Branches slapped against the window, as red dust billowed up around the old buick’s tires. Dan and I sat in the front seat, next to the caretaker. We rubbed shoulders while the old car bumped down the road. Giant ruts in the road threatened to swallow the bald tires whole. The spare on the passenger front side gamely rolled on, defying the path. Dust streaked the cracked windshield, the sun glare rendering the path before us, charitably dubbed road, before us a mystery. The caretaker chattered happily, dodging the ruts with practiced ease. We had been up the hill quite a ways, along a gravel road, dashing thru the trees. After a lovely bit of time spent away from the cabin, we were ready to return. Rolling back up the path to the main road, with our nose pointed towards the cabin, we all grinned at each other, fortified with decent beer. We were deep in national forest country, with hardly anyone else around. I had yet to see another car, on the hour or more I had driven or ridden on these roads.

We were just recounting the glorious demise of Dan’s old jimmy, and how old cars ought to go out with a bang. The caretaker had just finished his beer, when the car suddenly gave up it’s stuttering purr, and we coasted along in near silence. We traded glances, and Caretaker sighed, and threw the old buick into neutral.

“If we can just make it up the next hill, we can pretty much coast all the way down to the cabin.” he smiled, and let all tension off the brake. Once released from its iffy and squealing brakes, the considerable mass of the tank-like car picked up speed. We slalomed around the corners, and leaped over potholes with the ease of a fish. Dashing around a corner, the hill loomed before us, the trees casting shadows across its pitted surface like the bars of an old fashioned prison. Gamely, the car tacked the slope, gravel sputtering from under its tires, especially the spare. The car made a good showing, but eventually gravity reasserted its cruel hold, and we rolled to a stop.

Caretaker sighed “Well, we gave it a good shot. I’m gonna try to get Buddy on the phone, see if he can fetch us some gas. More than likely, we run out of fuel. The gauge doesn’t work so good any more.” He fished out his cell, and powered it on, muttering pleas at it to retain enough juice to make the call. All his sweet talk was in vain, however, as it bleeped the lack of service in the area. Caretaker gave another sigh, and cracked a beer. Not much else to do, as we sat in the middle of the one lane road in the vast tracts of forest. Dan popped the door open, allowing it to creak open like a barn door. Dust motes swirled in the air, settling over us in a thin blanket. Caretaker did the same, and the dust flowed thru with little impedence.

After a few moments, and another good story of vehicle death, Caretaker gave the key a halfhearted crank. Much to our surprise, the car sputtered to life, with the last gasp of gas. We shared a incredulous look, and Caretaker threw the car into gear, juggling his beer while he pulled the door in. Dan snatched his leg back into the car, and his door squealed shut. We raced up the hill, daring the gas to fail us, breathless to reach the crest, to coast down the other side. We grinned at each other as the land slopes again, and gravity eased her hands back around the heavy car. Caretaker let gravity assist the failing gas, and we picked up speed until we were once again flying down the hills, around the corners.

We came to a particularly fierce pothole, a series of them, and took them like an over excited steeplechaser. The car dashed into the breach, and slammed into the ground. This was nothing new, we had been scraping belly the whole time, but a new noise did reach our ears this time. A faint psst psst, rhythmically issued forth, and we three looked once again at each other in horror. Dan rolled down the window, and stuck his head out, daring the whipping branches. He dropped back into his seat, and confirmed
“Yeah, the doughnut is blown.”

“Screw it, I don’t even care.” Caretaker shook his head “I am gonna ride that rim down this hill.” He glanced over at us, and we cheered him on. We all grinned, and he turned his head forward. We all whooped and hollered, and we rolled on.

The car flew down the hill, dashing into a loose gravel patch. Stones flew into the forest as the small rim plunged into the gravel. The car slewed to the side, but carried on gamely, momentum carrying the day. We slid, sunblind, down the tiny forest road, until we reached the turnoff down to the cabin that Caretaker bushhogged into the forest earlier in the year. The ruts on this road were even more prohibitive here, but the buick slid down the red dirt path on it’s belly. The spare rim spun gamely, and we slewed down the final few bends, tree branches whipping the car. Down a final slope and corner, we came to a halt in the yard of the cabin, dust swirling around us.

Caretaker, Dan and I grinned, and we all climbed out of the car into the afternoon sun

My eyes skim over the words, bold black strokes on white paper. The simplicity of a book seems to match this place, this cabin in the middle of the forest. The constant hum of the generator reminds us our light is only here on sufferance. The cords snaking thru the cabin attest to the narrow point of entry, the one cord lighting the whole place, running up to the generator. As I read, the lights above me suddenly die. A collective sigh arises from the kitchen, where some of the group is making dinner. Undeterred, they grab an oil lantern, and the cooking continues on propane fueled elements. I put down my book; dinner is nearly ready anyways. It is my turn to do the dishes, so dinner prep is not expected of me. This suits me fine, as my idea of dinner is a hot can of beans, maybe even with stale bread.

We sit down at the table, eyes flickering in the oil light. Dinner is plain fare, beets and onion sauteed in dill, served on quinoa. I tap my bare foot against the floor as I eat. We walked a long way down to the lake today, some two miles there, and then two miles back in the dusk, going on dark. My feet need a break, a chance to rest without the confines of shoes. Dinner is good. My muscles cry out for meat, but the vegetarians in the group are well pleased.

Suddenly, an exclaimation from the kitchen. a light is called for, a flashlight shines on the ground. One girl triumphantly holds up a wine glass, paper clapped to it’s opening. She brings the cup near the table, and a light is shone on it.

“…just saw it by his foot in the kitchen, and we caught it! What kind of spider is this?”

I look up, and see the flashlight shining thru the glass, throwing the shadow large and crawly on her arm. I figure the light for exaggerating the size, as it must. the shadow is the size of a small bird.

“Huh, it looks like one of those brown recluse.” one guy informs us. Our american counterparts lean back a little. I look around at them.

“It that bad?” I ask.

“Well, they aren’t bad, what with the catching of flies and all. But they are deadly poison.” another girl casually mentions.

This is just after I learned that there were rattlesnakes here, but they have all bedded down for the winter already. Did I mention it has been unseasonably warm here lately?

I crane my neck to catch glimpse of this spider, so I can identify it. I see a body with it’s legs drawn up, legs tapping against the side of the glass. the thing is fully as large as a toonie, and it doesn’t even have it’s legs out. I draw my bare feet up onto the bench seat. The girl holding the glass heads out the front door, and flings the spider out into the garden.

I pick up the lantern, and make my way to the living room, lantern held low. There, my closed toe slippers rest. Too bad for my hot aching feet, it is time for toe protection. I have to go out to the generator, and try to reset the breaker. This seems lie a bad time for bare feet, all of a sudden.

I walk up the steps thru the garden, lantern held high. My eyes scan the trees for the bright flicker of animal eyes. No bears seem to be around. They are like the ghosts of the forest. The bear dog sees them, and barks at them on and off thru the night. I see their scat all around the property in a big circle. We never do seem to catch sight of them directly, however.

A quick press of the reset button, and the lights below flicker back to life.

Life goes on.

“Travelling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.”
– Cesare Pavese

Swiftly we flowed down the West Coast, hitting towns only long enough to gas up. We paused for sleep, setting alarms to wake one person up to start the bus rolling in the crisp dark mornings while the others slept. As the day wore on, the others would wake up, and life on the bus would continue.

We picked up two riders, one in Calgary and one in Seattle. With four on the short bus, things were… cozy. Negotiations took place for most movement. “I would like to get under that bed to get my socks, could you shift over to the other one?” or “My food bag is by your feet, could you pass it over?” Cozy indeed. It did turn into a small community, and I was sad to see our riders get off at their respective stops in northern California.

We stopped in Ashland just before we left Oregon, to visit some of the great people I had met there when on tour with Mythmaker. Even tho I had given such minimal notice of when we would roll into town, friends made some time in their schedules, and welcomed us with open arms and smile. Considering we had been on the road for a handful of days by this point, you can imagine what friendly people these guys truly are! Though I did receive several invitations to use the shower…

We had planned to hit the Wellsprings, natural sourced hot pools near Ashland. I was delighted to make a plan to meet up with a Mythmaker Tour ’10 Alumni (ha, sounds so fancy) at the pools, and had told my fellow bus riders all about the pools. We were all pretty excited to go. Well, we met up with one of the Ashland friends, and she reminded me that every Monday was ladies night. Sigh, as with many plans on the road, you have to be flexible. The two girls on the bus went with the Ashland friend, and I was still able to meet up with my tour mate from the summer. I was thrilled to be able to mull over recent happenings in our respective lives, and share a bottle of mead. The night grew late too quickly, and the early morning push to make it there at a decent time took it’s toll on me. We reluctantly called it a night, and made our way back out to the bus.

The morning dawned brisk, and we rose with the sun to make the drop off time our riders had wanted. A bittersweet farewell, an alleycat goodbye, another path diverges in the wood. It is not for us to know the future, nor when we shall meet again.

We wound our way through the red hills of northern California, our tires rolling down pavement, down gravel roads. A musky scent pervades the air here, and the vegatation is strange to my eye. The plants guard their water, fending off the encroacher with spines and bitter taste. We bid another farewell, and are down to three.

As the tires roll over the pavement, the kilometers fall away, or add up, depending on your point of view. We drove into the dusk, and made our rendevous for our last rider. Another farewell, and Dan and I are left looking at each other over the now roomy expanse of the bus. We move about, still mindful of the other’s space and task, but not constantly in each other’s way. It is a nice change, and I get back to the knowing of my home. I put a few things away, and puttered about before bed.

Today brought the redwoods into light. After a leisurely departure, we made our way down the road to a grove of redwoods. The tall trees reached up into the sunlight, and defied my puny human perception of time. I stared up at the leafy canopy far above me, and dreamed of giants. We walked among their roots, crawling things. THe scars of fire marked their bark, a fire so long ago the rest of the ground vegatation had grown back in seamlessly. A fire, such a temporary thing, possessing no solid form. No doubt it passed in a blink of the forest’s gentle eye. And yet, here, it has written it’s story, and the trees have worn it on their skin, testament to a battle long over, a worthy foe outlasted, withstood. We find a fallen tree, it’s roots gutted by fire. Even in it’s grave, life goes on. A younger tree grows up out of the charred stump.

I am humbled by the grove, as it should be, to my way of thinking. It is good to confront your own very temporary nature every so often. My own life is less than the touch of a feather to the great face of time, a brief caress from a one night lover. Forgotten wholly in the next turn of the head. This is strangely peaceful to me. As much as I might fret on the challenges that arise in my life, they are truly trite in the greater view. My life is only most important to me. I matter to others only through my interactions with them. Therefor, should I not cast off the strife of self-aggrandizing concerns and go out to dance with those I meet? For in the end, the concerns will wash away, and I shall have a nest of memories to keep my spirit warm, conversations had around the fire, drink shared, and oh yes, music we joyously surrendered to.