Dispatch from Argentina: Environmental Self Doubt

I find myself wanting to slash through the tent wall, scream a battle cry and sprint sparsely clothed to shelter! I am panicked, not out of fear, but from the frustrations of not having slept in 48 hours while at 20,200 feet on Aconcagua. Who knew that the wind could blow with such intensity for 14 days straight with only 15 second lulls? Listening to hear the wraith building it´s strength only to hit the tent with a force that flex poles and pops you in the head for 12 hours. My neck and upper back are sore, the unpopular headache at altitude is present, the pee bottle is full, at the end of my Skittles, Marquez´s magical realism and lack of punctuation in ¨Autumn of the Patriarch¨ just spews from page to page not helping matters of sanity, I am unravelled and its only 8pm.

2 years ago after climbing this very mountain I proclaimed it the hardest physical act of my life. Crossfit changed that benchmark and I find myself back guiding with my friend Brian Rougeux. We have hauled 500 plus pounds of gear and food up this slag pile of a mountain, beautiful as she is, damn the carries steep. The plan is to get up at 4 am and leave for the summit by 5ish. Midnight arrives and I still have not slept, my nerves are wrecked, I am not going, I can not.

´Hey Brian, I am done, can´t make the summit push´ I say at 4am. He casually tells me to just get up and start moving around and the blood will start flowing, drink some water and get your Gore-tex on, that I will feel fine. All I can do is lay there paralyzed with self-doubt. How am I going to do another climb if I feel this strung out? The first trip back to altitude is always the hardest, I know this. The wind is howling and I start to sit up. I find myself searching for my layers spread along the side of the tent to trap heat. Next I find myself putting on my Gore-tex and down layers. Next my inner boots and looking for my water bottle that is no doubt frozen. I take my multi-tool and cut out the ice to free that trapped liquid underneath, and swallow.

I am still a little shaky from sleep deprivation, but I am relaxed. No headache, warm feet, the wind has died down to a 10 mph breeze while gusting at 20. The skies are clear, the sun just cresting hundred of miles away. We hit the trail and start our step-breath-step rhythm which will carry us to 22,841 feet over the next 6 hours. Once past the Indepencia Hut, our first landmark I am grinning ear to ear. I feel great, our acclimatization plan worked and 2 days without sleep has not fatigued me. The 1300 ft Candeleta proved rough, only 2/3 filled with snow, the scree sections drain your oxygen and strain your calf muscles as you try to gracefully move to conserve energy. By 11 am we are on the summit looking at the 9,000 ft. South Face of Aconcagua. Filled with environmental self doubt only hours earlier, I am through another test, confident for my next climb. Should the wind blow for another 14 days, well that's part of the experience.

Dispatch from America: Coast to Coast

We finished our bike tour after 70 days of riding, 3,600 miles on our tires and we saw but a fraction of what lies out there. Spending the majority of our miles on county and state roads I noticed how federal interstates deprive drivers of what really lies off an exit. Next time you use Google maps or similar software, take US-highways and state routes so that you will see forgotten towns like Ash Grove, Missouri and Walden, Colorado.

Thanks goes out to everyone who donated sub money, read the blog, gave us shelter from the weather, without you we probably would not have finished!

Enjoy the holiday season and stay tuned as Project Wanderlust heads South of the equator to Argentina for the winter months. More pictures and stories to come from Aconcagua and Patagonia!

Dispatch from America: Observations and Happenstance

As we enter Virginia, I am back to the lighter side of our bike trip. Abby likened Eastern Kentucky to places in Peru she had seen, third world where sanitation and garbage are concerned. The past two days brought back a PSA that aired when I was in college(See the YouTube link below). Keep in mind that while the PSA was meant to be over the top, we have seen areas that are worse!

We have had ideal camps on the ridges of the Appalachians. Catching the waning daylight and waking to the intense orange dawn light that warms the tent. There are often turkeys calling and hound dogs baying in the early morning hours. As we ride up and over the steep hills of Appalachia you can not help but take in the immense poverty that has strangled this area since people fled the crowded East Coast more than a century ago.

Coal is King and everyone has "Friends in Low Places" as dictated by their truck decals that depict a miner crawling through a shaft. The shoulder is the white line; often with sharp pieces of gravel and coal strewn about near mountain top removal sites. The convenient aspect of loud or lacking exhaust on vehicles is that you can hear them coming and move over. People are mostly indifferent to the foreign bikers, occasionally a member from the "Greatest Generation" will wave and talk with you. There ought to be more of that spirit. You get the random, "dumb ass" or other incomprehensible mutterings of a passenger car as they fly by you at 60+ mph. None of those people say anything when you see them at the next gas station; with looks of," their here already?", lacking the stones to confront you.

I look forward to crossing the Appalachian Trail outside Damascus, VA where this time 3 years ago I walked these very mountains. Then we are onto Boone, NC where I went to college and have not visited for 5 years. Finally we ride out of the Appalachians and into the sand hills of NC and head for the ocean to finish our bike tour.

Dispatch from America: People who litter and their Corporate Accomplices

I was too hard on Missouri upon rolling through it's steep Western hills. The Ozarks, while short in distance were quite stunning. Everyone warned us about the heeling dogs of MO and KY, turns out that all you have to say is "NO" with some force and they do an about face. We are sitting in Berea, KY, the gateway into the Appalachian Mountains. Back to the topic at hand.

There has been an exponentially growing trend that I have noticed along the roadsides of our country . . . LITTER. Now this has very little to do with an environmental concern, more a socio-economic observation. I do not have to be a statistician to make the following statement, all I had to do was ride 6-8 hours a day, 3000 miles across the country. By riding a bike at an average of 8 mph one sees the amount of trash easier then at 60 mph.

There is no doubt that the amount of litter increases in rural areas within this country. Call it the lack of volunteers for road side cleanup, I'll give you that. Never the less, this McDonald's trash is not just wrappers and cups. Imagine if you will, the next time you eat on the run; that when you finish your meal, place the wrappers in the bag and simply roll down the window and chuck it. A complete disregard for your community and neighbors. There is an understood truth that animals do not defecate where they sleep, well you would think that this is not much different.

With all the options of today's mega-gas stations and fast food chains, the most numerous items found along America's byways are McDonald's, Pepsi/Coke products, Miller/Coors/Anheuser-Busch products, and cigarette/smokeless tobacco items. You do not see traditional grocery items frequently unless some slack jawed yokel has tossed out an entire bag of house-hold waste. The bulk of road-side trash are items bought primarily at fast food and gas stations, consumed within close proximity to their point of purchase, and from a small amount of manufactures when considering the amount of companies that produce the offending items.

This is not to stereotype individuals that use the mentioned products, but to point out who's company they are in and thus represented by and associated with. The answer? Signs warning of fines and jail time will continue to be mocked and blasted with buck shot unless strict and just punishment is policed. More roadside disposal containers,it worked in British Columbia, even in the most rural and desolate sections one can find a trash can. "Who's to empty the cans", you ask? How about the offenders?

In closing, throw your trash away in a proper receptacle, do not dump your old furniture into streams, and have some respect for where you and others live. If you find that you just can not wrap your troglodyte mind around this concept, chamber a round and place it in your mouth!

Dispatch from America: There will be blood . . .( possum blood that is)

Well Abby and I escaped Kansas with only 1 reference to Oz thankfully! When I saw the rolling limestone hills of Missouri I had a familiar sensation from childhood. Was it that Appalachia looks similar, the amount of road kill present, or could it just be the Hardees cup along with some trash on the road? Ah the sights and smells of Dixie! Now the James Gang were from Missouri and they did all their train and bank robbing on accounts of "Dixie" after the South fell. Turns out that Missouri was not a member of the Confederate States of America, but was claimed by the CSA without any formal control or succession. Could have fooled me.

To date the bike tour is slowly approaching the East coast. What motivation we had in escaping the snowy roads of Colorado has been sucked through the soles of our feet. The daily fight against an enemy who takes no form but manipulates all that it encounters; THE WIND. A "tail wind" falls into the realm of gnomes and sprites, often talked about in the mountains but never seen. Missouri has proven to be a human powered roller coaster with short and steep hills. Between a sore knee and the lack of a shoulder to ride, the hills make our gear selection erratic and clumsy like the driver tossing Keystone empties out his window. I instantly hate riding in Missouri, worst of the 8 states thus far.

I look forward to the day I ride out of Missouri and can deliver possibly the best line when dealing a coup de grâce to my foe, Missouri. As Daniel Day Lewis so eloquently states, "I drink your milkshake, I drink it up"!

Dispatch from America's Breadbasket

I am going to attempt this Dispatch, but the Achilles heel will be that WiFi in the majority of the country thus far has been a joke. I think that if the cell phone company's can speed it up then their devices might be worth the greenback.

Abby and I have exited Colorado into Kansas. The last 2 weeks were cold and more than the freezing temperatures was the WIND! We all know head wind v. tail wind, but until I had spend weeks fighting a moderate to strong head wind/side wind that wants to push me into oncoming traffic I had under estimated wind's ability to unravel the nerves. We have been fortunate to meet some great people on this trip and Lander, WY was really the pinnacle. Don, Dot, Jake and Tori(pictured above), of the Newton Clan put us up for 2 nights, opened their house to 2 stinky bikers and then drove us out of their way to get beyond the winter weather. THANK YOU!

With the wind pushing us aside we rode through the remainder of WY, a desolate state. In Saratoga, WY there is a hot springs. Once called Hobo Pool because of the proximity to the train tracks and who frequented the hot and relaxing waters. We were awakened at 1:30 am by the local peace officer for camping in a "no camping" site. He proceeded to make us pack our bikes and go else were. We took in another soak then shoved out of town with our hobo binndle's of bikes. 10 miles later and a near miss with a scared badger, we found our new campsite.

Our original route was slapping us in the face with winter weather, "Why are you still here?" it chided. We took Cameron Pass at 10,276 ft. into Ft. Collins, CO. Damn near 40 miles of downhill with a tail wind and we were back in the land of t-shirts. We spent the night in Ft. Collins, checking out New Belgium Brewing and visiting Tom and Michelle, some of Abby's extended family.

So for the past few days Abby and I have been picking our way Southeast through Colorado to get back on route. As a friend of my Dad says, "everything in this part of the country is square with the world". Hot days abound but a storm is coming in from the West. Abby walks in with a gas station biscuit and some coffee and smiles, "wind has changed, and it's a tail wind" with a grin from ear to ear.

Time to ride!

Dispatch from America: Damn this place is cold!

They said, "head South, you are going to run into snow". They also said, "Y'all are late to be riding bikes here". Finally they said, "Not me, I could not do what you are trying to". Well, "they" were right on the first two. I am riding up to 9,000+ feet outside Teton National Park, there is ice building up on my tires. What starts out as tiny ice crystals in minuets is a snow encrusted tire and out slides my rear wheel. Thanks to my worn multi-directional cleats I am able to detach one of my shoes to keep from laying the bike and myself on the frozen asphalt. Abby and I ran into snow outside Darby, MT last week. Since then we have have seen temps go from the high 80's to a low of 7 degrees.

We holed up in the kitchy town of W. Yellowstone, MT for 2 days. When the sun came out and melted the snow, we rode into Yellowstone. Geysers, bison, elk and RVs abound. The wind is against us, we take in Old Faithful and a walk around the thermal areas of the Park. The theme of "closed for the season" signs looks to be a trend. When we approach Grant Village in the South of the Park, nothing is open. The conditions are cold, windy and snow is on the forecast, we just want a cup of coffee. We ride into the employee housing area and ask Bill if there are any camp grounds open nearby. He tugs at his white beard that has been stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke and puts his hands back in his government issued green coveralls and says, "Nope, but I can rent you a room here for 20 bucks". Sold!

Montana was great, not to ride a bike through when we did, but definitely a state that I would love to spend more time in. Wyoming as well, its just to cold to be on a bike. Hiking in the cold is different, slower with potential wind breaks in the trees. Biking on the other hand in these conditions is arduous compounded by frozen toes, frozen water bottles, and headwinds that cut your mileage in half but force you to put out twice the effort.

So "they" were right about the weather, but I am not going to plan my life and trips around what other people suggest. I listen and apply some of what people have to say, but I am going to see for myself and ride my own ride. This is where great stories and adventure come from. Following a prescribed way of life is what diminishes our cultures sense of exploration and adventure. "They" are semi-correct, a cross country bike trip is not in most people's realm of possibility, but a 2 day ride through Yellowstone could be. Take the inspiration of the 2 day ride and let your mind run with other possibilities.

What I want to tell people is to stop eating the lumberjack sized portions at Applebees and re-watching re-runs; evaluate their priorities. I am confident in my critique because I have been on both sides of our society. I lived the debt ridden and consume at all costs lifestyle and I got fat, unfriendly, and depressed. I unplugged and semi-dropped out and while some haunts are still there, I don't deliver pizza anymore hoping that a semi-truck strikes my car so I do not have to pay for it.

Abby and I are outside Dubois, WY wishing that the headwind would reverse itself, the Indian summer would return, and we would not be skipping the Rocky Mountains of Colorado due to winter setting in. At the same time, we are enjoying the ride and challenges we face. Our plan is to ride to Rawlins, WY and into the Ft. Collins, CO area, then into Kansas to meet back up with our original route. The wonderful thing about bikes is that we can re-adjust and roll with what comes our way. Thanks to all of you who sponsored the foot long subs! Besides the scenery and Americana we take in, eating copious amounts of food is a perk of punishing yourself on trips like this. In closing, if you ride 60-100 miles a day then you can eat a mandarin pork ribblet basket from Applebees that contains 2 days worth of recommended calories, just make sure you earn it.

More from the road.

Dispatch from America via Bike

So there is a little background information and catching up to do. The route that Abby and I are riding starts with section 7 of the Lewis and Clark route, Cape Disappointment, WA to Missoula, MT. We will take the Trans America bike route South through the Rockies and East across Kansas. Once in Virgina, the plan is to drop into NC and ride to the coast for Thanksgiving on what I am calling the improvised "Tobacco Road" bike route, which is yet to be mapped out in detail.

That out of the way I can start at the beginning of the trip. This "Project" to ride across the country started when I learned about mapped bike routes from Beast on the AT a few years ago. I thought it would be a fun trip and not take 6 months of savings and time like another thru-hike. 3 years later, I am approaching 700 miles and besides the heat which has been a blessing/curse the ride could not be better.

Abby has stuck with me the whole way despite my desire to ride more miles and get earlier starts. So far we have reached a compromise on early starts and late mornings to make both of us enjoy this experience. Abby has done some touring and has helped me learn bike-touring specifics. I have never done any bike touring and with one 66 mile ride earlier this summer we have set out across the country, besides it can't be much different then thru-hiking, ride-eat-sleep-repeat.

The first 11 days took us from the Pacific coast at the mouth of the mighty Columbia River. In Astoria, OR we found places the 'Goonies' movie was filmed, my favorite from childhood and maybe to this day. Along the Columbia and through the Gorge to Hood River, OR there was the coastal temperate rain forest and scenic byways to ride through. Then it stopped and Eastern WA-OR gave us the intense sun and strong head winds followed by sweltering windless days. The scenery right out of a Steinbeck novel, looking for Lenny and George, "working up a stake".

From Hood River we crossed the Columbia a few times, constantly reminded about what the river "used to look like" as told by interpretive signs before the dams went in. The most striking where the pictures of rapids and elaborate fish traps that brought native tribes from as far as Alaska to trade, it was called the "Great Mart" by Meriwether Lewis. Now a series of dammed lakes, the Columbia above it's mouth holds little of what I would define as a 'river'.

Upon reaching Walla Walla, WA we continued to be zapped by the heat and head winds. Getting early starts to beat some of the heat, we peddled into Eastern WA and over the Snake River to the sister cities of Clarkston, WA and Lewiston, ID. From Lewiston we continued on US 12 up the Middle Fork of the Clearwater River, through logging towns following the L&C trail/Nez Perce Trail. Climbing on a gradual grade towards Lolo Pass was refreshing because of the clean river to swim in and the being back in the mountains, which is why Abby and I chose this route. With out steepest climb to Lolo Pass 5233ft. we descended into Montana.

Now we are in Missoula taking a "zero" day, relaxing, and getting ready for Yellowstone, the Tetons, and Rockies.

Thanks for the support and keep posted for more "Dispatches" from the road.

Dispatch from America

First: The internet is slow and scarce in Eastern OR and WA.
Second: Yes there are new pictures but due to the "First" situation they are not up.
Third: I have seen approx. 75 bungee straps/day and only 3 "urine" soda bottles on the road these past 5 days.
Fourth: The Columbia River Valley is rad, with a rich history living under the dammed up river, which is sad.
Fifth: The Chinook People here once had a thriving salmon trade which was bought for 26 million in the 50's. Now instead of waiting for the mighty King Salmon to return we as a country wait for the McRib from McDonalds to come back on "tour" as if the McRib is an aged out classic rock band, which again is pathetic.

More from the road soon.

Dispatch from Alaska: There aren't even billboards here!

Ya I know it's been over 4 months since my last post. Call it writer's block, living in a van, work, whatever you want. The damn near endless days here in Haines, Alaska fly by when you have enjoyed the best weather on record accompanied by blue-bird days, little to no rain and calm seas.

I am leaving AK in 9 days, but who's keeping count? Its not that I am excited to be leaving Haines, I love it here. Really the best way to describe this community is to come experience it for yourself. If you cannot visit, look at my pictures and realize there are no billboards, in your face subliminal advertisements are limited and society's massive shortcomings are not flogging all your senses like most places down South.

After a brief stint in Washington St. and Oregon for a wedding, not mine just to be clear. Abby and I are loading up the bicycles and riding the Trans-America bike route, just 4,262 miles. The plan is to arrive at Atlantic Beach NC, for Thanksgiving. For anyone that is interested you can follow the Ride from this blog via our SPOT GPS transceiver and the embedded GOOGLE Map at the bottom of the screen.

To sum up this season in Alaska: I sold my truck, acquired a 1978 Yamaha SR500 motorcycle, flew throughout the mountains and glaciers of SE AK inspiring future trips, Drank the Kool-aid that is CROSSFIT with Damond & Scott at Dijon, ran a successful cruise ship season and continued living the DREAM!

Look for the next round of "Dispatches" and follow along as we ride the Trans-America bike route and then jump South like Cassidy and Kid to Argentina for some mountaineering and Patagonia adventures. Please remember to Embrace the Wanderlust or I might end up at your doorstep. Just some food for thought.

Leaving Kilimanjaro

Dispatch from Kilimanjaro: Last Glimpse of Uhuru Peak

I believe we all choose to remember people, places and events in our lives as they appear at a particular moment in time. My Grandpa de la Pena will always be seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old boy, when he was the most resourceful and knowledgeable man I knew. My old hometown of Lincoln, Nebraska, does not look the same through the eyes of a 29-year-old as it did through the impressionable eyes of an eight-year-old.

I awoke this morning to use the bathroom around 5 a.m. at Millennium Camp (12,500 ft.). This camp has my favorite view of Uhuru Peak, the summit of Kilimanjaro, and is surrounded by wind-bent trees (resembling cedars) that stand slightly overhead, some reaching 10’. My tent is facing south and the silhouettes of the Usambara Mountains far beyond the lights of Moshi Town are starting to emerge from the faint dawn light.

In the sky sits Venus with the Milky Way slowly being devoured by the sun that has just cracked the horizon. The colors are like those reflected on the mirrored sunglasses worn by the beach volleyball players and lifeguards at Redondo Beach in the early 90’s. The horizon is deep blue fading into black the further west I look. To the east are shades of orange and greenish-yellow tints topped with a velvet crimson layer. The Southern Cross is visible along with all the constellations existing near the equator, some Southern and Northern.

Often my guests have marveled at just how many stars are visible, their own memories of childhood before ambient light was so dominant in the skyline or perhaps they have never seen the stars with this much clarity and abundance.

To the north lies Kibo, the youngest volcanic formation on Kilimanjaro. In the dawning light the white of the Rebbman Glacier swallows the volcanic rock around the crater rim and then pours over the sides and begins to glow with the rising sun. I blink my eyes and cannot trust them at first because I thought I just saw headlamps up high near the crater rim. I refocus and sure enough there is a large group of hikers looking south that makes one huge, bright white LED light. Judging from the time, they are nearing Stella Point with mixed feelings of relief and dread as they finally reach the crater rim. After five-plus hours of hard walking and focusing on “step, breath, step and repeat” the summit is but an hour away for most climbers. The 5’ world in range of their headlamps slowly starts to expand. They can see more than just the feet of the person in front of them and the lights of Moshi Town. Then the massive glaciers appear on their left side for the first time, the enormous crater realized!

Back at Millennium the camp has started to wake as it does most mornings, the last day always a little earlier for porters and climbers alike, as all are anxious to get back to their families, beds and a cold Kilimanjaro beer. The cooks are making breakfast and the porters are quietly murmuring to each other, possibly about last night’s English Premiere League football match or the news reports flowing from their little hand-held radios.

Glowing orange, red and yellow orbs start bobbing in the dark as the climbers turn on their headlamps and stretch after 12 hours of well-deserved sleep. Sore knees from the descent and dry, scratchy eyes from the dust, 40 mph winds and intense sunlight are the common ailments after summit day. The camp songbirds begin singing and scavenging for food scraps, out early to beat the much larger and more aggressive white-neck ravens.

To the east over a ridge juts the ominous peak of Mawenzi, now crumbling rock as a mountain returns to the earth. I unzip my tent and kick off my Crocs, time to start packing. It’s my last trip on Kilimanjaro and this is how I choose to remember Kili…

Why I Run

The whole concept of running has never been foreign to me. From an early age my Dad was involved with the Lincoln, NE track club, running marathons and helping organize them. Some of my earliest memories are of him building water stations out of PVC pipe, the Schlitz beer cups that are still in our basement from the post-race refreshments(beer and flat coke were the sports drink of choice in the early 80's and still are for me). Around the age of 6 I joined my first track team, The Lincoln Roadrunners. I do not have many memories from this time, except a picture of me and my best friend at the time, Brett Wiklund lined up at a road race.

After my family's move to Marietta, GA, I continued running with Shaw Park Track Club, then with a break away club started by Coach Brian Corfield, The Southern Stars Track Club. The Southern Starts training would take me to regional and national track and cross-country meets with the AAU and USATF. All this time, running was what I excelled at and never did I really question why I participated. I took pride in the sport that my Dad had been good at in H.S. I also would have a baseball coach who turned me to running full time with his statement of, " If Mike is ever going to be good at a sport he has to decide on one and stick with it". I never played baseball after that season, not that they missed my ability to strike out with ease or inability to accurately field a ball from the outfield.

My time with the Stars, would eventually end with H.S. track and cross-country. The team would dissolve and it's members going all over the county to different schools. There would be a 4 year period where all the former Star's runners would compete against each other. We had a competitive camaraderie, which added to my enthusiasm for the sport. High School and all the changes that come with those 4 years would come and go. Eventually, I began to fill out and my times would increase in the 2mile, which led to my taking on of the 800m and 1600m more seriously. My 5k would continue to marginally improve. By the end of my senior year, "burnout" would best describe what I felt.

I would leave Coach Jenkins and Coach Patty's teams for college. Coach Jenkins, the only teacher that could teach me to understand math and make good grades in the subject. He also had more patience when I had a lackluster performance on the track compared to my abilities than I did. He would say, "we will work on it and get you there". Regardless of where I finished each season, I always bested my mile and half-mile times. Coach Jenkins passed away a few years ago after his fight with cancer, his guidance and presence on the track is missed. Coach Patty, was all together different than any coach I ever had. He knew little about training distance runners based on workouts. What he lacked in running knowledge, he made up for in intensity and dedication to his athletes. He was from the old guard of coaches, the kind that would get in your face and yell, and hit your helmet with his whistle, amongst other things that changed with the times. He was forced out of football and found his way to cross-country and track. While he toned down his tactics a little, he was always fond of telling a complaining runner to, "rub some dirt on it". He expected his athletes to give their best, because he gave his. That slacking off hurt your team more than it did the individual. He was a tough man to get through to sometimes, but a larger heart and more caring coach I have never come across. I saw him years after H.S. and he stopped to talk, but soon left as if he did not recognize his team captain and best runner for so many years. I would find out a few years later that he is suffering from Alzheimer's, and that day when I ran into him it had not been diagnosed.

I had decided to walk on the cross-country and track team at Appalachian State. Little did I know that a summer of little running, beer drinking, along with the 'burnout' would seal my running career. With one practice into the pre-season, I was done. In one hasty decision I had quit a lifestyle that defined my life for the last 12 years. Without retracing the unproductive and destructive years of college, I found little motivation to get back into running, despite the longing to experience the early mourning of a road race, the endorphins of a 12 mile run on Sunday after a meet, and the exhaustive joy of a good work out.

Years later with some valiant and some not so valiant attempts to regain my 'lifestyle' I find myself in a network of rice fields outside Moshi, Tanzania. I awoke this mourning and laced up my trail runners, donned an old ball cap to keep my long blond hair out of my face, a pair of running shorts that are on the big side. I set out across the dusty road to the trails that lead through the rice fields and into the forest on the other side. I have run a few times while I am off the mountain, but not with consistency. I am not out of shape, but running is different than walking up mountains with a backpack.

To my right is a small mosque and next to it a makeshift Lutheran church. I run past the swimming hole where local boys swim and their parents do laundry below the fresh water spring that emerges from the ground. The area is surrounded by these springs that feed the rice and local villages with fresh water. Once I get out of the village where lifestyles range from mud-brick huts to block and mortar houses with elaborate metal 'keep out' gates I am in the rice fields. Each family in the village has a plot, with several locals already out hoeing grass and weeds. The paths through the fields are only 2.5 feet at their widest. I tip toe across bridges made from fallen trees along the path, careful not to fall into the mud. Bright, white Egrets are eating insects through out the plots and frogs chirp and bale off the path as I approach. I am slowed down a bit where new mud and grass has been added to the path to repair a section that has fallen in. 2 women step aside to a grass island that has been made beneath a shade tree to allow me to pass. They are dressed in brightly colored clothing, carrying tools and lunch for themselves or their husbands that are working the rice.

Once at the edge of the forest, I inquire with a local, 'how do I get back into the rice fields?'. Since my Swahili is marginal at best and his English the same, he points down the path. As I make my way through the forest, the Colobus Monkeys are making a racket as I run past their trees. They are black with long, white, bushy tails. The white hair continues to flank their sides. The monkeys make flying leaps to branches, where they sit and watch the traffic, which this mourning is me. I arrive at a dam that is collecting and controlling the spring waters. I cross the dam, and make my way across a path that is wet and not more than a foot in width. Eventually I fall into the water and mud. I am taken back to cross-country practice on rainy days, my favorite. The mud covers my shoes, my calfs are speckled in mud and water, I continue to make my way through the rice fields looking for a wider path that will lead back to the road. Zaza, a local farmer points me in the right direction, with a little help from another farmer farther down the path. Once on the main path through the waste water treatment plant, which is down water from the rice, I meet up with a service road and make my way past the gate, the guard greets me with a 'Mambo' or 'Whats up?' my response is the proper, 'Poa' or 'cool'. Once back on the main road the hotel is on, I pass small school children in their uniforms and skipping to class. I pass a road side bicycle shop and a food stand. Crossing the railroad tracks, I am back at the hotel just before the mourning sun raises the temperature to undesirable numbers.

Towering above the horizon is Kilimanjaro, glaciers pouring over the summit and her sister Mwenzi to the right. The sky is blue with the haze from dust, heat and pollution not yet visible.

I knock at the gate and am greeted by Simion one of the Masai warriors that guards the gate. Muddy, a little winded, and with a smile on my face I think to myself, "this is why I run".

Dispatch from Africa

So 2 months later and I am finally getting around to updating the blog. A synopsis of the last 2 months follows. I completed 4 climbs up Kilimanjaro via the Machame Route from 11/30-12/31. 13 guests in total and all 13 made the summit, one opting to go down only to return the following day and finish in 3 days. A huge 'thanks' goes out to John, Colman, and Killian my local guides that I have been working with and to all the AMG guests for pushing though what one called, 'the hardest thing I have ever done'.

After working with the MIT Sloane School graduate students, I went on Safari to Lake Manyara, Ngorogoro Crater, and the Serengeti. More wildebeests, zebras, and baboons than you could shake a stick at. The highlight had to be watching a female cheetah stalk a group of Thompson's gazelles with 4 of her cubs, mirroring her every move. The hunt was unsuccessful, but according to the park information, 75% of cheetah hunts fail to produce a kill. Watching the top speed of the mother cheetah, was amazing! I have always loved the cheetah because of it's speed and agility, and seeing one in action made the long and hot days in the Range Rover worthwhile.

From the safari, I headed to Uganda with an Irish guy named Ivan, whom I had been on safari with along with Gerry(that's Jerry, but with a 'G'). The 24 hour bus ride to Kampala was horrible, hungover from a late night, I utilized a 1 gallon 'Ziploc' and emptied the contents of my stomach. Once in Kampala, I spent a few days riding around town on 'boda-bodas', little 125cc motorcycles. The preferred mode of taxi in town since they zip in and out of traffic and avoid the jams. After stumbling upon the filming of a local rap video on the shores of Lake Victoria, hilarious, I headed for the town of Jinja. Once there, rafting on the White Nile with it's huge class 4-5 rapids lead to some down time. I took a one day kayak instruction on the upper portion of the Nile, paddling next to sub-merging corrant birds and watching river otters emerge with fish in their mouths. No croc sitings, but I was able to stick my kayak roll in a rapid towards the end of the day, my goal achieved.

On my return to Moshi, Tanzania I found myself on the same over night bus ride. At one particular point in Kenya, there was a burst of AK-47 fire, in which all passengers dropped to the floor in fear of being hit by stray bullets or direct fire, that is except me, who had just woken up from some hard to get sleep. Turns out that, where the bus was stopped is a notorious place for 'robbers' as the local guy sitting in front of me said. I guess that they will often hold up a bus when it slows to go through road construction( you think road construction is slow in the States, try East Africa). The state police had set up a 'sting' and were waiting for the 'robbers' to strike, using buses with people on them as bait. Well after a short, one sided strike by the police, one suspect was killed and one injured according to people in Nairobi when we arrived at 4 am.

So I find myself back in Moshi, waiting for my next climb to start on the 27th. I will have 4 more climbs starting on the 27th of January and wrapping up on the 27th of February. I have plenty of stories, accounts of Kili, Uganda, etc that I am working on. My plan is to have them finished and posted once I return to the States since the next month will be spent almost entirely on Kilimanjaro.

Thanks for all the support and emails. Planning has started for the Trans-America bike ride that will start in September 2009. A new website, charity cause, sponsorship options, and fundraising T-shirt will be forthcoming.

All the best,

Mike

Where the North American "Odyssey" ends and the African one begins. . .

When I completed the 10,000 mile round trip from the ATL to AK back to the ATL my Mom said, "well this odyssey is over and you can relax now". I promptly replied that while it took Ulysses 10 years to return home after a 10 year war, that despite my 10,000 miles of driving, and the similarity of "10" the two were obviously different. Definitely some of the same lessons were shared and learned.

This is not as personal as it could be, but Thanks goes out to everyone that housed me on my way to and from Alaska, without you all I might be working some where in Canada or the Mid-West trying to get gas money. Instead I am leaving today for Tanzania where I am guiding on Mt. Kilimanjaro until early March. I am not sure nervous is even the right word for what the last 4 days have been like, not a, " I can not do the job nervous", but a " I am ready for a cocktail in a crowed jet" anticipation of getting to Moshi and starting this "Odyssey".

I hope that people will continue to read this blog as I will be able to update it often and with pictures. I am grateful for all the positive feedback that I have gotten to continue writing and telling my stories. Please forward this to anyone you might think is interested, please send comments, critiques.

This is shorter than most of my "Dispatches" and I hope to keep them concise and frequent in the future. I still have loose ends to tie up today, more to follow from Africa. Stay posted!


All the best,

Mike

"Stop listening to that same old Clapton album"

First let me apologize for the lack of communication this past month-and-a-half. I am still alive and doing well here in Haines, AK. The season is almost over and I plan on heading out of town for the Lower 48 at the end of September.
Now, a brief wrap-up of the summer that never made it to Haines. During the coldest summer since 1979 I have gone from living in my truck to a tent on a scenic ocean point, a few house-sitting gigs, and a brief stint in a mildew-infested trailer and back to couch surfing. There was the drive up the Alaska Hwy, the bear incident and all the things I have learned about Southeast Alaska’s people, natural and cultural histories. My Mom and Dad made it to Haines for a perfect S.E Alaskan day. Although I am ready to lie in the sun and enjoy a day above 60 degrees, the time I have spent here has been great. It’s no Shangri-La but never-the-less, special. As for the job, there are obvious things I would change, but all-in-all AMG has allowed me to continue growing and dreaming.

But back to the point of this dispatch…today I find myself eating at the Hotel Halsingland which operates out of one of the buildings in Historic Fort Seward. Best burger in town with a sweet potato fry option but the worst playlist coming over the bar speakers. Not that I frequent this establishment often, but the last time I was here the same Eric Clapton playlist was on. And, it’s not that I dislike Clapton, Derek and the Dominoes and Cream… great music, but solo Clapton, not for me. Then I start thinking about all the “routine” things here in Haines. Each restaurant has its playlist, same people eating the same menu item on the same day every week, driving the same 3 roads that lead out of “downtown,” etc.. I am as guilty as the rest--same pizza every time I wash dishes at the Fireweed, breakfast at the Pioneer Bar every Sunday, same 3-4 CDs in my truck all summer, same excuses to put things off. That is the problem with a town with so few choices--routine and complacency sets in. Not good, especially for a guy who gets sucked into that vortex easily. I guess that is one reason I went quite for the last 5-6 weeks, nothing new was happening; my life got routine again.

Now it’s time to mix things up!

Instead of driving straight through to Marietta I am going to head south to the Pacific Northwest and then east through Salt Lake City, Lincoln, St. Louis, Virginia, the Carolinas, and finally home, taking about 1 1/2 months to make the drive instead of the
6 days I drove to Haines. Along the way I am going to be presenting for the International Wilderness Leadership School (www.iwls.com), a division of AMG, at several colleges and universities. Then I will be heading to Tanzania in East Africa to guide on Mount Kilimanjaro for 3 months this winter. I am excited about the opportunity, nervous about what to expect, but most of all shocked that the adventure is continuing. Six years ago when I walked across the commencement stage at App. State I thought I had my life figured and that choices I made had put my dreams of traveling and seeing the world on my own terms to sleep. Those dreams have taken longer to realize and the process has taken me to places I never imagined and through some trying experiences. The great thing about the last 2 years, including the AT, Second Nature, Aconcagua and Alaska, is that every experience, although different, has introduced me to people who either share similar goals or know some of the same people, and make this life feel like a “small world”.

I am kicking off www.projectwanderlust.blogspot.com, an online portal that will hopefully spread the itch for people to explore their dreams and leave their comfort zone. This will allow me to continue writing about my travels, hear from friends and family, and continue to gain inspiration from others. My travels in East Africa will be the first official “Project”. The second “Project” begins when I return to the States in March. I am planning to ride the Trans-America bike route. Yes, peddling from the Atlantic coast to the Pacific, finally ending in Bellingham, Washington, to catch the Alaska Marine Hwy ferry back to Haines for the summer.

“Embrace the Wanderlust”

Oh ya, I almost forgot,
“Stop listening to that same old Clapton album!”

Dispatch from Alaska: The Lost Boys, NeverLand, so where is Captain Hook?

The Day is Sunday; we have just had the Empress of the North cruise ship leave the dock. The Empress has been made to resemble an old paddle-wheel steam ship that one would envision on the Mississippi River while Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer floated by on their raft. More appropriately the boat looks like some of the early vessels that brought settlers and miners up to the area during the gold rush. At the height of the gold rush, because of how long news took to travel, the majority of the gold extracted from these streams and mountains had been found by the time the 30,000 plus miners came into the Klondike area. Less than one percent actually found gold, the dry-good merchants made more money supplying the miners than the miners found in gold.

Due to the 17+ hours of daylight here in this part of AK, with the days continuing to get longer by the day until the Summer solstice on June 21st people tend to be up late. Today, work and the bi-weekly company BBQ/meeting . . . I mean cookout( Being from the South I am always quick to point out that unless there is a pig slow cooking in the ground its not a BBQ) ends around 8 pm and we are off to the disc golf course for 18 holes. Since Haines was the last place I thought would have a disc gold course I did not bring my discs, but quickly pick a few up in town.

The course uses empty beer kegs with the bottom cut out mounted on a 4x4 post, instead of “ringing the chains” all one must do is hit the keg and a ringing similar to a bell sound rolls out. One of the directors for AMG is playing with us, and the rest of the players range in number of seasons spent in AK. I am watching this group of guys running from hole to hole and realize that the time is approaching 10 pm and it feels like 6. Along with the side conversations and friendly competitive spirits I think to myself, “We are like the ‘Lost Boys’ with Drasie as our ‘Peter Pan’ and Haines, AK is our ‘NeverLand’”. There is no Tinker Bell, with her magic dust, but the sunlight all day long is invigorating and makes most feel compelled to stay busy since the winter will be spent mostly dormant due to 6 hour or less of sunlight. With the Lynn Canal and the glaciated mountains surrounding town there is adventure to be had where ever you look. Many peaks have not been climbed, salmon can be pulled from the ocean and rivers with your hands at certain times, Dungeness crab can be caught just off the shore daily. The climate is to cold for the Crocodile with the ticking clock inside it to be here but rumors of the rare “glacier bear” a silver colored brown bear in the area are the talk at the Bamboo room some mornings. So if this is Neverland, where is Captain Hook? The character of Captain Hook is played by the lone DMV employee here. I have been working on getting my Commercial Driver’s License. The process is time consuming, the tests are meticulous, and the hours of the DMV ridiculous. So ‘Captain Hook’ a.k.a, the DMV employee does not have a hook-hand, nor does she wear a pirate hat, but like the O.G Hook constantly sought Peter Pan, she seeks to make getting a CDL in Haines harder than remembering how to fly without pixie dust. After three attempts at the written tests and 2 attempts at the practical I am only continuing for the license so that I win and she loses and 3 times is supposed to be the charm right?

Call me crazy, but because there is nothing to do here in Haines compared to that of my former residences, Atlanta, Charlotte, Boone, and Asheville, the lack of resources seems to free a person up to do, think or create almost anything. Most people here relish in the idea that they build there own house, catch, kill, and grow there own food. There are no strip-malls or traffic to waist time in.

So while Desoto, Cortez and the rest of the disease carrying Spaniards searched endlessly for “Eldorado” and the “fountain of youth” the Tlingets and other native tribes where living in the land of gold and benefiting from the vast days of sunlight. Ah, if only they had sailed up the Lynn Canal, managed to elude the sirens of Seduction Point, bush-whacked through the dense forests covered with devil’s club and brown bears they might have found “Neverland” and avoided turning St. Augustine, FL into a tourist trap.

All the best,

Mike

Dispatch From Alaska: "Do you want a rattlesnake to the face?"

As my friend and former co-worker at SNBR, Craig put it, “GORP attracts a mouse, and the mouse attracts a rattlesnake, the mouse runs near your head while you sleep, then the rattlesnake strikes you in the face, point being don’t sleep with food in the woods”. This was the way a struggling teen might understand why staff did not want them taking food to their shelters at night. As I mentioned earlier in one of my “Dispatch” letters, I tend to be a “believe it when I see it” guy on some topics, a part-time skeptic you might say. With that in mind, I am awoken this mourning by an animal walking around my tent.

For those who don’t know I am out of the truck, camping at Tanani Point which is 3 miles outside of Haines. I found a windbreak in a grove of Sitka Spruce trees and Alders, which is a hermaphroditic shrub that grows in re-covering areas before the Western Hemlock and the aforementioned Spruce assume dominance of this Temperate Rainforest in S.E. AK. The Point is a former fuel depot for the closed Fort Seward. I am not exactly sure what the squatter rights are here in AK, but the community at Tanani is 5 strong. Our “shanty” town includes a fire pit for evening gatherings and doubles as the kitchen, there is a wood pile, hammock and slack-line (tightrope) for recreation. There are eagles on the rocks in the AM, a Minke whale that comes round daily, sea lions, seals, harbor porpoises, surf scooters, a female Moose and here calf across the road inside the abandoned fuel tank fields and as of this mourning about 7 am a good size bear judging by the butt imprint it left after eating on some fresh greens under my “big blue” tarp about 3 feet away from my head.

As calm as I am in most situations, the idea of having a hungry, fresh from hibernation bear feet away from me while I am zipped up in my tent with rain fly thus not having a line of sight on the animal was nerve-racking. At first I tell myself it is a bird, because song birds have been coming around in the AM, but this is bigger than a bird. Next logical deduction is a stray dog, like the one that came into camp when I was with my Dad on a canoe trip in Michigan at a young age, but dogs tend to run through camp and sniff, this animal came in and took a seat. Is it Abby, Jon, Cory, or Lindsey one of my fellow co-workers and fellow squatters? I decide to make a little noise, with my sounds comes grunts and rustling from the animal. “Is that. . . it sure is a candy bar wrapper in my pocket, this time it might not be a rattlesnake to face but a bludgeoning slap from a brown bear. Damn, I am going to have to wait this one out, “do I have my knife if I should have to cut the tent and run”? “Was that a . . . yep that was a fart”, some large animal has decided to come and sit next to me and rip ass. 20 minutes pass by and the grunting seems to have moved, has the bear or whatever it is left? I grab my hat, put my keys and phone in my jacket, grab my Dickies pants and start to unzip the tent. Alright, no attack or grunting, I get the rain fly open and grab my rubber boots and take a quick look and there it is, the ass print in the spruce duff from a bear, visual evidence and I am on to the beach. Pants and rubber boots in hand I quickly get dressed and make my way to the fire ring and up to the other tents on the point. Turns out everyone is still there, I had thought briefly to text message one of them to come over and scare the bear off, but I figured that everyone was at work. I knock on the truck where one of the squatters is sleeping and ask if they want to go bear hunting? We make our way back through the trees and walk around my camp, no bear in sight, but the ass imprint in the ground is still there. Since my day-off started earlier than I expected, breakfast at the Bamboo room is in order. Once inside I over hear some locals talking about bear hunting season which is still open for black bear and ask if when a bear is seated it will leave an imprint similar to a humans, and his response is a definitive, “Yep” followed by, “where are you camped at?”

The day progresses with a good run, ½ gallon of Haines Brewery beer and a nap in the sunshine. I decide to go back to my tent, curious if the bear has come back. I approach slowly on the beach and whip a couple of rocks into camp . . . no movement. As I make my way into the camp, what could only be described as the smell from the bathrooms outfitted with a urinal trough at Fulton County Stadium in the late 1980’s combined with a Porta-Potty sitting out at the Coca-Cola 600 NASCAR race for 2 weeks has filled my “big blue” tarp. There it lies the fresh scat of Mr. Bear my new roomy, along with more depressions in the duff and paw prints. Abby, one of the tenants of Tanani Point, suggests, “Bears do not like to be uncomfortable where they rest, so let’s put some of the scrap vehicle parts (left on the beach from the military) where it likes to sit . . . maybe that will make it not want to return”. Anything at this point is worth re-claming my Sitka Spruce windbreak tent area. After we haul 6 awkward and discomforting metal objects into the camp, I balance an old Schlitz Malt Liquor can on the camshaft of a piece of heavy machinery and head back for the fire pit. If the bear returns he will have to knock over the can and the “Blue Bull” (Schlitz’s mascot) will stand guard. I decide to stay in the truck so that I am not up wondering when or if the bear will return.

Lesson of the story, general and accepted rules of doing different tasks exist in life because a common trend has been established. You will most likely see exemptions to the rule but not every time. Unless you want to come face to face with a rattle snake do not bring GORP with you to sleep in the lower 48 and there is nothing more comforting than sleeping with a sawed-off shotgun next to you while camping in Alaska as my boss tells me later that day when I talk with him about the morning’s events. Good thing that you can by shotguns at almost all general merchandise stores here in Haines, but I doubt that it will have to come to that. Plus the Canadian Mounties will not appreciate a Yank bringing my sawed-off “scatter” gun into Canada, they tend to belive it might spread American street violence in their peaceful country.


All the best,

Mike

Alaska: The Land of Runaways, Rogues, & Roust-abouts. . . "Greenies".

The bumper sticker on the rusty 90’s Dodge truck sums up the local’s opinion on this town, “Haines, a quite drinking village with a Greenie problem”. I have been in Haines for 3+ weeks now and like any small town there exists dynamics between the ones born or raised in AK and the transplants that have moved here full time or seasonally mid-life. The “natives” like to portray themselves as runaways, rogues, and roust-abouts of which many are. After spending mornings and evenings in the Bamboo Room/Pioneer Bar listening to the “good ole boys” talk shop, one thing is evident, if you are Alaskan by choice you are in. One does not have to be born in AK to fit in, since many are not according to their stories of youth that range from all over the Lower 48. It helps to have a gruff disposition and be able to bust someone’s balls upon entering a watering hole because their gas is too expensive or their wood cutting services have increased. The mentality of the “good ole boys” here is like the “locals only” attitude that surrounds surf breaks, fishing holes, and many other pristine outdoor spots that often get overrun with outsiders.

The “Greenies” are those who have moved to Haines for the remoteness and unspoiled beauty compared to their previous towns. They are artists, listen and support the NPR station, run the galleries, health food store, retired, etc. According to “John-O” who moved here from Juneau, and runs the Power and Telephone Company, the “Greenies” are also the group responsible for running the cruise ship industry out of Haines for many years by protesting, throwing food and spitting at people departing the ships and so on. The “Mud Bay” crowd as he calls them. “John-O” is the first to describe his birth state as a frontier still, where, “cold water bodies sink, they don’t float”. There is a lot about this town and the people that remind me of Boone, Clayton, and Asheville regarding the mix of locals and transplants. It must be a strange feeling when you come to a place to escape and hide while others come to vacation and recreate.

I have not figured out where the final segment of Haines residents fit in, the seasonal employees that consist of guides, heli-skiers, etc. Since Haines has become a world-class destination for helicopter access only skiing and boarding, there is no shortage of the “Spicoli” character played by Sean Penn from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”. The common site is a big truck with snowmobile or “snow machine” as the locals call them, in the bed outfitted with boards and skis. I have met a few who have made Haines their home, working and scouting during the summer and then guiding and filming all winter long. From the looks of them you would think normal local, old Cartharts, rubber boots, hoodie, but watch one of the videos filmed here and these guys are hucking 5000 foot glaciated peaks. If you are not able to afford the helicopter or ski plane access there is the analog way, detach the heal of your ski/board and climb the peak by foot and ski down. The later know as ski/board mountaineering involves the ability to ski steep and technical terrain, but also a sound knowledge in ice climbing and mountaineering to get to the unnamed peaks of the Chilkat Range.

This week the first of the 3 cruise ships that will be coming to Haines each week arrived. This season is the most active Port Chilkoot has been in a number of years. The local native tribe, Tlingits (pronounced Clingits) tour company folded this winter with everyone in town scrambling to figure out who is going to run the ferry system and many tour companies that they use to operate. The weather has cleared temporarily, really showing off for the first round of tourists. I am finally recovering from the “crud” as the local nurse/practitioner called it. I have been sick with an upper-respiratory thing for over a week. With a brief stint in an apartment, which had water damage and mold/mildew, I am back in the truck. The last place that I need to be feeling the way I do. I would be lying if I said that the thought to just crawl into the cab of the Tacoma and drive home to the hot and humid South had not crossed my mind on several occasions. The average day has been low 40’s, windy and rain, miserable even when you are not sick.

While out on a sea kayak tour with some clients we saw 10-12 humpback whales breaching the water. The most asked question is, “what elevation are we at in Haines”? The response is, “ how tall are you”? Being that sea level does not rise just because one is in Alaska. The eagles are down feeding on the hooligan fish and fresh seal carcasses and there was a bear sighted eating a family’s goat in their back yard this week.

John Muir wrote that once a person sees this part of Alaska, they had better stay or know that every place they see for the rest of their lives will be a disappointment. The fact that access to the world was different during Muir’s lifetime does not entirely discredit his statement. I will most likely run into a brown bear while running this summer and that is a testament to the scale of this wilderness. I have bought my rubber boots that are the staple footwear here and I should be in an apartment by the end of the week but skeptic I remain. While I am not a native Alaskan, nor consider myself an uber “Greenie”, I am finding out what it takes to live more comfortably here in Haines and anticipate an eventful summer with lots of good stories.

Thanks for all the encouragement to keep writing, Happy Memorial Day, and safe travels this summer.


More to follow from Alaska,

All the best,

Mike

Dispatch From the Alaska Hwy. Day 2

Dispatch from the Alaska Hwy: Day 2

You will have to excuse some of the grammar from Day 1, typed after 12 hours of driving and wanting to get the details down before they were lost to sleep. So if yesterday was Days of Thunder, today would have to be Cannon Ball Run or Rat Race for you younger people. I retired to the bed of my truck last night in the church parking lot of Watson Creek, YT. As I am climbing over the tailgate, I can feel someone walking towards me, I turn around to see a hitch-hiker that I had passed earlier that day. He is a young guy, turns out he is German and has been hitching from Argentina. He left July 2007 and is wondering until he needs to be somewhere else. He asks me, “Do you know who runs the church?” I assume he is thinking there might be a hostel there or at least is friendly to travelers as many are along bike routes, hiking trails, etc. As for the Yukon I cannot say. He is trying to get to Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon Territory, I offer a ride if he is ready by 6:30 am. I am thinking that he could play Dom DeLouise to my Burt Reynolds or Sammy Davis Jr. to my Dean Martin on the last leg of the Alaska Hwy version of Cannon Ball Run.

I say this could be the Cannon Ball because of all the personalities that I have passed all headed for the same place. Couples in RVs, redneck Canuks, families in mini-vans, young couples in Subaru’s, the locals, etc. However, the prize is not the money of a Sheik or underground fame like in the movie, but the Final Frontier, Alaska . . . I mean the Last Frontier, don’t want to offend the Trekkies! I am up around 5 am, since the sun rises between 4-5am. Get my sleeping roll put away and the truck bed organized. Where is Sammy? Looks like the German will be thumbing a ride later in the mourning, oh well. I get some gas and wash the windows, all these towns are filled with dust from the “slag” put down throughout the winter. The day is overcast and the not as cold as the last few nights. Today is going to be 600 miles into Haines, AK where I will be working for the summer. I originally planned on taking the Alaska Marine Hwy from Skagway to Haines, but early season does not have a ferry leaving until Monday at 4:30 pm and I need to start punching the clock. Besides what is another 250 miles when you have drove 3700+.

The Hwy winds through the Canadian Rockies in and out of the Yukon and BC. The mountains are huge and snow-covered. My camera hardly does them justice, as I am stopping frequently to get some pictures and take in the views, unlike yesterday. There are very few people heading north, maybe 10-15 vehicles pass all day. I am after mile marker 985, Haines Junction, YT where the Haines Road will take me into Alaska. All day long I am waiting for the scantily clad women driving the color-change Ferrari from Cannon Ball to whip by me or the Christie Brinkley character from National Lampoon’s Vacation series, but to no avail, just Maud and Wilber “Local” of the Yukon. The farther north I drive, the rivers and lakes of which there are countless numbers are all frozen with snowmobile tracks crossing them.

Wanting to talk with friends and family, but without cell reception, I bust into laughter thinking of the show Arrested Development and the “surrogate Dad” where the father has a stand in man with a camera mounted to his head and a mic in the ear so he can talk through the “surrogate” and see what the stand in is looking at while he sits in prison. That is exactly what I need, one in Asheville and one in Marietta, oh the calamity that would ensue. But I digress.

I am starting the climb into the Haines range, from where I will drop into the Valley of the Eagle and into Alaska. The fog has set in and the sun and snow combination make the glare intense. No contacts, not vehicles on the road, so the glasses come off and sunglasses on. The mountains are socked in so there is nothing to see, I will have to drive back out that way, I am sure to have missed some amazing sights. I reach the US/Canadian border. Now for those of you, who do not already know, at the Canadian/North Dakota border my vehicle was tossed and a dog sent into smell for drugs and guns. No other vehicles were asked to pull into the garage doors, just the guy who was planning on driving through half of Canada in 3- 4 days to work as a “mountain guide” for the summer, maybe random selection, more likely I was profiled as a pot smoking/meth taking wilderness instructor who may or may not be transporting firearms into Canada. So this time around, the US customs guy asks for my passport and license, where I am from and where I was born (the pieces they get from the license and passport to attempt to catch people who are traveling under false documentation without memorizing the info). “No I do not have over 10,000 US with me, no, I am not carrying anything for someone else, etc”, I am back in the US, where miles are not km, gallons of gas instead of liters, no “ehh”, and most of all I am in ALASKA! The goal is accomplished, 40 miles to Haines and I am home for the summer.

The Town of Haines is small. Main St. with 3-4 Avenues and a waterfront road. The town is tucked in a fjord, with steep, snow-covered mountains on all sides. The drizzle, fog and slight breeze remind me of the opening shots of Goonies, if this town has a metaphorical “buried treasure” I intend to find it. Seagulls fly overhead, while I am making a collect call to Mom and Dad assuring them I made it safely. They did not get the Dispatch Day 1 yet. Into the “Fogcutter Bar” for a couple of High Life’s and food, NASCAR highlights, and some rousting by the salty locals for being a Georgia boy who drove to Alaska to take tourists into the mountains. The characters are already coming out of the woodwork. Northern Exposure this will not be.

I might not have won the Cannon Ball Run, but I started another adventure, which of late has been crucial to my understanding of myself and who I am. I am starting to feel comfortable with the fact that I have this “wanderlust” as my Mom calls it. Some say that I can not hold a job, have no direction, refuse to grow up, etc. To that I say I have a job, there is a universal known called the Cardinal directions and I intend on exploring them in my life, and age is just a number. To my friends and family, thank you for your continued support you are all missed. All of life’s experiences are nothing without people to share them with and hopefully by living my dreams, other people I meet will be compelled to get out and attempt their own.

More to follow

All the best, Mike

Dispatch From the Alaska Hwy. Day 1

Dispatch from the Alaska Hwy.

Disclaimer: 2 people were hurt in a single semi-truck accident during this day.

The time is 6:30 am Pacific Time Saturday mourning, the sky looks like the opening scene from Days of Thunder, orange and purple hues. Just like when Cole Trickle’s Chevy has an oil leak before the Daytona 500, the Tacoma had an oil leak about the size of my fist, not good when you are trying to set out on the Alaska Hwy for a 600+ mile day! Bare with the NASCAR references, the day would prove to be one hell of a ride.

After the fine folks at Wal-Mart lube and tire looked at the work they had done the day before, and I know what some of you are saying, “that’s what you get for going to Wal-Mart”, I feel good about leaving town. Since Canada is not as litigious as the US they allow me to go under the car lift and see for myself that everything is tight and leak free. Turns out that the oil is from the spilt oil from removing the filter, but anyway on to the drive.

The Hwy starts in Dawson Creek, BC, Mile “0”. I hit the round-a-bout that leads towards Delta Junction 1390 miles to the North-west. The first 283 miles to Ft. Nelson are a breeze, not the Hwy that I have read about; smooth asphalt, 2 lanes, and passing lanes on the hills. The amount of gas and oil mines in the area indicates what is paying for such a nice road.

Some back story, I left Marietta, GA on Monday with a day layover in Charlotte, NC. So Charlotte to Dawson Creek, BC 2,779 miles, coca-cola did not do the trick, always drowsy from the sugar, big red gum ate up my mouth. The trick to driving and staying awake, sunflower seeds and coffee, along with music that some friends made me. One night at my Uncle Bill’s in Chicago, 1 night in the bed of my truck outside Fargo, ND and another in Loydminster, AB. 12-16 hours driving per day, cake by Saturday, so back to Day 1 on the Hwy.

Obviously my truck is dwarfed by the Canadian rednecks, get this, the preferred way to transport their ATV and snow-mobile is on a platform above the bed as if they might crawl out the sliding glass window and launch off the truck while still in motion. The trucks look like “P.O.Ds” on wheels. That is not “Green”. This would make Early of the Squidbilles turn in his truck-boat-truck. After passing a weasel the size of a Lab I pull into the mining town of Fort Nelson.

The mining communities throughout Canada, Ft. Nelson being not different reminds me of Mos Esley of Star Wars. Am I going to go into the local restaurant and be harassed by the locals because I do not have enough oil on me or because my truck is not dirty enough? I sure as hell do not have Obi Wan traveling with me to cut off the Pig Man’s buddy’s arm should I need. No the people thus far have been great, talkative and tired looking; I guess after a long winter of little sunlight anyone would look worse for ware.

So from Ft. Nelson, the Hwy. according to the book is “rough” in places. Few vehicles follow me out of town, except a Hwy patrol car passing at Mach 1 and another following a few minutes later. Domestic call or something I think. The high plains are great, rolling hills; the Rockies will not come until later in the day. The sky is blue without a cloud. Only about 25% of the service stations and stops are open, so I am cautious as to how much gas I have. For 2 hours I have the road to myself, what better than driving to Alaska, but to feel as if no one else is going. I am whizzing along at 70 mph when I come up on Toad River station and I top off the tank, $1.43 CA about the same US/ liter and I am off. A few miles down the road, traffic is stopped. Apparently a truck has rolled over in a sharp curve. Everyone is out of the cars and trucks talking, waiting for the accident to clear. I run into a guy moving to Homer, AK for retirement. He is driving a 1969 Ford 250 truck pulling a home made trailer with a Kubota Tractor on board. 8 mpg he has been getting, smoking hand rolled cigs stored in a home made case, a life time of timber trucking has made him “grizzled” in his brown coveralls and nicotine stained mustache.

A guy from Washington is driving a big rig behind me and explains why he was not trying to block me from passing earlier but merely avoiding fallen rocks. I heed his advice and let him know that as soon as I saw the rocks I got it. The traffic starts moving and as I round the corner I see the worse jack-knifed tractor trailer accident. The truck has rolled over with the cab swallowed in a ditch, destroyed. 2 helicopters have been in and out already. The next 70 miles would prove to be the best driving experience I have had since I first got my license.

The entire drive thus far have been signs warning of bison, elk, caribou, moose, and rams crossing the road. Now we all have seen signs warning of deer, etc, but how often do you actually see them? I think to myself. “When I see it I’ll believe it”. Turns out the signs were not warnings but aluminum premonitions, like reflective Yodas. The road is clogged with back traffic due to the accident. I am making my way pass slower moving vehicles, old man “grizzled” waves me by. I find myself behind a rig towing 2 trailers of gas. The ass end of the trailer is throwing up gravel and dust so I keep my distance. After 20 miles of this I am ready to pass.

I approach the side of the tanker and what is that! I can not see a thing; he has fish tailed into the gravel. It is like when Cole Trickle and Rowdy Burns tangle during Days of Thunder. I do not have a spotter to talk me through the dust. I can not see the rig and there was a Ford behind me and I can not see him, the dust is that thick. I quickly think to go for the pass anyway, but just as quickly decide against that, are my lights on? If they are then maybe the rig and the Ford can see me and make the proper adjustments. Is there a Bison standing in the road in front of me like the reflective Yoda stated? Is there another vehicle coming from the other direction, there was not before? Finally I slow down enough to duck back in behind and rig let some space clear the dust. That was close, my heart is beating and I could use a change of shirts, but there are miles to cover.

I finally approach a down hill and hit 85 to pass the truck all the time worrying if there is going to be loose gravel, sheep sleeping in the road, bison grazing, or any other animals out to destroy me? If I hit a bison while doing 70 mph, hopefully it is not one of Ted Turner’s because he will have put a disclaimer on the menu stating that, “this bison may or may not contain trace amounts of a 28 year old male and Toyota truck”. The pass is successful. In NASCAR a rookie gets yellow tape put on the rear bumper of the car to warn others of their inexperience. That trucker might not have been a rookie on the Hwy but his near rollover shortly before passing him is an indicator of how tricky this road can be. My “yellow tape” is my Georgia plate. The next 50 miles are crazy and hectic. I am pinned in by trucks on sections of road without guardrails, feet from cliffs and semi-frozen water, waiting for more animals to be in the road. I come around a corner, a family of sheep, miles later is that, yep a bison that has been turned inside out by a semi, then group of rams, 3 caribou and 3 moose. The only animal, which has not decided to try and stop my truck, is the elk and deer and I am sure that will happen by the end of this trip. I can not pull off since the road is narrow and turn-offs not marked. I am taking pictures on the road, through the windshield, holding the camera out the window etc. Finally, I am able to get out of the trucks way and pull off for a few pictures and a break. The valleys and mountains are covered in snow with much of the rivers still frozen. The road opens up after the steep and curvy mountain section. A few hours to Watson Lake for the night and I am enjoying the Pink Floyd play list recounting the days events. A greasy gas station burger and 2 Labatts and I am going to retire to the truck bed for the night.

More to come,

Mike