Progress the American Way

Make my way out of Bellingham on Wednesday along the beautiful, rolling, Chuckanut Drive. Beautiful if you are an experienced cyclist. Greuling if you are still working yourself into touring shape and carrying entirely too much weight. I am riding a bicycle from Vancouver, BC to Tiajuana, Mezico. Sorry I did not mention this earlier. This stretch of beautiful, densely wooded hillside with myriad picturesque views of Puget Sound and the San Juan Islands just so happens to be threatened by the developer's bulldozer. Better take lots of pictures. Cycling through the cool forests I am struck with the haunting sensation that I am often faced with while traveling - this is quite possibly the last time I will see this beautiful place in the state which it now exists. As they say in Ohio as they put up another Applebees along the new highway - that's progress. Progress the American way.

Crossing the bridge from Chuckanut Ridge into the Skagit River Valley the landscape changes dramatically from the thick forests of fir and cedar covered in moss to flat expanses of golden wheat and barley sprinkled with small farms and vegetable stands. The Cascade Mountains frame the Snohomish River where dozens of men rhythmically wave fly rods as if they are conducting an underwater orchestra. I stop to sample the wild blackberries that will set the standard for all other blackberries from this day forth. In Edison I stop next door to a bar that brandishes a sign reading: Bikers Welcome. No time for Bourbon now, just fresh bread and cheese to fill my belly for the long ride to the ferry landing on Widby Island. If this town only had a damn Wal Mart it would be perfect.

Picture of the Blues

A busker was playing the blues in Chinatown. Making a living from the loonies tossed into a worn leather case on the sidewalk attended to by pigeons, tourists and the elderly. His long strands of grey hair falling over his shoulder paid a testament to the years of sorrow in his gravely voice. Framed by the bright red of apothecaries and yellow banners of Chinatown he was blue. Haunting chords made their way slowly, lowly from the weathered amplifier through the mystical world of unintelligible writing above dried healing roots. The ghost of his song was not supposed to be there, but neither was I. The low wail of his electric guitar spoke to me as a stranger in a strange land: described my loneliness as only the blues can.

I stopped behind him without making a sound like so many pickpockets working the busy corner of Hastings and Main. Stopped to steal the moment and he stopped playing and the air felt dead. The silence weighed upon me; heavy and oppressive. "You could at least ask me if you are going to take a picture. I could understand if I were a tree or something, but I am a man. A human being. I don't want any money. I just want you to ask. I am going to have to say something about this on my website."

For some reason I thought that the spiritual communion I felt with his guitar entitled me to capture his image without his permission; like his presence was somehow converted into public domain by the power his music. I quickly apologized and erased the picture from my digital camera leaving nothing but my words and my memory to describe the scene for posterity. Or my version of posterity.

Maier's Index

2: The number of hostels in which I stayed while in Vancouver.
2: The number of hostels in which I stayed while in Vancouver located above a bar featuring a wide variety of outdated musical selections on the juke box to be played at a high volume.
948: Number of miles between Vancouver, BC and San Francisco, CA according to Mapquest.com
0: Cost of gasoline in American dollars necessary for this trip.
3: Number of Fringe Festival shows I attended while in Vancouver.
1: Number of Fringe Festival shows I attended using a balloon tied in the shape of a dachshund to represent human entrails.
1769: Years after the birth of his boss that Juan Gaspar de Portola first traversed "El Camino Real" or "King's Highway" connecting 21 Native Re-education Centers, or Missions, for the Catholic Church along the coast of the Pacific Ocean.
3: Number of Gods they were peddling for the price of one.
18: Number of angry emails I will receive from devout Catholic family members.
1: Number of families patient enough to deal with me.
459: Canadian Dollars paid to purchase a brand new Miele Toscana hybrid touring bicycle after searching endlessly for a used model.
200: Price asked for a used hybrid touring bicycle posted on the Mountain Equipment Co-op bulletin board two days after I purchase above-mentioned bike.
60: Maximum amount of gear in pounds recomended for long-distance touring.
8: Number of books I still have packed as of today.
60: Minimum number of training days recommended by most long-distance touring cyclists before embarking upon a trek.
0: Number of books I will have after climbing my first 8 percent incline.

A Hot One

3:15. To be honest I really do not know what day it is. Picked up the last of my stuff from Scott's house today. Stopped into the Cabin Tavern on the way back to the boat. Allowed Old Joe to depress me again. "Don't end up like me boy." He continued along with this rant until it reached its denouement with "If I had a penny for every sexual experience I have ever had I could buy a used Volkswagen. And it would be a hot one." And surmised his thoughts with "you know...you never know."

Made my way back to the boat. In the galley I was seized by a most bizarre sensation. Not a panic, but a diet panic, where I was unable to pack my rucksack and sift through the physical remnants of the last three months of my life. Decisions awaiting my attention pressed firmly like diabolical, yet still opposable thumbs upon my temples until I was pressed into a state of mild paralysis of mind rendering these time-sensitive decisions impossible. This feeling, like most, fades in time.

5:25. Greyhound is right on time. Driver sees the two Granny Smith apples in my pack and tells me "they may not like those at the border." I eat one apple and give one to the Brit with the eyebrow ring next to me. He rattles off an unintelligible series of words about being - I guess - stopped at the border on his way from BC before taking an overly aggressive bite from the apple and spitting out sour bits of spittle and "cheers."

Waiting for the rest of the passengers on the bus to pass through immigration I find out that a filmmaker and photographer is also into driving busses. The rest of the ride into Vancouver is spent talking not about customs, or apples, but film. Minolta versus Nikon. 200 ASA versus 400 ASA while photographing elk in the morning on the Olympic Peninsula. Digital versus Celluloid. We almost rear-ended a car in traffic coming into town as the bus driver gazed into the mountains framing Vancouver as two hot air balloons crossed the viewfinder that was not there. He told me that if he had a penny for every beautiful photo that he missed he would be driving his own bus. I asked if it would be a hot one. He said yes.

Farewell to Bellingham

I feel the weight of the pack again on my back and the equal and opposite reaction of the hard road ahead pressing against my feet. The burden of the pack is made heavier by having to leave a beautiful place, and even more beautiful friendships. Bellingham exudes a sense of comfort and warmth. From the chalk drawings on the street and the sails passing gently in front of Lummi Island. From a kind stranger welcoming you into his home for dinner to the smiles of stylish, unapologetically hip, girls wasting afternoons smoking cigarettes and drinking the best coffee in the world. It is a world that is difficult to leave.

Traveling alone offers a person the unique opportunity follow a magical trail - a trail that has brought me here - of coincidences and chance encounters in the search of something divine, yet strangely indefinable. Along this trail are vast stretches of loneliness and sadness testing the depths of your courage and strength. In between these long arduous stretches of life are beautiful oases of friendship and love. Music and art. I have been fortunate enough to recently pass through one of these beautiful, yet fleeting oases of life. I will need its memories to sustain me for the long road ahead.

A Letter Home from the Road

July 2, 2005

Communication with the rest of the world has been quite difficult of late. I still have the electronic leash, yet the putrid service does not extend to many of the locations the fates have taken me. Time is of the essence as the Bellingham Public Library closes in 34 minutes and my narrative will remain brief as a result. As you well know I left Ohio via Greyhound bus some two weeks ago. The trip was full of the sort of adventures for which I had hoped.

St. Louis and its famed arch. Kansas City and the rusted urban decay of the dying Midwest stockyards, and then west across the vast plains of Kansas. A glowing orange sun set over the prairie as we made our way along I-70 to Denver. Came into the Rockies at night - kind of a pisser. Sunrise in Wyoming. Dick Cheney country, but beautiful rock formations and prong-horned antelope along the way to keep your mind off the war.

Met a fellow running out on his wife from Ohio and coached him through Hobo 101. He was quite new to the game. Set him up with a hostel in Portland and got him squared away with the hippies out there in Old Town with the hope of getting started on a new life in the West. Kind of exciting. The mountains of Utah - Park City and Salt Lake City - were damn amazing. The Mormons picked a dandy spot to set up shop.

Set foot in Seattle on Sunday afternoon. Like Beavis said "Everyone in Seattle is cool." Stayed at the Green Tortoise (stay there if you are in Seattle or San Francisco as it is a peach of a hostel) and worked cleaning rooms until Friday evening. That town is truly the end of the line. The new American frontier. All of the good drifters end up at the Tortoise. Met a fella from Sacramento on the run from a hit and looking for a job tending bar in any gay club that would hire him without a background check. A toothless old Cajun who grew up above a titty bar looking for the most homeless-friendly city in the country. And Mark.

Mark grew up in the south of Arkansas and became a Baptist Preacher at the age of 16. I learned a great deal from this man. Mark hated the clan. He also hated the war that was poised to kill his baby sister. He has fished the waters of Alaska for the past six years and then taken to the road seeking adventure and singing old Johnny Cash songs throughout the rest of the year. You do not often meet humans as real as this man. Kind of a Dean Moarity vibe to him, without announce of premonition.

In Seattle I beat the docks looking for a job on a seiner - type of salmon boat - headed for Alaska but to no avail. Interviewed for a job as a slave laborer on an off-shore processor, yet thought the better of it and passed. North I figured. I must move the story along as the cursed library now closes in 14 minutes. Took off north to Bellingham via Greyhound after a grand ole day with the gang of fishermen and castoffs from the Tortoise. Got off the bus at midnight - somewhere near the BC border - and set up camp on the beach in Bellingham Bay under the cover of darkness.

Terrible dreams followed of having my teeth kicked in by junkies. I was awoke throughout the night on a continuous basis by both the drunks staggering along the train tracks and the freight trains just feet from my head. The sleep was far from restful as the nightmares raced through my head. I awoke the next morning to the clang of a large hammer driving in an iron stake. A large festival - Ski to Sea if you want to Google it - was being set up in the park where I constructed my hoboabode. I gathered the earthly belongings in haste and made my way to the docks to look for work on a boat. Lugged 66 pounds of shit from boat to boat with no luck and collapsed in the shade to rest.

It was here that I met Scott, a friendly old fisherman, who had no job to offer me but was kind enough to take me under his wing and stay at his home. Since that first afternoon in Bellingham I have been living in his cabin east of town and working long hours in the shipyard with the hope that a spot opens up on the crew. With any luck I will find myself heading north with Scotty in two weeks when he heads off to Southeast Alaska. I have food to eat and a place to stay. Yes, it is fair to say that life is treating me well.