Post Thanksgiving spin out

It's only been a day or so (and one long night) but I'm worried about a big rut that may be looming here.

Going to bed at 3 or 4am (or not at all as would seem to be the case today-- 5:37am and I'm still up). Waking up late. Sleepy through the day. Too much HDTV and TiVo and easy internet access. Maybe I'm just vegging out, but this could get dangerous quick. I have emails to many friends that I need to catch up on (Egg!). I have friends in NY that I need to get together with. I have phonecalls to return. I have travel plans to make. I have to tell David about all the interesting wool and yarn contacts that I've made. I have to buy health insurance. I have to fix my parents' computers. I have blog entries to write and photos to publish.

This same thing happens every time I come home to NY. My old house is like a black hole for motivation. My brother feels it too; neither of us know what causes it. It was excusable during the long holiday weekend. Now, something needs to be done. Just because I grew up on LI doesn't mean that I can't have adventures here.

I think I'm going to hike the Meadowbrook on Thursday. The recent story about a certain urban river in St. Louis has me curious.

Audio recording (as suggested by Velma) is also on my mind lately: the PMD-660 and the This American Life illustrated guide to radio are giving me lots of exciting ideas.

Home stretching

Sorry kiddos for the lack of posts this past week. I kinda got burned out a bit and I've been doing a lot of travelling, I'll post the whole story soon.

In the mean time, let me thank everyone who leaves comments on my posts. It really inspires me to keep writing; it makes me feel like we're all still in each other's lives-please keep it up!

Also, the frequency of posts will probably decrease. For one, I'll be in NY for the next month or so and I'm expecting less travelly stories to pop up. Also, once I'm out of the country, I'll be leaving my laptop behind, so I'll have fewer post opportunities. So please keep checking for updates and commenting, just don't be surprised or insulted if things sit for a week or so.

Anyway, I'm at home in NY at the folks place today-I arrived yesterday, after 753 miles of driving. Mostly through the great Kansas of the East, Pennsylvania.

Out of the country, going to college

So, I'm an hour outside of Jefferson City on Monday, when Velma's Dad, David gets me on my cell phone:

"When you come through Booneville, get off and stop in at the Walmart. It's easy to find," he says. He continues, "Go on in there and get yourself a deer tag and a hunting license, then go on down Hwy 87, stop in at the farm, Dad's waiting for you to go out," referring to Velma's granddad.

Following his instructions, I went on into the Walmart, feeling very out of place, and the nice fellow at the hunting rack didn't blink when I asked him for the tag and license in my best Missourian accent. We had all the information filled out ready to go when he asked to see my "Hunter Safety Card". Uhhhhh. No deer tag and hunting license for me. Alas.

I went down to the farm anyway, slightly nervous about seeing Velma's grandparents on my own. I had spent quite a bit of time with them years ago when Velma and I were together, but I wasn't sure how I would be received on this visit. Gratefully, they welcomed me warmly back into their home. After a quick chat, they outfitted me with the necessary hunting arrangement and Harold and I drove up to a hill out on their property line. Even though I couldn't hunt myself, I was still happy to go along with Harold and enjoy the experience.

The hunt turned out to be very interesting but far less dramatic than I had been romanticizing it on my way to Walmart. We got out of the truck and walked a minute to a blind that Harold had set up overlooking a small field and milo patch. The blind was a fancy tent-like structure in camo fabric with netting windows. Inside, we had a pair of seats, a portable propane heater and a pee-bottle. Very plush indeed. Harold generally prefers bow hunting and nature videotaping to rifles, but he brought the gun along anyway, just in case we saw something worth bagging, I could get the complete exposure.

We sat out there for about two hours as we kept an eye on the field and I listened to the sounds of nature and to Harold's incredible repertoire of stories and knowledge. By the time is was dark, we hadn't seen but a small doe way out in the milo patch that wasn't worth bothering. Still, I was both fascinated and relaxed by my time out there.

After heading back to the farm, I stayed and chatted a bit more with the Gentzsch Elders and then headed into Jeff City to see David for the first time in years-- again, I was needlessly nervous.

Incidentally, I had a bit of a revelation as I left the interstate and drove down through the rolling foothills and curvy roads that make up most of rural Missouri. In the past two and a half weeks, I'd driven across some spectacular country, from 11,000' mountain passes to red rock river gorges to autumn wooded desert canyons. None of it affected me more than the Missouri countryside. There's a simple and elegantly accessible beauty out there that compels me. I'll add that to the unofficial collection of stuff I'm learning about myself.

Dodging down the backroads, I made it to Jeff and David's house. I was greeted by warm smiles and a hot wood stove and felt immediately at home. David, his new wife, Terri, and I stayed up late chatting about everything as we all caught up on our various progresses over the past years.

The next morning, David and I got up for a run through the freezing rain out to the Capital Building and back. Returned, soaked in the hot tub, cleaned up and then went down the the wool shop. In the past year or so, David has resurrected an old trade of his in the form of Ozark Handspun. He's now in the business of dying and spinning high quality yarns to feed the insatiably popular knitting boom. He showed me his whole process and I even got to help out packaging skeins.

Time for lunch, we headed over to meet Terri at Central Dairy for ice cream, yaay! The rest of the afternoon was spent chatting with David about everything from philosophy to real estate investing. That evening, David and I went out to the farm together with a bucket of fried chicken in hand. Harold and I went out to another blind for an hour or so before dark and returned leaving behind a 35-point buck that was too beautiful to shoot.

Back at the house, we were joined by Velma's 18 year old cousin Jason, with whom I'd spent some fun times with in the past. Marie cooked some tasty accoutrement for the chicken and we sat and ate and talked along for several more hours before David and I took our leave and headed back into Jeff. That night, Terri, David and I enjoyed each other's company till nearly 2am.

David and I ran again this morning, after which I cleaned up and took my leave. My heart is still gladdened by the clan's generous welcome-- it was the first time I felt at home since I left Menlo.

The drive to St. Lou passed quickly as I spent most of the time on the phone with Velma giving her the complete low-down on my visit. After she hung up, I got of the highway in Clayton and rolled towards the Wash U campus, the giddy feeling of nostalgic homecoming bubbling in my chest.

I parked my car near Mallinkrodt Center and walked through the campus to the Engineering School. Lots of interesting thoughts here. For one, I felt old and out of touch when I was here a year and a half ago. This time, though, maybe because I'm a happier and carefree, the campus energy feels comfortable and refreshing.

Second and happily, the Engineering School was festooned with posters for student activities that saw big change during my tenure here, ten to six years ago. The Verigo party that we founded was the best ever this year and featured a lighted dance floor built by the IEEE. Humph, we never did actual engineering for Vertigo when I was in school. Back in those days, all you needed for an Engineering dance party was a few kegs and "You Don't Know Jack" on the projector.

I'm also glad to report that the advertising for Cheap Lunch seems to have continued its creative omnipresence.

Walking around campus, I'm amazed at how small the quads feel. I remember those distances to be a lot longer to walk. I haven't seen the Brookings quad yet, but I'm already recalibrating my memories.

I'm here in the rejuvenated Olin Library now (a place I never went into as a student), scamming a computer terminal. I have to jet and meet up Andrea Heugatter, one of my favourite professors. Then, it's off to a Wednesday night beer bash at the Sig Ep. Hah.

Deer season

Good Morning from Lawrence, Kansas. It's flat here.

The past few days have been a blur of a lot of driving. Friday, I left Moab later than I expected, it turned out to be hard to leave town. I spent a lot of my "extra" days there, if not for my Thanksgiving destination, I may have been sucked in completely. I started heading off toward Colorado Springs around noon and about an hour later, entering Colorado, it was obvious that I wasn't going to make it very far. I wound up driving through some serious breathtaking mountain scenery, though-- the drop from Hwy 90, out of the high La Sals into Paradox, Colorado was particularly stunning.

Late afternoon, tired from the night before and not used to the road again, I decided to take advantage of my weariness and stop in Ouray, Colorado, only 160 miles from Moab. Ouray was of particular interest to me as the ice climbing capital of the USA. Nestled at 7800' against the north slopes of some serious mountains, Ouray is probably on my top 10 list of beautiful towns in the USA. Indeed, I just noticed that their website calls it "The Switzerland of America." Cheesy, but a fair comparison.

Despite the prime location near lots of popular other ski towns (Telluride, Purgatory, etc), Ouray itself is generally quiet in the winter. With the ski resorts still closed, it was dead. I found an open restaurant to get a late lunch. Over lunch, I met a cool bloke who's house was washed away in the Katrina floods and so found himself starting over in Ouray of all places deciding to become a snowboarder (as of Friday, he had yet to actually snowboard).

After lunch, I ambled down to Ouray Mountain Sports, one of the only shops in the USA that stocks more than one or two proper mountain boots. I indulged in the knowledge and friendliness of Bill, the proprietor and spent an hour or so there trying on lots of boots and generally talking about gear and the town. I finally found a pair that fit me properly in the new La Sportiva Nepal Evo GTx-- big, bright yellow, dead sexy. At an -ahem- great price, I was seriously tempted but decided to wait on a buying decision. Seriously, though, Bill had these for a lot less than most other shops (linked above), was willing to throw in free shipping and there's the no-tax benefit of ordering from Colorado. He doesn't have an orderable website, but for any purchases that I need to make in the outdoor arena, I'm calling OMS first.

Bill suggested the Riverside Inn for a room and the Bien Tiempo for some food and local drinking action. The Riverside was very comfortable and clean, with real log furniture and a steal at $45 a night. They have some affordable 3-bed suites that would be perfect for an early-January ice climbing trip to Ouray. Anyone interested in joining me?

After a nap and a call to the family I ambled down to the Bien for dinner and drinks. Tasty enchiladas, a few glasses of the always excellent New Belgium 1554 Black, and chatting with the friendly natives. Met Tim and Sherri from Ridgeway. Tim's in construction, and if you ever need a haircut in SW Colorado, go hit up Sherri's salon. There are both fugitives from the SFBA and were quite happy to tell me about how happy they were out there. . .

Wound up ready for more, so Kim, the bar manager at the Bien and I headed to the Silver Eagle down the street. Switching to Vodka (and a whisky shot imbibed on a bet...) things got smasho quick. Along the way, Kim was telling me about the Ice Festival and how it screws over the local restaurants and bars because the sponsored hospitality tent has free food and beer, only releasing the revelers when they're really drunk and ready to piss off waitresses and bartenders in their search for more. We also met Duane, a hunter from Mississippi who, in his second complete sentence, informed us that he was glad to be away from Jackson because the black people down there don't speak to him in a "friendly manner". Anyway... wound up at Big John (a Mets fan from NJ) and Chris' house after the Eagle closed for a bit and then finally headed back to the hotel around 3am.

The next morning, I got up pretty slowly, sore in the muscles from a funny high-altitude hangover. I finally made it down to the internet cafe and chocolate factory (ate a 'scrap cookie', a cookie made with all the leftover bits from the chocolates they make: creams, nuts, chocolate, toffee, etc. Seriously good cookie).

After that, I went back over to OMS and chatted with Bill about crampons and ice axes. If anyone has been thinking of a good Chanukah present for me, give him a call. Nepal Evo's in 43.5 size, a set of PetzlCharlet Aztarexes and a set of Grivel G14's (with Cramp-o-matic bindings-- no I'm not even kidding). Better make sure he throws in the Black Diamond Android leashes, too. Heh.

Finally rolled out of Ouray noonish. My time there had me thinking about what it would be like living in a very small town. Out of 800 or so people, you get to know everyone very fast and they know you. Just walking around, I saw two complete scenes of a specific local drama unfolding, the right folks just happened to be where I turned up each time. I wonder if the tight social circles would be stifling, or if the small sea would give me a chance to be a big fish. The idea of giving it a try for a year or so at some point is very appealing.

Around 4PM on Saturday, I crossed the Continental Divide at Monarch Pass (11,312'). I got a bit teary as I left the Pacific drainage behind and started my way down the big ramp to the Mississippi. That night, around 7:30, I rolled into Colorado Springs, got a room and a very large Italian dinner and crashed out.

Yesterday morning was spent emailing and contacting the folks that I hope to visit on my next phase here in the Midwest. Colorado Springs provided an appropriate gateway; as you drive out of town into the flat prairie and farmland, Pike's Peak fills up your rear-view mirror like a wall. I tried to continue my theme of staying off the interstate, but after 30 minutes on Hwy 94, I realized that it was going to all look the same whether I was going 60 or 85, so I moved up to Interstate 70 at Limon (I didn't actually stop to ask them how they botched the pronunciation of their town-- I'm guessing LIH-min).

Big thanks to Jill, Carter and Rich for together talking me through two of the ten hours that I spent numbing my way to Lawrence. I have to go now and make my way to Jefferson City today. Velma's dad has invited me to stay with him and his message on my voicemail informed me that it's deer season. . .

Time to move on

Autumn is over. Let us welcome the cold, wet and gray.

Here at the Mondo for the last time this trip, it's time to leave Moab.

Yesterday, took a lovely slow ramble along the old south river bed of the Colorado River to the west of town. It was cool to have no destination and just wander instead of trying to book it fast toward a goal (a la Mission Peak). Afterwards, I drove over to Wall St. and met Ian, RJ, Brandon and the friendly young family of Evan, Maureen and their precious child Kenobi. We hit it off right away and they very generously let me jump on their ropes.

First up was Moki Crack (5.9), which has a tricky roof that foiled me into hangdogging before I figured it out. Then I got a shot at Nervous in Suburbia (5.10a), a brilliant face climb-- no problems. It reminded me of the precarious lead on the first pitch of A Little Nukey on Power Dome.

My first time in Moab a few years ago, I lead 30 Seconds over Potash (5.9) with no worries. This time, for some reason, it made me a little nervous, so I was quite happy to toprope it. The last time, I remember making lots of funky moves to take advantage of the various face holds, especially on the second half. This time, with my mad hand jam 5ki11z, it was dead easy.

Finally, Ian lead the rest of us on Eat the Rich (5.10c), a small fingers-small hands crack in a small right facing dihedral. Getting tired and with bad finger technique, my style here was not nearly as trick. I made it up to the crux okay, but the odd handhold placement along with my sloppy feet forced me to hang.

The day over, I broke out the beers and butt rock for my new friends and we packed up and headed into town for dinner at a terrific Mexican restaurant The Hacienda. The plan for today was for Ian and Evan to go climb Castleton while Maureen and I (and Kenobi) cragged some more on Potash. I was excited about getting some more climbing in, but frankly, I was feeling the need for a rest day.

Fortunately, Mother Nature intervened and I awoke this morning to thunder and rain. Met up with the crew here at the Mondo and said our goodbyes and now I'm finishing this entry up before I hit the road. The rain and some annoying late night commotion at the hostel last night convinced me that I'm done with Moab. I don't know what the road conditions are like up in the Rockies, but I'm going to head east and see what happens-- right after I finish my breakfast and take a dump.

Moab max-out

Still here in Moab, drinking coffee at the Mondo. Sorry for the lack of updates lately, I've been spending my energy on the layout roll-out that you're seeing this morning.

Quick update:

Tuesday morning, I took a hike up the Mill creek canyon. Worked my way up for a few hours and found some time to relax and do some writing that had been evading me for a while. Maybe I'll publish some of it soon when I get it cleaned up. Later, I took a drive down to Castle Valley, a beautiful high area underneath the La Sal mountains and Castleton Tower's mesa. There's 5 acre subdivisions out there that are going fast. Uslennar, remember that land you were looking to buy. . .

Yesterday, I returned to Castle Valley with a hired climbing guide and we went up the classic Kor-Ingalls route (5.9) on Castleton Tower. The climbing was fun-- I've never really tackled off-widths before and I learned a lot. Matt, my guide was verry mellow, but a cool dude overall. I didn't really have much trouble in any of the many manky sections of the climb, but a few moves sure scared me. Karl did the same thing last year (North Chimney) when he came through; I can only imagine the adventure the two of us would have had if we tried to attempt it on our own. That said, I would probably be willing to lead it now that I've climbed it once.

Not sure about today yet, chatting online with Karl at the moment. Prolly go back to the Creek for the afternoon and then leave Moab tonight or tomorrow morning. They're calling for rain and snow. Maybe I should wait on this side of the Rockies until it's done.

I'm sure that the answer will be embarrassing

. . . but who is this "gnuheller" person who keeps leaving comments on my blog? I love you dude, whoever you are.

In other news, TJ apparently still can't keep the spokes on his bike. Karl, in a moment of evil undoubtedly sabotaged the rear wheel hoping to send my ex-roommate off a cliff somewhere. Dude, time to buy a new wheel. I hear Bontrager has a great model for only $900.

Also, uslennar, did you see Karl's response to your comment on my last post or so? He's calling you out!

Oh, and isn't it interesting that Blogger's built-in spell checker thinks that "blog" isn't a word?

This afternoon I met with a real estate agent and got the lowdown on the Moab property scene. Afterwards, I went down to the local crag, "Potash Wall", and met a group of climbers who were discussing how Moab real estate is getting too pricey for the locals thanks to outside investors.

Unsettledness gives way to all good

Coming to you this morning, slightly drowsy, from the Mondo Cafe in Moab, UT.

After my last post in Durango, I tried to set out to Indian Creek but failed. It was getting late and I would have arrived after dark, which for some reason sounded sub optimal. So I found myself in Durango in the late afternoon, feeling lazy and unsettled. After an hour or so of rut wallowing, everything picked up again when I met Sequoia and Alison at the bar at the Carver Brewery (my favorite Durango haunt). They are both energetic local artists and they invited me to join them in visiting a series of local gallery openings. We spent the rest of the evening touring the galleries, drinking wine and exploring the prolific art world in Durango. Seems to be a theme of my trip thus far.

The next day, feeling much better, I headed out for Indian Creek. Stopping along the way for some roadside coffee in Cortez and a nap at the Dolores Canyon overlook (pictures start in my new smugmug gallery).

The drive to the Creek was beautiful, as everything seems to be around here. Arriving around 4pm, I drove around the valley to get my bearings and find a place to camp. Dan and Tom were the first people I actually talked to, asking about the local situ. Quite generously, they offered to climb with me and invited me back to their spacious campsite as well. I set up my tent next to theirs, broke out the ceremonial beer offering of friendship and sat with them by the campfire joking, telling stories and quoting Seinfeld until bedtime. All was good in good company.

The next morning, we woke shivering to find our water bottles frozen over and frost on the ground. It had been cold in the night. After finally warming up over breakfast, we headed out to the walls. Tom wanted to go check out Pistol-Whipped Wall, expecting the main Supercrack Buttress to be crowded, despite the early hour. Dan and I were both eager to have a go at Supercrack, and to our luck there was no one on it when we drove past. We quickly parked and I ran up ahead with my personal gear to secure the route while Tom and Dan racked up and joined me a few minutes later. No sooner did they arrive, a few other parties showed up on their heels. Klimbing karma was shining on us as we stood, first in line, under the ultra-classic climb that defines Indian Creek.

Tom racked up and lead above Dan's belay as I taped and psyched myself up. After Tom cruised the route, Dan announced it was my turn. I tied into the top rope that Tom had left and started up. The first section is the 5.10+ 20' pillar corner with small hands and a manky bit at the top before a big ledge. Being on toprope, I just laid back and cruised straight up in style. Had I been leading, it would have been tougher as the gear was fiddly and I probably wouldn't have laybacked-- then again, I may have just run it out and called it bouldering.

Above the pillar is a 20' section of perfect Scott-hands to a mini-roof/bulge. That section went really solid and easy. After the bulge, the crack widens to big hands and got much harder. Using cupped hands tired me quickly and I had to hang-dog several times to make it to the top. In retrospect, I could have done better if I relaxed more and used the bomber feet to rest before each move. Considering that I flail up the 25' 5.8 at the gym, I was pretty fucking happy to get to the top of Supercrack. After he lowered me down, it was my turn to belay Dan who charged up to the wide section and then very generously rested on the rope a few times to make me feel better.

After Supercrack, we moved down the road and found the lovely Chicks on Crack camped out beneath the other famous-classic Incredible Hand Crack (5.10c). Not wanting to pass up a chance to embarrass ourselves in front of the ladies, we decided to climb it. IHC follows a Scott-sized perfect hand crack for 95' along a left facing dihedral. The crux is a gentle 5' roof about half way up. Tom lead in sweet form and soon enough it was my turn to follow. This time, the hands were perfect all the way through and I took it a bit easier. By the end, I was thinking and moving more deliberately and I really felt the difference. I did hang once, after I flubbed the start of the roof, but I took a good breath and started over and went right up. The top section has some really cool face holds, too that added a fun dimension-- right hand and foot in the crack, left hand and foot on the face.

After I was done, I belayed Dan, and this time he went straight to the top with no trouble, making the roof look easy. With long drives home awaiting them, Dan and Tom decided to take off. We exchanged emails and talked about the possibility of doing some ice climbing when I come back through the area in January. I am uber-appreciative of those guys for taking me under their wing and giving me the quintessential Indian Creek Experience.

With one more climb in me, the Chicks on Crack were generous enough to let me use their rope and Victoria of Denver belayed me up Twin Cracks (5.9). It's a short route which can be climbed using either or both of the two cracks that lead 40' to the anchor. I tried both cracks, thanked Victoria for the belay and called it a day.

I hitched a ride with some friendly Colorado Springers back to my camp near Newspaper Rock, packed up and hit the road. I had been considering camping out in some of the desert canyons to the southwest of Indian Creek, but I was beat and not looking forward to another frozen night outside. Seeking a more social atmosphere, I drove an hour north to Moab, checked into the Lazy Lizard hostel (for a bargain $9 a night!) and headed to the brewery for some meat and beer.

Today is cloudy and chilly and chill. I'll probably spend a night or two more here before I set out to the Rockies to visit Greg.

My first real autumn in six years

It occurred to me, as I sat this morning, eating my breakfast on the banks of the Animas River here in downtown Durango, that this trip has gifted me with my first proper autumn since I left St. Louis. The trees are turning and the leaves are falling and the breeze leaves you cold when the sun isn't directly on you.

I spent Tuesday night camped out above Jacks Canyon and woke the next morning to find no fellow climbers. Partnerless, I decided to go down and check out the canyon anyway at least for the hike and scenery. As is ridiculously common for me, I completely botched the approach and wound up bushwhacking (i.e., massively contributing to erosion) into the canyon. Disoriented, I wound up hiking the wrong way through the canyon, along the river bed. Along the way, I was cursing Jacks Canyon as just some BS backwater climbing hole for folks that can't be bothered to drive to a proper crag. I worked my way along, from wall to wall,fighting thorny plants that leave microscopic tines in your skin that I named Deathbush, and many varieties of bristly stuff that left my fleece covered in brambles (I collectively named those Crapplant).

After getting fed up at finding cliffs with no recognizable routes or bolts, I decided to climb back out of the canyon and work my way back to camp. I had hiked up the canyon pretty far so it took me a while to find camp again, all the while still completely turned around. When I got back, I check the clock and found that I had been out for 3.5 hours and probably covered 5 miles or so.

I had a nice lunch back at the car and consulted the guidebook. I realized my error and this time found the much more obvious trail that I had completely missed earlier. Much to my embarrassment, the rim of the canyon was literally 1 minute walk from the campsite, where it had taken me 10 minutes earlier. I walked down into the canyon on the good trail and 5 minutes later found myself amongst some really quality rock. Not having a partner, I just checked out some routes, and bouldered a little bit on the starts. I found some of the 10a, 10b starts to be manageable for my level.

I should mention that the conditions in the canyon were perfectly in line with my autumn theme. The trees were peaking yellow and orange and the air was crisp and breezy. I sat in the canyon for an hour or so reading and writing, soaking it all in. Pictures are up on the smugmug gallery, I need to adjust the contrast at some point, but I think you'll get the idea.

Leaving the canyon, I decided it was time to move on, so I packed up and headed out to Albuquerque. The drive went smoothly and scenic-ly and I rolled up to Rob's house around 7:30. Rob took me and his GF Erica to dinner at an excellent New Mexican restaurant and I found myself really enjoying the company of a familiar face for the first time in a week. The next morning, after a slow start, Rob and I got breakfast and tried to take the tram up Sandia Peak, but it was closed. Instead, we had lunch (and the best Mac and Cheese I've ever had) and chatted until it was time for him to go to work. I took my leave very grateful for his hospitality and headed to the climbing gym in ABQ to get a workout. Climbed for a few hours and then hit the road for the easy drive up to Durango. Rolling into town, I got that giddy happy feeling of coming to a familiar place after a long absence. This is my fourth trip or so to Durango and I keep finding myself happily back here. This feeling is keen in my mind as I consider where I might wash up when my travels are over.

This afternoon, I'm going to start driving up to Indian Creek. Matt at the climbing shop said that there should be plenty of friendly climbers out there this weekend for me to hook up with. I'd like to get in this evening so that I can get a campsite established and be ready to go tomorrow. After getting thoroughly spanked on the cracks there for a few days, I'll think I'll go out to some of the desert canyons nearby and get some hiking in while my mangled hands heal. After that, it's up to Moab, which will be my next opportunity to contact the outside world.

Till, then, then.

Blogging on a corner in Winslow, Arizona

I got seven empty days on my mind.... I started driving north on Sunday, and later that day, I finally mapped out all the destinations I want to hit before I arrive in NY for Thanksgiving. I found out that I had about 7 extra days! So I'm still here in Arizona, taking my time.

Saturday night, I hit up the Halloween weekend action of Tucson. I finally settled at the goth club Asylum where the music was good for dancing and I fit in the best in my velvet vampire costume (the best I could do considering my limited wardrobe.) I danced a ton and met some locals and wound up at 3am at their house playing Playstation, eating rice and drinking Schlitz. I finally made it back to the hostel at 5am, only to be woken up at 8:30 by the breakfast commotion. I was a bit tired. . .

Got my act together, did some laundry and made it out of the hostel just in time for the mandatory checkout at 11am. After finally rolling out of Tucson, I tried to avoid the interstate by taking Route 77 north. I was contemplating how tired I was when, as if in a magical vision, a sign came over the horizon. It was small, green and said simply:

Biosphere2 20 miles

A forgotten childhood dream of visiting the Biosphere reemerged! The miles melted as I approached the facility-- fully expecting to be completely disappointed. Thankfully, the tour proved to be more than I expected. Turns out that research was suspended 2 years ago when the grant money ran out. As sad as that is (and it will be sadder still if they don't get new funding and have to shut down the facility), the upside is that visitors actually get to tour the inside of the Biosphere2. I was glad to see that they didn't shy away from explaining the Biosphere's controversial history, and awed by the behind the scenes tour of what makes the facility run. If you're ever near Tucson, go.



After the Biosphere, I was elated but pooped, so when I rolled into the grubby mining town of Globe and found a relatively clean motel room for $21, I decided to call it a night-- having traveled just 100 miles from Tucson. I spent a few hours eating dinner and beer at Kelly's Broad Street Brewery in the derelict downtown strip (interestingly, I don't think they actually brew beer at the brewery). Dinner, however, was very good and Kelly, the owner was friendly. I passed the time learning Spanish from a Michel Thomas kit that Rich gave me. Holy crap, I can speak Spanish! His course actually lives up to the hype.

Crashed out back at the motel, actually watched an episode of Smallville for the first time. It's a soap opera for geeks that aren't nerdy enough for Star Trek, complete with scenery melting dialogue.

Woke up yesterday semi-refreshed from a sleep lulled by the soothing sound of interstate commerce a mere 10 feet from my room window. Grogilly, I had breakfast at the local elderly infested diner and set off toward Jerome. Ohhhh, Jerome!



Coming up from Cottonwood, you don't expect much, but then as you come around the bend, a small mountain side town appears a la Italy. Jerome is known for its resident artists, and didn't disappoint from my first moments in town. I pulled off at the first gallery, the enormous old hospital that now houses the studio of Robin John Anderson and his wife Margo Mandette. While I was wandering around (and looking at 12' paintings going for $12,000), Robin found me and invited me upstairs to watch him "bite his new etching". An hour later, we concluded our teriffic conversation about his art and my travels and I left feeling very welcome in Jerome.

Next, I popped in to the old high school that had been converted into a set of open studios and found a similarly engaging experience with the artists there (who will please excuse me if I'm forgetting their names at the moment. I'll update this entry when I get it sorted out).

With the sun setting across the valley on the red towers above Sedona, I wound up into downtown, enjoyed a great burger and margaritas and relaxed into the evening. Fed and full, I headed up the hill to the forest service roads to pitch my tent on the slopes of Mt Mingus amongst the pines at about 7500'. I went back to town and checked out the big Halloween party at the Grand Hotel for a few hours before getting tired and going back up to my tent and my first good night's sleep in days.

This morning, I took a little autumnal hike to the Mt Mingus peak and enjoyed the perfect crisp weather-- the breeze would have been too cold if not for the bright sun on my skin and clothes. Back in Jerome, I visited some more local galleries, and while particlarly admiring some striking works at that artists's co-op, the artist himself wandered into the gallery. R.V. Lovelace was very friendly, and again I found myself talking for 30 minutes or so with the actual authority. Jerome affords unique oppotunities. I purchased some of Lovelace's prints and a painted agave Paho mask for my folks.

Finally, on my way out of town, I stopped in at the outfitter's shop and asked about local climbing areas. Morgan, the proprietor (in what had become typical Jerome fashion), spent the next 20 minutes with me divulging all sorts of secrets on climbing areas and hidden camping spots throughout the region. On his advice, I decided to call Rob and postpone my arrival in ABQ so that I might spend the next day or two at the acclaimed, yet still unpopular climbing area of Jacks Canyon. 30 miles south of Winslow, AZ where I sit now, having spent waay too much money on a splendid meal of perfectly cooked Elk loin, roasted southwest vegetables, bean and corn soup, perfect vanilla ice cream and a double Grey Goose on the rocks. Shortly I'll drive down to the camp at the Canyon, pitch my tent and start the process of bartering cold beer for climbing partners. Life is tough.