses. He offered me some money to help him out. I refused the money, but did trade my labor for a sack lunch that he graciously gave me. It was one of the most memorable meals.

He gave it to me as he dropped me off somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but close to the edge of Canada and the Yukon Territory. The reality of where I was and the question of what the hell I was doing started to sink in that night. It was 11 pm, and the twilight of the north hung on with slightly darker shades of grey from the day. It was getting cold, and wildness was all about. I was in the lands of the grizzly, wolf packs, moose and caribou. I could feel them all about. And, of course, I was alone. It would have been so easy to have just turned around, caught a boat back to Bellingham, and call the adventure off.

But I knew a journey was unfolding, and pointed myself north the next morning. My first ride of the day gave me further insight into the science of hitchhiking. It was quite simple: Stand up, smile, and look interesting. They became a code that helped me cover thousands of miles throughout Alaska over a period of three summers.

That ride left me somewhere at the beginning of the Yukon Territory, in a strange little town where the beer was cheap and the company most interesting. I spent a debaucherous nite with some traveling characters that called a big van their home and cheap Canadian beer that flowed and tasted like rotten water. They took me a little deeper into the territory the next day and gave me a few nuggets of traveler wisdom for the next leg of the journey.

Seemed like being near a gas station in the middle of nowhere would be a great place to catch a ride. But I was back in the country of RV’s which seemed to have some international policy of not picking up hitchhikers. With many hours of lingering on the sides of highways in wait for a ride, I often fantasized of being picked up by one of these massive beasts. These RVs were the epitome of American gluttony, and I wanted a taste of the dream as well. I imagined myself stretched out in the back, relaxed on the couch, sipping a beer, and enjoying the long roads in comfort and style. I got so desperate, I began approaching RV owners in the gas station with the best charm I could spin. The fact that it had been days since I had showered didn’t cross my mind- nor did the fumes of Canadian beer and Yukon dust and grit that must have been off-gassing out of every pore. I found out quickly that my kind and the RV folk were not going to match.

Back on the road again, I stood with thumb outstretched, a fake smile, and my best ‘pick me up I’m an interesting guy’ look I could conjure up. The fist vehicle to pass me was a monster blue oversized pickup truck. It flew by me, braked into a skid, and backed up to where I stood. The driver rolled down his window and said, “You got a license?” I looked at him with a bit of awe, and said “Sure”. He told me to get in, that it was my time to drive.

Without a handshake or formal introduction, I found myself driving through the Yukon in this new truck. Since there was no speed limit and the road was wide open he encouraged me to drive between 90-100 miles per hour. Then he settled down into the passenger seat and began a ramble that lasted for hours.

Apparently the Canadians were out to get him! He hadn’t slept in over 36 hours, and if he had his way he would have killed every Canadian he had dealt with so far on the journey. They had been out to get him on every stop and purchase so far. From the generator guys to the McDonalds folks, the Canadians were making his life hell. His back never touched the seat as he jerked about with maniacal hand gestures that sliced through the air like karate chops as he told me one mad tale after another. It got so bad that I had to role the window down to drown out his words with the wind.

As his stories winded down, he changed his focus to my driving. He insisted that instead of using the brakes to slow the vehicle down on curves, I instead use the gear shifter to lower the velocity of the vehicle. It seemed like a bad idea to shift dramatically from Drive to Gear 2 with an auto transmission at 90 MPH but I adapted quickly. Every time I forgot he barked reminders to me. It was during this time that I started to fully realize that I was driving with a madman, a dangerous madman.

His eyes were bloodshot, his pose unsteady, and his voice jumped from hysterics to whispers and back again. When we got to the border between Canada and Alaska, he leaned across me and explained to US customs officials that he had no idea who I was, that I was just some hitch hiker he picked up in the Yukon.

This apparently set off some red flags for the border guard, who seeing this “hitch hiker” driving a brand new truck, thought that something wasn’t right. He had me get out of the rig, searched me for weapons, took away my knife and escorted me into the office for questions and a warrant search. It was the first of a series of awkward run-ins with the authorities that I would have on this trip.

After being cleared by the feds, I jumped back in the truck with the madman, but this time as a passenger. We took off into Alaska at full speed, and within minutes were pulled over by a state trooper. Again the driver explained to the cop, completely unprovoked, that he had no idea who I was, that I was just some “hitch hiker”. And again, following some protocol out of the book I guess, I was escorted out of the rig, patted down for weapons, had my knife removed, and was run for warrants.

I was cleared again, but the driver wasn’t so lucky. He flung his drivers license at the office when asked for it. The cop explained that under ordinary circumstances he would just give us a warning. However, due to the rude behavior of the madman, he would be getting a ticket. I realized that my time was coming to end with this guy, and that if I didn’t get out of the rig soon, I might end up in a ditch or sinking in some river.
I explained my concern a bit and suggested he get some sleep. At the next town I got out, and parted ways. As solid and fast as the ride was, I decided that the slow and unpredictable open road was a safer bet then where we were headed.

A few more rides, a collection of characters, and a super memorable introduction to Bob Dylan finally landed me in Denali. I had spent several days prior to the arrival with a group of traveling dreadlocked misfits and their small pack of dogs traveling about in a van. They were playing music for money along the way, and were just beginning to get the song “Hurricane” by Bob Dylan down. I listened in awe as they rambled thru the lyrics for hours as we bounced our way north. I was obviously ignorant in the realm of music, for I thought of Bob Dylan more as a picture in my history book, some character from a forgotten time. An activist maybe, a legend sort of, but not ever as a musician whose music I knew. This would be the beginning of a musical love affair that would develop and deepen as the summers played out.

Abby Stevens was the next person who introduced me to Dylan and a few other things as well. I knew the minute she put the headphones on my head, and casually touched her hand to my face that I was done for. Bolts of fire and lightning danced, wiggled, and -zapped all about-striking mind, body and heart.

She was my co-worker at Lynx Creek Pizza, and would become a legendary character that would haunt my world for so much longer then the brief weeks we knew each other. In so many ways she was the complete opposite of Christina, my sweet loyal girlfriend who was waiting for me back in Oregon. A woman who had her shit together and was ready to marry and settle down. Abby was singer, a guitar player, a traveler, a romancer, a free spirit.

I tried to resist, but realized my world was being cracked open and this was part of the journey. Or maybe it was lust, or fate, or weakness, or… The combination rocked my world. She sang me songs, taught me music, and showed me the open road and the possibilities of beauty, the unknown, adventure, and beyond.

I followed her down the rabbit hole, and it still keeps going. The last memory I have of her before the whole thing blew up in a hotel room in Anchorage was riding a train thru the heart of AK, writing haikus, and fantasizing about Mexico together.

The Cannery

Cannery

Running with a romantic idea only gets you so far. The faster you go, the farther you get from reality. As you slow down, either by choice or circumstance, everything comes rushing into present, reality based time.

I found myself in that strange place, dressed in a full set of canary yellow rain gear with my elbows submerged in a ice cold water mixed with salmon blood, guts and veins. The sharp sounds of metal clanking upon metal echoed and ricocheted all about me. When I looked up to get a sense of where I was and who was around me, the fish would pile up, splashing all about, and the mad piercing eyes of Adolpho, our dedicated fascist foreman would direct me with a sparkle of madness and a tinge of fear back to my work.

Just 24 hours before I was awash in a most beautiful tale. Lounging on the deck of the Alaskan Marine Ferry, sipping wine, playing chess with a beautiful English woman, and careening about with outlaws in the evening twilight that never seemed to darken. An adventure was just beginning, and all signs pointed to good times ahead.

A combination of literature, idealism, romantic disillusionment, and restlessness had helped me arrive to this point. Leaning back in the lounge chair, taking in the great vistas of the inside passage, and practicing my international charm were a great start to an adventure that upon arrival in Ketchikan took a series of unexpected lurches.

The plan was loose, but the vision was clear. I would get off in Ketchikan, the first major town of Southeast Alaska, home to dozens of canneries. I would walk into one of them, get hired, and lay my weary bones down into some company bunk houses. With a skip to my step, I bid my new comrades farewell, and went off into a rare day of sunshine looking for work, stepping into the unknown.

By early evening, I had struck out at every cannery. ‘The season was slow’, ‘prices were down’, ‘come back in a week’ were a few of the responses I got. As the bright daylight hours fades to the all-night twilight of peak summer Alaska, I found myself in a sleeping predicament with a slight drizzle in the air. Fear of bears, the unknown, and the awareness of my fragile situation were starting to dig into my illusion like _________

Ever curious, I started a variety of conversations with the local folk that somehow led me to a homeless shelter. I walked into a new world that first strange night, and found myself sleeping on the floor with eight other characters that were also down on their luck. It was a taste of sadness I had only known at a distance, usually separated by a box of steel and glass.

The morning came quickly, and inspiration to find work propelled me out of bed like some___________. I put my best game face on and hit the streets once again visiting the canneries and fish processing plants, not quite desperate, but on the way.

At the time, I did not know that EC Philips and Sons was the worst cannery to work at in Ketchikan. To me, they were Shangri-La, and I had finally arrived. At hire, I had the opportunity to purchase on credit from the company store a complete set of rain gear, boots, and elbow high gloves- none of which did I understand how or why I would be using. I was assigned to bunk housing, and met one of my new roommates, who only a few days before had chopped off his thumb. He was high on pain killers and cheap beer. Madness and sadness poured about as he rambled out his story ……

Apparently, in his short career as a cannery worker, he had been elevated to the premier status of “head chopper”. In some ways, it was the coolest job in the plant. He operated a pedal driven guillotine that chopped off the salmon’s head, and set the pace for the whole operation. However, since his head chopping dictated the speed in which we all did our work, Adolpho, our ever present fascist foreman, insisted that the speed of operations be increased and constantly “encouraged” my new roommate to go faster.

In an ideal OSHA world, all workers would be protected, things would be safe, all would be well. My roommate had a protective glove that prevented his hand from getting under the razor sharp blade of the guillotine, but that glove slowed him down a bit. Inspired by the mad drive of Adolpho or perhaps the immortality of youth, he took off the glove to work easier, faster.

Of course, a fish slipped through his hands, past he guillotine, and was about to throw the whole operation off. He leaned across the table, reached his right hand out for the fish, and instinctively stepped on the guillotine pedal. For a split hair of a second, he realized the error he had commited and jerked his hand back to safety. At the same time the blade came slicing down, and because his hand was still in motion, sliced all of the flesh and just part of the bone from his right thumb.

In the mad hatter world of the cannery, where over 50 people made a variety of the most bone piercing, off rhythm, clanking metallic sounds, no one heard his cry nor saved his thumb. It was sent down into one of the ubiquitous holes that led to a massive sea bird feeding ground in the bay. Mixed with fish heads, guts, fins, and other carnage, no one had a chance to salvage the digit that in most circumstances could have been reattached.

Clutching his thumb, he stumbled around until the darting eyes of Herr Adolpho caught a glitch in the system and went to inquire about why his perfect machine was starting to sputter and come to a silent halt.

The thumb was considered 20% of the hand, and according to our stellar insurance plan, was valued at a whopping $2,500. On account of more flesh being sliced off then bone, he had to endure the second trauma of having his bone grinded down to meet the level of flesh.

Cracking open another shitty beer, the mood of the story took a turn into down a more sad and melancholic path, as he lamented about the football season that would soon be starting and wondered about his status as the quarterback for his local community college.

I saluted him silently as I sipped down the can of shwag beer he had offered me, and watched from a distance as my own romantic tales faded into a mist at the edge of some dark forest…..

Clickity-clang-bang-crash was the morning music I slowly unraveled into as the slog through each day began. Within moments of the third day, my ever darting eyes and calculating mind understood the layout of this new land and the degraded position I formally held at the end of the line.

The cannery was set up like an assembly line, but with a hierarchy that led to the king, formerly my roommate, at the guillotine. Each position above mine had a tinge bit of more glory, and in some circumstances a bit more blood and guts. After the fish scrubbers were the magical spoons that had high pressure water squirting out of them. These spoons were designed to simultaneously scrape out the main vein that ran parallel to the fish’s spine and spray water to loosen up other blood and membrane that still lingered in the fish’s body cavity.

Next in line were the glorious fin slicers. They had sharp knives that they wielded with rapid precision as they sliced through the cold, wet, bloody air and quickly removed the fish’s steering apparatus.

As the line got closer to the king, the blood and gore increased. These were the people that would be dripping with blood and guts at the end of a shift, the ones who really had to give themselves a good high pressured spray down before entering the break room. They were the gutters, and they had the big knives. They slit open the stomachs and spilled out the guts. They were the closest to the king, and seemed to relish in their high speed, blood drenched world.

Knowing I was doomed to boredom and perhaps madness if a stayed at the end of the line, I promoted myself to the position of “spoon man” one day after the morning break. Due to the chaos and deafening roar of the machine, it was a seamless transition. I don’t know where the previous “spoon man” who I had displaced went to, but it didn’t seem to matter. With a new sense of power, I relished in my new world of water squirting spoons and passed another 8 hours of work without dwelling on the madness of wholesale fish slaughter that swirled all about me.

The following day when the break buzzer rattled me out of my daze, I rushed to the break room, hoping to optimize the 10 precisely timed minutes of rest we were allocated before being buzzed back into action(we got a 5 minute warning to put our bloodied, wet rain gear back on). I gulped down some stale coffee, munched a donut, and quickly rolled a cigarette. I knew the drill by now, and kept track of the scene on my watch. I had devised a system that allowed me to meet all my basic needs in those 10 minutes- coffee, sugar, and nicotine. However, even though I felt like I was master of this domain, every time the buzzer went off, a shake shuddered through my body, like some mad hatter receiving shock treatment. I knew it was coming, mentally prepared myself, had one last drag of the cigarette, took a deep breath to calm and steady the nerves, and counted the last few free seconds left on my watch. I knew when it was coming every time, but still that ripple of electricity jolted and jiggled itself thru my body as the buzzer zapped us back into action.

Seeing that a knife lay unclaimed higher up on the assembly line, I again decided to give myself a promotion, and inch my way towards the king and all his men. The immediate problem I faced was an ancient one that had haunted left handed people since the dawn of the industrial revolution. Over 90% of the world uses the wicked right hand, leaving us “chosen people” at a constant disadvantage-especially in the world of industrialization. The suffering is notorious, as are the unequally high rates of industrial accidents that we lefties face. Often times we overcome these adversities and still shine as bright if not brighter then the dominant right handers. However, the extra work we have to do to survive can be taxing.

In my brief, but glorious time in the position of “fin slicer” I wielded my blade with precision and pride. However, in so doing this, I had to flip the fish into “left handed position” as it both came to me on the line, and left me on the line. So, in addition to the fast slicing that was expected of me in this position, I was double taxing the tendons and muscles of my lower arms as I flipped and flopped the fish into position. Despite this extra work, I quickly fell into a zen state, as I wielded my blade like some master samurai.

Which is why I did not see our ever present fascist leader Adolph ( he went by the English translation of his name sometimes as well) sneak up on me. His hawk like eyes must have seen slight glitch in the system as I took in the scene from the king down to the lowly peasants fishing salmon carcasses out the bloody tank. When I finally realized Adolph’s presence, I snapped out of Zen, and was told over the deafening wale of metal on metal at 12 different pitches, that my time with the blade was over. As I was escorted back to the tanks, back to my people, I explained to Adolph that I was interested in doing something different here at the cannery if that was possible. He must have seen my potential or perhaps he had something sinister up his sleeve, for he left me with the words, “we will see about that tomorrow”.

That night was when the first of my reoccurring nightmares began. I would have the most visual dreams of both slicing open salmon, and being a salmon that was having its entrails removed. I would wake up in a panic and feel that I was inside of the salmon and the zipper of my sleeping bag was the gut line being sliced open with sharp blades. As I frantically attempted to release myself from the bag, I felt as if the zipper was releasing my entrails as I slid, and sometimes fell out of my sleeping bag in a panic to escape the dream, to escape the death.

It was day six of work, and I was seriously questioning this new adventure.

The next day, true to his word, Adolph escorted me to a new region of the cannery, and introduced me to John, my new partner in this criminal world of mass animal dismemberment.

John had red hair, an untrimmed mustache, and a look in his eye that spoke of scary things he had seen and done. Within moments of our encounter, I learned that he had been in prison for six years and that he would not tell me why. After an awkard transition, John explained to me the work we would be doing. Apparently, there are more fish coming in then can be processed. So, with these extra fish, it falls upon our shoulders and arms to prepare them for a deep freeze. John and I received carts full of the fish and had to load them onto trays, then a rack, and place them into the freezer. The critical part of this job was working together with precise timing as we each lifted and laid the fish down on the trays. Failure to work at the same pace was not an option. We each had to lay our fish in unison with one another.

After this brief explanation, we began working in a strange silence. We were far enough from the main fish line where we could hear our thoughts and could possibly have a conversation. I stabbed words into the air several times to no avail. Every time seemed to slow down the process and John would grunt out, “You have to go faster!” Trying to please this scary man, who had been in jail for a long time, and wouldn’t tell me why, became a priority.

However, I found out that I could not go faster. I tried, I really did, but he was setting a pace that my clumsy hands could not follow. Panic set it. Should I ask him to slow down I pondered.

As time came to a glacially slow meltdown, I ventured into the realm of potential violent retribution when I asked John to slow down. I explained that there was no incentive for us to work faster, that we would not get paid anymore. Let’s work at a slower pace, enjoy ourselves, have some conversation. No need to kill ourselves, I rationalized. His only response was simple, precise, and devastating. “You have to work faster!” he said, as he piled on the fish at lightning speed.

He said those words with a feeling of anger. I could see that he was not the kind of guy I wanted to set off, and looked around for company or at least a potential witness. To my chagrin, I noticed we were all alone. I tried to do everything I could to please John and focused to meet his intensity, his pace.

This was not my cup of tea, and my mind wandered all over the place as well shoveled fish onto trays, into racks, then bent over to do the whole thing over again. Over and over. Over and over. Just me and Crazy John. I imagined all the terrible things he could have done to get himself in prison for six years. Murder, armed robbery, shoot outs with the federales, rape, kidnap. My take on him was that he was capable of any of these charges.

As I pondered the possibilities, I must have lost just enough focus to become sloppy. As we raised a tray together and slid it into the rack, my finger got pinched between the rack and metal. I let out a whelp as I tried to wiggle my finger to safety. It got a good smashing, and not a drop of compassion from John. He looked at me like I was a piece of crap, and didn’t allow me to linger in my wallow.

Afraid, injured, and slightly pissed, I reluctantly carried on my duties without investigating the wound. By the time I took a look at it, infection was on the way. The next morning, staff was knocking on the door. That evening, its white pussy entourage had showed up and was having a party on at my finger tip and dancing its way down my finger. The next day I went to the doctor.

“You have a staff infection,” she explained to me as she lanced open the wound and squeezed out puss, blood, and a few other ingredients I did not recognize. She gave me a prescription for antibiotics, and I gave EC Philips and Son my immediate termination notice. It had been twelve days and it was time to move on.


Alaska, Part Two

The idea was simple, the distance was long, and a postcard led the way. It was from my friend Chris who was making pizza at Lynx Creek Pizza, in Denali National Park. He told of fantastic stories, gorgeous woman, easy work, and beautiful vistas. My options were simple: nurse my infected finger back to working order and try to find a pace with John the con; return home with my tail between my legs; or head back onto the ferry and into the unknown. Unknown seemed to be sparkling these days, so off I went.

Denaili National Park was about 1500 miles to the north, and would require boat, and at least one other air or land based form of transportation. I went with the Alaska state ferry again, but this time the weather sunk in, and soaked us from start to stop. And, there were no beautiful traveling woman to chat up or outlaws to share in stolen loot. It was time to be lonely, to be sad, to indulge in the inner chatter of the mind. Unfortunately the ferry went only as north as Haines.

Armed again with a big vision, and some loose ideas on logistics and reality, I walked off the last solid ride I would be having for days and went into the wild grey yonder of coastal Alaska. I had a big pack on, and a thumb itching to strike off on its maiden voyage of hitchhiking. The first ride was easy. I went about 30 minutes and listened to another born again Christian trying to save my soul. It was the fourth one in just a few years, and I was starting to think that perhaps there was some secret agenda sent out from their national office with my picture on it. Fortunately it was a short ride, and I entertained the notion of JC with an open mind.

I was only about 30 miles outside Haines, but it felt like light years. My ambitious agenda skipped picking up food in town, and naively I thought that Id be passing a store or gas station at some point to pick up some grub. Alaska was notorious for its kindness towards hitchhikers, and I figured it would be just a few minutes before the next ride and hopefully some food.

Had I taken the time to peak at a map, I would have known that I was on the edge of the last major AK town and hundreds of miles of wilderness and then the mighty Yukon Territory of Canada. There were a couple of towns spread out over hundreds of miles of a road that seemed like a giant hiking trail cut thru the wilderness. Everywhere I looked were massive old growth timbers and dense, dark, green forests that grew to the edge of the asphalt. Beautiful, intense, overwhelming, other-worldly. I was in awe.

And completely distressed after an hour went by and no ride. Dozens of massive RV’s were steaming past me without a hesitation or glance. I began to write suggestive notes in my journal that I held in earnest as they zoomed by. Things like, “Please”, “Jesus Would”, and “Help” were a few of the lines I used for several hours. As each one passed, the air cooled, and the edge of desperation creped a little closer. I made a deal with the gods that I would turn back to town and return home if I did not catch a ride in 5 hours. The times were desperate, and that little voice on the inside was suggesting that perhaps Id bitten off more then I could chew, and that cutting my losses and returning to safety might not be such a bad idea.

On the fifth hour, I got a ride. A chain reaction was set in motion that continues to unravel today. My life was changed forever.

His name was Mel and he was a retired teacher who raised miniature horses. I learned a lot during the 100 or so miles we traveled together. He had a “hitchhiker log” that he had all the hitches he picked up sign. It was old, ragged, and full of adventurers. I liked him immediately. We chatted up education, Alaska, and of course miniature horses (share a cool mini-horse fact here). He told me that he was on his way to pick some hay and straw at a farm for his horses. He offered me some money to help him out. I refused the money, but did trade my labor for a sack lunch that he graciously gave me. It was one of the most memorable meals.

He gave it to me as he dropped me off somewhere in the middle of nowhere, but close to the edge of Canada and the Yukon Territory. The reality of where I was and the question of what the hell I was doing started to sink in that night. It was 11 pm, and the twilight of the north hung on with slightly darker shades of grey from the day. It was getting cold, and wildness was all about. I was in the lands of the grizzly, wolf packs, moose and caribou. I could feel them all about. And, of course, I was alone. It would have been so easy to have just turned around, caught a boat back to Bellingham, and call the adventure off.

But I knew a journey was unfolding, and pointed myself north the next morning. My first ride of the day gave me further insight into the science of hitchhiking. It was quite simple: Stand up, smile, and look interesting. They became a code that helped me cover thousands of miles throughout Alaska over a period of three summers.

That ride left me somewhere at the beginning of the Yukon Territory, in a strange little town where the beer was cheap and the company most interesting. I spent a debaucherous nite with some traveling characters that called a big van their home and cheap Canadian beer that flowed and tasted like rotten water. They took me a little deeper into the territory the next day and gave me a few nuggets of traveler wisdom for the next leg of the journey.

Seemed like being near a gas station in the middle of nowhere would be a great place to catch a ride. But I was back in the country of RV’s which seemed to have some international policy of not picking up hitchhikers. With many hours of lingering on the sides of highways in wait for a ride, I often fantasized of being picked up by one of these massive beasts. These RVs were the epitome of American gluttony, and I wanted a taste of the dream as well. I imagined myself stretched out in the back, relaxed on the couch, sipping a beer, and enjoying the long roads in comfort and style. I got so desperate, I began approaching RV owners in the gas station with the best charm I could spin. The fact that it had been days since I had showered didn’t cross my mind- nor did the fumes of Canadian beer and Yukon dust and grit that must have been off-gassing out of every pore. I found out quickly that my kind and the RV folk were not going to match.

Back on the road again, I stood with thumb outstretched, a fake smile, and my best ‘pick me up I’m an interesting guy’ look I could conjure up. The fist vehicle to pass me was a monster blue oversized pickup truck. It flew by me, braked into a skid, and backed up to where I stood. The driver rolled down his window and said, “You got a license?” I looked at him with a bit of awe, and said “Sure”. He told me to get in, that it was my time to drive.

Without a handshake or formal introduction, I found myself driving through the Yukon in this new truck. Since there was no speed limit and the road was wide open he encouraged me to drive between 90-100 miles per hour. Then he settled down into the passenger seat and began a ramble that lasted for hours.

Apparently the Canadians were out to get him! He hadn’t slept in over 36 hours, and if he had his way he would have killed every Canadian he had dealt with so far on the journey. They had been out to get him on every stop and purchase so far. From the generator guys to the McDonalds folks, the Canadians were making his life hell. His back never touched the seat as he jerked about with maniacal hand gestures that sliced through the air like karate chops as he told me one mad tale after another. It got so bad that I had to role the window down to drown out his words with the wind.

As his stories winded down, he changed his focus to my driving. He insisted that instead of using the brakes to slow the vehicle down on curves, I instead use the gear shifter to lower the velocity of the vehicle. It seemed like a bad idea to shift dramatically from Drive to Gear 2 with an auto transmission at 90 MPH but I adapted quickly. Every time I forgot he barked reminders to me. It was during this time that I started to fully realize that I was driving with a madman, a dangerous madman.

His eyes were bloodshot, his pose unsteady, and his voice jumped from hysterics to whispers and back again. When we got to the border between Canada and Alaska, he leaned across me and explained to US customs officials that he had no idea who I was, that I was just some hitch hiker he picked up in the Yukon.

This apparently set off some red flags for the border guard, who seeing this “hitch hiker” driving a brand new truck, thought that something wasn’t right. He had me get out of the rig, searched me for weapons, took away my knife and escorted me into the office for questions and a warrant search. It was the first of a series of awkward run-ins with the authorities that I would have on this trip.

After being cleared by the feds, I jumped back in the truck with the madman, but this time as a passenger. We took off into Alaska at full speed, and within minutes were pulled over by a state trooper. Again the driver explained to the cop, completely unprovoked, that he had no idea who I was, that I was just some “hitch hiker”. And again, following some protocol out of the book I guess, I was escorted out of the rig, patted down for weapons, had my knife removed, and was run for warrants.

I was cleared again, but the driver wasn’t so lucky. He flung his drivers license at the office when asked for it. The cop explained that under ordinary circumstances he would just give us a warning. However, due to the rude behavior of the madman, he would be getting a ticket. I realized that my time was coming to end with this guy, and that if I didn’t get out of the rig soon, I might end up in a ditch or sinking in some river.
I explained my concern a bit and suggested he get some sleep. At the next town I got out, and parted ways. As solid and fast as the ride was, I decided that the slow and unpredictable open road was a safer bet then where we were headed.

A few more rides, a collection of characters, and a super memorable introduction to Bob Dylan finally landed me in Denali. I had spent several days prior to the arrival with a group of traveling dreadlocked misfits and their small pack of dogs traveling about in a van. They were playing music for money along the way, and were just beginning to get the song “Hurricane” by Bob Dylan down. I listened in awe as they rambled thru the lyrics for hours as we bounced our way north. I was obviously ignorant in the realm of music, for I thought of Bob Dylan more as a picture in my history book, some character from a forgotten time. An activist maybe, a legend sort of, but not ever as a musician whose music I knew. This would be the beginning of a musical love affair that would develop and deepen as the summers played out.

Abby Stevens was the next person who introduced me to Dylan and a few other things as well. I knew the minute she put the headphones on my head, and casually touched her hand to my face that I was done for. Bolts of fire and lightning danced, wiggled, and -zapped all about-striking mind, body and heart.

She was my co-worker at Lynx Creek Pizza, and would become a legendary character that would haunt my world for so much longer then the brief weeks we knew each other. In so many ways she was the complete opposite of Christina, my sweet loyal girlfriend who was waiting for me back in Oregon. A woman who had her shit together and was ready to marry and settle down. Abby was singer, a guitar player, a traveler, a romancer, a free spirit.

I tried to resist, but realized my world was being cracked open and this was part of the journey. Or maybe it was lust, or fate, or weakness, or… The combination rocked my world. She sang me songs, taught me music, and showed me the open road and the possibilities of beauty, the unknown, adventure, and beyond.

I followed her down the rabbit hole, and it still keeps going. The last memory I have of her before the whole thing blew up in a hotel room in Anchorage was riding a train thru the heart of AK, writing haikus, and fantasizing about Mexico together.

Mexico Adventures

, TJ, New Years Eve

“You don’t understand. My friend is getting married in Queretero, Mexico. I’m the best man, and we are taking a very quick road trip down for the wedding!” I pleaded to the customs officials. In my most convincing Spanish, I appealed to the emotions of these edgy characters, who just about rolled their eyes at me as I rambled on. Something about confronting Federales in Mexico always brought out the bull-shitter in me. This time the show was not enough.

They made it very clear to us. Without a title to the vehicle we were driving, they would not give us the special sticker that would permit us to drive deep into the heart of Mexico. A simple thing, just a small piece of paper that verified that my trusted traveling companion Nate, truly did own the vehicle, and would not be selling it somewhere south of the border.

A little piece of paper that a bank in Oregon owned until Nate paid off his loan. Oregon was 1500 miles and a lifetime in a half away from where we now stood. Mexico was on the horizon, and all systems pointed south. We just had to figure out a path through this labyrinth of bureaucracy that now stood in our way.

In a few hours we contemplated an array of possibilities and settled on one of my hair-brained ideas. “Let’s forge some Oregon DMV temporary title papers!” I suggested to Nate. Flash forward to a Kinkos, some carbon paper, a few funny signatures, a stamp, and we were back on our way to Tijuana.

We figured if we showed up around midnight on New Years Eve, we might catch the officials a couple sheets to the wind, or at the very least, excited about the New Year, and disconnected from this one.

Its amazing what a good carbon copy and a couple of poker faces can get you. Before we knew it, we had permission from the feds, and we were running across town to pay off a bank and get our sticker before the clocks struck midnight.

Bike Cops?

We crossed the border that next night, blew a collective sigh of relief, and got pulled over by a couple of bike cops looking to shake us down.

Apparently, we were going the wrong way on a one way street. Of course there were no street signs confirming this, just a couple of characters on bikes of all things.

As the situation unraveled into potential economic devastation for us, I started to spin a yarn. “Let me take this,” I said to Nate as a story started percolating from the bowels of my bullshit.

In my most polite, most humbled, most pathetic Spanish I explained a few things about this trip we were on.

Within a few minutes I had a story with multiple strands weaving about like a plate of out of control spaghetti. It had to do with a wedding, a small envelope of money, the future sale of a surfboard, and teaching English. Seemed like the English piece really sold these guys. They may have thought we were missionaries, and I may have encouraged it. When the dust finally settled, we were off with a warning.

The Way of the Cowboy

Somewhere in the desert we took a detour and headed into the mountains in search of a waterfall and perhaps a place to park the bus for a night. We found neither, until we were found by a cowboy: A real live, honest to goodness cowboy- with a horse to boot.

He found us poking around looking for a trail that might lead us to what now seemed to be a mystical waterfall. We were dusty and a bit blown out on the trail, looking for a wash and a break from the scenery. The cowboy, Fernando, heard our story and led us and his amazingly flatulent horse down a rocky path that I was convinced would break someone’s ankle before it was all said and done.

Sure enough he found us the waterfall and we had a merry, albeit a bit awkward swim, as our new companero looked on. A few dives, a stretch in the water, and an underwater scrub down gave me a second wind and new perspective. We were in a beautiful canyon, an oasis of lush vegetation compared to the hostile desert we walked through to get to this place. We soaked it up as the shadows started dancing about the canyon walls, telling us it was time to get moving.

Between grandiose horse farts that loosened the rocks now sliding under our feet, we climbed back up the trail and listened to Fernando talk about his life. By the time we made it to the road, and invitation to dinner at his house had been offered, and we followed him and horse back home.

We talked, rambled, and brambled about the dinner table. Wild hand gestures, shouts, hoots and hollers split the night into small pieces that when stranded together started to look like a story I could wrap my head around. I was in awe of the cowboy lifestyle and wasn’t shy in sharing it. Fernando, obviously enjoying the spotlight, said I could come back anytime I wanted to learn the cowboy way. I filed that invitation away under ‘anything is possible’ and eventually joined Nate in the van we now had parked in front of Fernando’s house.






I could be with you Forever

When we rolled into Puerto Vallarta, our friends were just coming off a 24 hour cocaine fueled bender. Their arms were open, their hearts were warm, but their eyes looked like they’d been worked over by a sand blaster. A few demons still lingered on in the yet to be ventilated living room that caused a slight tingle in my nostrils as I tried to interpret the smells that danced about. They knew they were in no shape to host us and pointed us towards Yelapa and a full moon beach party that would be unfolding that night.

Yelapa had been built up in a series of stories that bent and twisted with mythical proportions as we snaked our way through the Mexican deserts. It was a beach, an island, an idea, a state of being. I didn’t believe any of it, but it sure beat being stuck in an apartment in some giant tourist town. So, we jumped on a boat, and set off for a journey that set a series of strange and amazing events in motion.

Yelapa wasn’t really an island, but it could only be accessed by boat or, as some preferred it, by paragliding from the big city. It wasn’t a Shangri-La, but it did have many different layers that continued to intrigue me as I fell under its spell. One of those layers was named Journey.

One evening I found myself caught up in a plot to gather a group of tourists together for a boat ride out to some islands for some snorkeling and whale watching. I weaved my way down the beach and poked into various beach restaurants to work my charm. The only success I had in recruitment was one beautiful, sassy, goddess like woman who stopped me in my tracks. Her name was Journey.

She was game for the trip and a whole lot more. I would find that out the hard way, the slow way, the frustrating way, and of course the mad-crazy-psycho teasing way.

Journey was an experienced water woman who taught me some amazing things about reefs, fish, currents, snorkeling, and how far I could go under the spell of a mermaid wearing a red bikini. Far, almost too far, was the answer to that.

The tractor beam caught me the night before and solidified its grasp on me all that morning and afternoon. We became glued to each other’s side as they day wore on and our adventures took us from the water to the mainland.

We took photos in a cave, almost had our first kiss, and then stumbled upon a blue footed bobby in distress. It was a sign I reckoned, and wracked my esoteric mind for interpretations of this strange site.

Blue footed bobbies are amazing animals. They have beautiful blue webbed feet and are about the size of a goose. They also have large dagger like beaks that could easily punch a hole through a human hand. The one we stumbled on was tangled up in fishing line, weights, and foam. It was obviously in distress and hobbled about, unable to fly.

“We have to do something,” Journey said. My alter ego hybrid of MacGyver and Don Quixote took full control, and I sat back to watch the ride. On my side was my trusty leatherman, a tool that had saved my life once before. I got it out and contemplated the possibilities. As I made several approaches, the bobby in distress and her caring comrades made several lunges at me with their dagger beaks. I clumsily dodged them, and realized quickly that I would soon have holes in several body parts at the rate this was going.

Then I realized I had a towel. “Throw it over its head and I will go for its feet,” I said to Journey as an idea started to crystallize. She followed my command, and with a few twists of luck and smart thinking, we untangled the lines caught up around the bobbby’s feet and got her back into flying condition.

When we took the towel off her head, she made a few more lunges at us, then realized her feet were working again, and flew off. We returned to the boat and made our way back to Yelapa and a very strange night.

The seeds had been sown out on that island, and now I figured a bounty was sure to come my way. And so it did. Sort of. I lay with Journey wrapped in my arms on the balcony of some strange house that we had some kind of connection to via some Canadian drug dealers. I tried to kiss her. She declined, dug deeper into a snuggle, rocked her head back, and then said, “I just had this feeling that you could be the man I spend the rest of my life with.”

The record came to a scratching stop. ‘Huh,’ I thought, as I sifted for meaning through the beer haze that still hung about the edges of my mind. “What do you mean by that?” I stabbed into the night air. She waved it off, told me to forget about it, and drifted off to some sleepy place built specifically for one. I stayed up with this gorgeous woman wrapped in my arms and wondered a thousand things before that sun started poking its head about and sleep finally tricked me for a couple of hours.

The Marriage

Back in Puerto Vallarta, the funds started running low. Desperate ideas were being built and inspired by low level street thugs, and the dark side of the ever pumping tourist scene.

One evening a plan was set in motion by our gracious host and ever savvy chameleon of a friend Hanna. She had been here almost a year and knew the ins, outs, and in-betweens of how this town worked.

With some crafty negotiation we struck a deal with a local peddler of time-share presentations. Knowing the insides of this questionable trade, Hanna went straight for the cash line. In general, these street hustlers offer a few free dinners or tickets to some tourist event for signing up for an “orientation”. However, our lady on the inside knew that these guys got massive cash comps for landing potential suckers. She had the numbers down, and a championship poker face. Locking into the tractor beam stare of the guacharo, Hanna played out our hand to a cash pay-off of $250. I chimed in a few times during the negotiations and also arranged for tickets to a bullfight and all you can drink booze cruise!

That night I purchased a fake wedding ring, and prepared for my next role that would start bright and early the next day.

‘How did we meet? Where? When? What do you do for work? Do we have a house? Do we want kids?’ Were just a few of the questions we had to get down before our 10:00 visit to the time share barons of Puerto Vallarta.

Fortunately Hanna was a theatre major and shined like a star. I leaned into the depth of her character and rode her coat tails as we spun a muli-layered cake of bullshit to the kings of the bullshit trade.

We rolled with a series of twists and turns and nailed every question. With some unspoken code between us, we took turns answering the most intimate questions about our lives, our love, and our honeymoon. We were on fire.

The grand finale was an impassioned plea by one of the salesmen to make a purchase. We had said no in the most polite way to three other sales people. They knew we were some hard cookies, but they thought they could break us, so they brought in the heartbreaker. He told us about his kids. He told us about their private school. He told us how he paid the bills by making these sales. Then, when he knew we weren’t budging, he started to cry. It was a beautiful, sad, deep cry, but we could see that its outlines were covered in the bullshit that had been running all over the place these last few hours.

We finally excused ourselves, collected our money, and our free tickets to the bullfight and cruise. I rubbed my new wedding ring, gave Hanna a big squeeze, and made a little victor jig out on the streets. It was time to celebrate.

Booze Cruise

The bullfights broke our hearts. Nate, a vegetarian, and I, an aquatarian were probably the only spectators in the stadium rooting for the bulls. It was a bloody slaughter, and the matadors were messy amateurs. With a sour taste lingering in our mouths, we limped our way home to sleep it off and get ready to drink our sorrows away on the all you can drink booze cruise.

It started in the morning. Madness! 10:00 and we are on the open seas, drinking tequila sunrises. At least there was some orange juice in there. By 11:30 we were wasted and found out that the snorkeling part of the trip had been canceled because of a storm out in the Pacific that had sent a large swell into the bay. Instead we would be visiting some remote beach and another water fall. I was disappointed. I was curious to experience drunken snorkeling….wondering in a morbid kind of way, what would happen when a bunch of drunk tourists were thrown into deep waters.

Best Surf in Years

As we staggered off the boat half drunk I noticed an incredible wave breaking down the beach. We were supposed to be taking a walk to visit a waterfall. I took a detour and headed towards the waves.

Along the way I stumbled upon a beach café that had a surfboard leaning up against a palapa pole. I asked the first person I saw working in the café whose board it was. It was his. I looked at the amazing break that was just peaking with the tide. With a sparkle in my eye that only a surfer could understand, I asked him if I could rent the board. He saw the sparkle, knew the feeling, and said, “No man, just take the board and go ride some waves.”

The paddle out just about killed me. I felt like I was on a rollercoaster and almost lost a couple quarts of mixed drinks on the way to the line up. The first set sobered me up quickly as I paddled into position, and took off on one of the best waves Id surfed in years. It was the beginning of an epic session that had me taking off and shredding left after left. It was bliss! I surfed until the tourists lined up for the boat ride back to Puerto Vallarta, and seriously contemplated staying at this beach indefinitely.

When I finally came in, I tried once again to pay the surfer that had made my day. He again turned down my offers and said that I could borrow the board anytime.

Money

My half of the loot went into the gas tank and the cooler. The town had taken its toll, and the parties of Yelapa had just about killed us. It was time to head south, into the unknown, in search of waves and the little things that come into your world along the way.

Before the funds ran out, we managed to find a few desolate beaches, learned how to climb coconut trees, got chased by a shark, and drank ourselves into a blissful oblivion that answered some of life’s big questions. I’m quite sure that we figured out why we here, where we were going, and if there was a god before the sun came up one evening. Of course they got lost in one of those super sized 40 ounce beer bottles, and sucked out to sea before we could sober up.

Northbound

“You gotta know when to hold them, know when to fold them, know when to walk away.…” had been jingling through my head for the last few days I was in Puerto Vallarta. Seemed clear to me that this was one of those times to get moving, to walk away.
Unhealthy patterns were starting to form. Nights of debauchery, knowing the names of ex-pats on the streets, seeing the layers of sadness under to shiny neon glow of the tourist scene started taking its toll. The fee was in pesos, brain cells, and small pieces of heart. It wasn’t worth the price, so I thought Id visit Journey one last time and head off to see if I could learn how to be a cowboy.

I had to jump an iron gate to get into Journey’s lair that last evening of strange loving. The lights were out, sleep was dragging the night into dawn, and no one was answering the door bell.

Of course she was up, waiting for me she said. I crawled into her bed, and stayed much longer then I had planned.

The next day I said farewell, navigated my way out of her house, and the penetrating gaze of a man who had lost his lady to my spell. It was a good time to be going.

I caught a bus north and retraced my footsteps to the door of Fernando, the cowboy who had no idea that I would ever return. I felt like an alien as I walked through the little mountain town in search of my mentor. With a big backpack on my shoulders, and the idea that anything was possible; I walked with determination through the zig-zag streets.

When I found him and explained my intentions, he didn’t seem all that surprised. With cowboy coolness, he said sure, you can stay as long as you like. I pitched a tent in his yard, and tried to “fit right in.” Being the only gringo, 6’2”, and a bit of a city slicker didn’t help.

Neither did the fact that Fernando “lost” his horse, and was taking a few days off from the cowboy business. He was spending his time watching “day time soaps” with his wife and kids. Every once in a while we would head out to the pastures and look for his lost horse. It seemed a sad, strange world from the edge I hung from and looked within.

I spent my time playing with kids, taking walks, and wondering, ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’

After a few days, the horse was found, and we finally mounted a mission into the valley below and a visit to his herd of cattle.

It was a spectacular, steep, windy trail into the other world. Fernando told me wild stories of the history of his little town. We rode by a tree, and he wove a tale of family feuds and pointed to a fork in the road where his uncle was ambushed and murdered. As we rode closer to the herd, Fernando pointed to several other places where battles had taken place, cousins had been shot and rival family members murdered.

As we descended the final approach to his little valley, Fernando started talking the magical language of cowboy-cow talk. He whistled, clicked, and clacked to his ladies down below. As they responded, I saw his face light up for the first time. He was in love with these cows.

They started moving about as we got closer, excited to see us. Fernando brought salt licks, and placed them on several large boulders. He then rode around and encouraged the herd to gather. He would disappear for several moments, then re-appear with a few beautiful cows. I figured this was my cowboy training and I should take advantage of the moment. Doing my best to replicate his ways, I too went off into the brush in search of cows.

It was easy to find them, but they stared at me like I was from the opposing army. I rode around them, made some funny noises, and attempted to mask my fear with gritty cowboy determination. I failed miserably, but put on a good show for the cows. They mooed a few times, then moved on.

Fernando eventually herded them up into a coral, riding around, yelping at them. He threw his lasso around a baby, roped it up to a staked, and saved its life. He had left a rope around its neck that was now causing the baby to choke as it grew wider and the rope tightened. I helped hold the rope around its neck as Fernando did the cowboy ballerina walk to get closer to what would someday be a ferocious bull. It bucked, kicked, and at one point just about killed me as we tried to get subdue it and get that damn rope off its neck.

I think I cramped his style, but eventually Fernando was able to put the cow into headlock and slice off the strangling rope with a sharp blade. At that point, I had had my fill of the cowboy life and was eager to get back to more stable ground. The lights were fading in this little valley, and the shadows were pointing towards home. I rode my horse around the cows a few more times, asked Fernando to take a photo of me and the herd, and then encouraged us to beat the night back to his home.

Dispatch 7

BORDERS

Bumping and grinding our way through the windy, crumbling, exploding roads of the highlands of Guatemala, we finally arrived at the border of El Salvador, “the savior” to our south. I was traveling with a group of Guatemalan and American friends in a 4x4 pick-up truck, the ideal ride for a road trip to Nicaragua.
Recently, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, and Nicaragua had signed an “open borders” pact, allowing for more hassle free movement for citizens of those four countries. I would find out the hard way it wasn't such a good deal for their friends up to the “north”.

My passport stamp was a few weeks expired, so I figured that I would be having to pay a small fine at the border-that was the word on the gringo grapevine. But, that was not how it worked out there on the edge of two countries. The El Salvadorian border guards sent me back to Guatemala(after a feeble attempt at talking to the “jefe” to see if we could “work things out”). Guatemalan border guards told me I had to go to Mexico or Belize. Apparently they were not equipped to handle this ever so complicated situation.

Faced with this international dilemma, I huddled up with my traveling companeros to discuss options. It was Semana Santa (Spring Break) for them, and their time was limited. My Guatemalan counterparts assured me that we could “work things out” with the officials as long as we played the game and did the right dance. I didn't know all the rules or the moves, so I reluctantly shut my mouth, and let Ricardo show me the “way”.

He asked to see the “jefe” who appeared out of nowhere. He had four gold capped teeth that he showed off with a mischievous smile and a sparkle in his old eyes. He knew good things were coming his way, and said “there might be something I could do.” And then the back door opened(literally).

We walked in the back door and sat with the boss and my expired passport. He said I could pay the “fine” and if I was willing to give him a “present” he could give me the stamp I so desperately needed. He explained that a “normal present” was $100 US. I gulped and spoke up for the first time. “Senor, soy un voluntario, soy pobre”. His sparkle faded a shade or two, but continued on with his work. I turned to Ricardo as the jefe was stamping my passport. “What should I give him?” I whispered in English. Ricardo suggested $10 and the deal was done.

But, there was a catch. The jefe said we could not cross at this border. He explained that if we did, he would get in trouble because the El Salvadorians would know that he broke the “law” . He said we had to go to another crossing which was many hours and gallons of petro away, and not an option for my companeros.
As we walked back to the truck to discuss this latest twist in our adventure, Lindsay pointed to a bus, and said, “hop on that bus, cross the border, and call us when you get to the other side.” Before I could think it through, I was speed walking across the highway to meet the bus and contemplating all the different ways this new plan could go wrong. Before stepping onto the bus, I took a deep breath, and like a stage actor before the curtain opens I regained my composure- walked on the bus, past the driver, and into the nearest vacant seat as if I was suppose to be there; that there was nothing fishy about what I was doing.

A few minutes later the engine burped, rumbled and sputtered to a start. A few other folks got on the bus and we started the short voyage to the border. I looked out the window and saw my old “friend” the El Salvadorian guard halt the bus and approach the driver. I tried to think of an excuse as to what I was doing, as to how I suddenly appeared on this bus, of what happened to my friends and our truck. I had no story, so I slowly sank into the doom of my hot seat. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her wave us through to another check point.

When we got there, another “old friend” was getting her official hat on and approaching the bus. Earlier in the day I was in her office, waiting to see if I could “bribe” my way into that country with her boss. I quickly took off my hat, combed my hair and beard with my dirty paws, buttoned up my shirt and searched for a new character as she entered the bus and began asking for papers.

When she got to me, she asked me where I was going and why. Again, I took a deep breath, searched desperately for my new character and coughed out a convincing, though slightly stuttering explanation.

As she finished up her inspection and was walking off the bus, the “ayudante” finally noticed me. He came up and asked with a confused look on his face, “where are you going?” I explained just a little past the border, like it was totally normal to hop on a bus, ride it for a 100 meters across an international border, and then hop off. He asked for a dollar and off we went. A minute later, I gave him the international sign for “let me off here” and the bus stopped. I bounced off into the new lands of El Salvador and called my friends.

NICARAGUAN HIGHLIGHTS

(Wounded Warriors)
In the city of Leon, there is something in the air that is strikingly different then most typical Latin American cities I have passed through.
On the town square, you see the typical colonial Spanish city lay out-church, government building, and a park in between. But in Leon, there is something else. Its got a red and black flag flying from its doors, and wounded soldiers of the revolution stirring about at the entrance. The building is a museum and collective dedicated to the successful Sandinista revolution and the not so successful civil war against the US backed “Contras”.

I was immediately drawn to it, and found myself caught up in exciting conversation with a man whose arms were blown off during the war and another whose leg was shot several times. They told me stories of the past, like how the church that leaned over the park had been taken over by the former dictator's troops during the revolution. Snipers were up in the church bell tower picking off revolutionary soldiers. However, the Sandinistas were eventually able to get the better hand and attacked the church and troops inside. The old warriors explained that were thousands of people had been wounded and killed during the revolution and civil war, and that the museum we stood in front of was designed to honor them and care for the wounded-many of whom lived in the old revolutionary city of Leon.

There' s also a cafe called the “Ben Linder Cafe” which is named in honor of the OREGONIAN engineer and clown who lived and worked for years in Nicaragua during the 1980's. He worked on projects to bring clean water and electricity to local towns and was also famously known as a circus performer who was memorialized in a mural in the UO student union building riding a unicycle and juggling. He was murdered by the Contras in the 1980's.

There was something special in the air of Leon, and I breathed it in as deep as I could. Memories, ghosts, and idealism were all still alive and stirring about here.

(The Mansion)
One night we found ourselves on the beach as the sun was setting. The nearest town had thousands of people packing its streets and hotels to celebrate Holy Week(Semana Santa), which we know in the secular world as Spring Break. We were contemplating our sleeping options for the night and it wasn't looking good:
Option One: Sleep on a concrete floor at the appropriate technology shop I would soon be working in
Option Two: An invitation from a drunken madman to sleep in a still under construction gringo house up on the bluff. With crazy hand gestures and strange noises(like WahhhShaSaloop!) he described the good time we could all have up there. He also mentioned how recently some gangsters had tried to rob the house and the gunfight that ensued.
In the midst of our discussion, another option suddenly presented itself to us. Lindsay, our reina of the trip, had gone off looking for a bathroom and returned with some interesting news. She had found a bathroom and also a mansion that we had been “invited” to spend the night in. The “owners” were foreign and only spent about two months a year in the house. They had a Nicaraguan family who “guarded” the place and lived in the garage. Somehow, in the short time of using the bathroom, Lindsay had charmed her way into a loose agreement with the “guards” that would benefit all of us. For a “donation” to the family, we could stay the night in the mansion. The rooms had silk sheets and computerized fans. We also had access to Wireless Internet and a big screen T.V. The only catch was that we had to leave at the crack of dawn(to avoid drawing attention from the neighbors to our not so legitimate agreement), but it beat a concrete floor or crazy night with the madman. You never know what options are out there until you ask...

THE PROJECT

I became a trusty sidekick for a few weeks to a fearless Don Quixote(esque) appropriate technology guru by the name of Fidel. Riding on the back of his motorcycle, carrying his tules, moving heavy objects, and asking questions ever 73 seconds or so, I got a chance to learn how to set up water filters that use sand, rock,and gravity to clean water, how to build organic toilets, and how to contsruct "safe stoves". It was all going great until I started getting some strange emails from the US department of Justice. Then they told me about section 1783 of Title 28 and everything changed.


SECTION 1783 of TITLE 28 of the UNITED STATES CODE

Layman's Summary: Matthew Rutman has to return to the USA to testify in the federal trial of the United States vs. Elreese Daniels in Spokane, Washington. If he does not return, he will be put in jail for contempt of court and be given a huge fine the minute he crosses a border back into the good ol' USA.
Seriously, it’s a real law. I looked it up because it seemed so surreal. It didn't mention my name, but the rest of it is pretty much the law in layman's terms. The government can force a US citizen living abroad to return to the states to be a witness in a federal court case.
The feds are prosecuting my former fire crew boss for manslaughter for the deaths of four fellow firefighters that I was trapped with during the 30 mile fire in July of 2001. It's an unprecedented case that could have some big consequences in the world of fire fighting. Apparently it’s such a big deal, that they are willing to apply section 1783 of title 28 to me if I don't return.
Also in the law, it states that the government has to pay for all of my travel costs, return me from where they are taking me from, and pay me for food, transportation,and housing costs while back in the states.
I put up as big a stink as I could, wiggling and waggling every which way I could to find a way out of this strange twist of fate. But, alas, it was to no avail, though I did make a couple of enemies and I think a friend in the process....
I am heading back for “pre-trial consultation” on April 23 then I will be bouncing my way between Spokane and San Diego(on the government's dime) until they call me to testify. They say I have to be available and in the states for the duration of the trial, which will supposedly last between 6-8 weeks. If you got a couch or spare room and want to see my bright and shiny face in the morning, let me know and I will put you on my radar. At the very least I plan to spend time in Portland, Eugene, San Luis Obispo, and San Diego...

Hasta Pronto! Hasta Siempre!Mateo