Static over the palm sized walkie. A plume of dark smoke emits from Vals van on the road to Redding California. Looks like a pit stop.
Its pitch black through the open sliding door, the sky a predawn blue, the sound of a foreign soft electronic beeping sounds in my mind. No one stirs, not the dog, no one. The sound persists. I lay there nearly unconscious before the sounds starts up again. This continues.
It stops and starts again, am I hearing things, I sit up. Check the sky, it's lighter, the dogs still and Val hasn't moved. I put my shirt on, the sound is gone. Exhausted I lay back down, eyes heavy, I'm in a dream world once more and then the electronic beep begins its repetitious moan once more. Again I sit up and this time Val stirs lightly then groggily moans for the electronic interruption to quite, I'm not crazy someone else heard it. A giggle from the loft echo's apologies as I stumble to the bathroom disoriented as if I've been abducted by aliens and now at this moment just returned to my own reality. It's half five, apparently time to get up. I flop back onto the couch and its day time when my eyelids lift again.
It's too hot for sweat pants, but I'm wearing them. Mid day on the 395 far from Mammoth and Bishop. Mule days according to the amused and obviously bored California State line guard.
Two California rest areas later and I'm sitting, well laying with my feet out the window as val borrows flying internet from Barns and Noble ala Redding.
The sun fades away, the light turns on in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Tomorrow its find a mechanic in a town that's closed on Sundays or cross the fingers and make a mad dash for Portland. There will be no sitting on the beaches of Humboldt smoking tree this trip. The Vans engine sputters and rumbles, somethings terribly a miss.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Flying Dog
Eight am Monday morning, weathers calls 80 degrees. The sweat sticks, I zip back the mesh of my bivy, the air is already body temps.
I feel drowsy like bad allergy meds. Stumble to the dirt, slide into a pair of cords. they hardly resemble there original shade, dust beaten and unwashed. The rumble of a broken muffler trembles up behind my truck, e-brake thrown on. I quickly pull my pants up from half mass and zip up.
A familiar voice screams, "wad up buddy?" It's Ben, I stumble groggily past Vals van, bumping past with swollen eyes. I played with my tangled mat of hair while Ben explained his new project on the table lands.
Stumbling back through the cars, Ben bounces away down the gravel path in his 80's Toyota hatch back, over to my tripod set up for a snap shot of some spring flowers. Half assembled, I could no longer hold the movements in my bowels.
Hobbling down the path shovel and TP in hand up the rocks, nervously banging the shovel to deter potential snakes. Finding an appropriate bush, looks just like the rest, but this one is just right. Attempting to dig a hole only achieves two inches before hitting the impenetrable layer of rock that is the table lands. Unable to hold on any longer I noticed a small single engine flying directly towards my position. To late for that, my pants now at my ankles, my gut impatiently grumbling. I squat, leaning on my butt of my shovel and give out little flight enthusiast the show of a life time.
I hope he had a camera to capture my glaring paper white ass so he could show all his friends and family. I hope they all get a great laugh, because as drowsy as I've ever been, this was one hell of a highlight to my trip. So I hope they all believe his story.
I feel drowsy like bad allergy meds. Stumble to the dirt, slide into a pair of cords. they hardly resemble there original shade, dust beaten and unwashed. The rumble of a broken muffler trembles up behind my truck, e-brake thrown on. I quickly pull my pants up from half mass and zip up.
A familiar voice screams, "wad up buddy?" It's Ben, I stumble groggily past Vals van, bumping past with swollen eyes. I played with my tangled mat of hair while Ben explained his new project on the table lands.
Stumbling back through the cars, Ben bounces away down the gravel path in his 80's Toyota hatch back, over to my tripod set up for a snap shot of some spring flowers. Half assembled, I could no longer hold the movements in my bowels.
Hobbling down the path shovel and TP in hand up the rocks, nervously banging the shovel to deter potential snakes. Finding an appropriate bush, looks just like the rest, but this one is just right. Attempting to dig a hole only achieves two inches before hitting the impenetrable layer of rock that is the table lands. Unable to hold on any longer I noticed a small single engine flying directly towards my position. To late for that, my pants now at my ankles, my gut impatiently grumbling. I squat, leaning on my butt of my shovel and give out little flight enthusiast the show of a life time.
I hope he had a camera to capture my glaring paper white ass so he could show all his friends and family. I hope they all get a great laugh, because as drowsy as I've ever been, this was one hell of a highlight to my trip. So I hope they all believe his story.
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