Road to Harbin
The road wound through the darkness, the next bend hiding it from sight. Clinging to the side of the hill, following the easiest path, it was not a road made for speed. Most of the roads in the hills of Northern California are like this. Sharp corners and winding roads. The constant light touch on the brakes and engine braking, or goosing the accelerator to keep speed up and downshifting. The houses crouch on the verge, when there are houses at all. Small lights in the darkness, clustered around any even remotely flat spot.
This is not country you would want to be low on fuel in. I haven’t seen a gas station in miles, let alone one open after dark.
The bus trundles along in the darkness in front of me. Dan handles it with the ease of long familiarity, taking the corners with expert speed. I keep up in my little Civic, which we have affectionately named The Dingy. The lines on the nav lead reassuringly onward, a small flag marking our destination. Harbin Hotsprings. I have visited the place before, last fall. I had quite the insight there, and the chance to practice discerning actual danger from mere discomfort.
One last small town falls away behind us. It is not so very late, and we were able to pick up groceries in town. Fresh bread, and a mysterious jar of what claims to be Pumpkin Butter. We took the time to snack on our new purchases outside the grocery store, and Pumpkin Butter on bread is delicious. Imagine jam made out of the filling of apple pie. That sort of delicious. We licked our lips and took the small backroad out of town, headlights piercing the darkness.
Lights gleamed on the road before us. A sign invited us to slow down, and I was surprised to see the gatehouse of the springs. Dan had to renew his membership, as we had just gotten the one month card last time. As the springs are owned by a “church”, and nudity is an option, everyone who wants to visit the springs must have a membership. Dan paid the ten dollars, and we all paid our $25 a person, and went in.
The springs overcame me that night. I went to the warm pool, which I had recalled as a degree or two below the perfect long term soaking temperature. It was not the case this time. The temperature was perfect, and I felt my skin was a hinderance, the only thing keeping me from dispersing into the water. I propped myself against the wall, using one or two muscles to keep my knees locked, and I cast my mind loose. Thoughts tumbled over themselves, coming to the surface to be examined and then drifting away. I have been troubled lately, with the accusations of a friend hanging about my mind, and the slow draw of missing home. The normal fretting about cars, wondering of The Dingy would make it back to Canada, after all these rough roads and hills. I fretted over the missing headlight, which had caused me to be pulled over once or twice. The cops are very active down here. All these thoughts rose in my mind, all the things I had been fretting over, worried about, some I had been downright twisted with anxiety. I gave them no more than a moment to occupy my mind, and then I pushed them away. Some I found solutions to, some I simply came to peace with. When you cannot do anything to affect other’s perceptions, I suppose you might as well let the worry go. By the time I gave up wakefulness, my mind was more settled than it had been for the last five days.
The next morning, we went back to the pools. I once again relaxed in the warm pool, but managed to hold my self together a bit better. I made my way to the super hot pool again, and eased my way in. I found it hotter than last time, and I felt a slight tinge of distress, that my spiritual realizations of last time had not withstood to this time, enabling me to ignore the distress of temperature extremes and simply plunge into the water. Once I reached that state last time, should it not have stayed there, as an enlightened idea? I had worked so hard last time, should it not have maintained that level?
I resigned myself to a constantly eroding mental bank, and started by dipping my feet into the scaldingly hot water. I clung to the railing, cool air prickling my skin, and stood on the first step of the hot pool. I went down one more step, and was immersed to my knees. There, I noticed that it did not seem to be so very difficult. My skin protested once again that this was far too hot, but my calves were warmer than my feet, so it was not such a shock. Also, I knew I could do this. I had eased into the hot pool once before, it was possible, and I remembered the reasoning that I had taken before. My mental feet trod the path, nimble as goat feet on a steep trail. There, the air was not so cold, and it was only temporary. The water was very hot, but would not kill me. I worked my way down the steps, and waded thru the chest high pool, to stand by the pull up bar and wooden seat attached to the far wall. I stood in the water, soaking up the heat, taking it in my skin, into my body, filling like a cup, slow lassitude suffusing my limbs. When I was full, when the heat filled the cup of my body, lapping at the edge and threatening to spill over, I lifted myself up, reached up and seized the worked metal bar. My muscles contracted gently, sliding over each other like warm silk, and I swung back to sit on the wooden seat, legs still in the water. I felt the heat steam off my skin, a layer of armor between me and the chill autumn air.
I will come back here, again and again. To stimulate my mind, shake myself out of the complacency of “I can’t”.
I can. If only for a little while at a time.
Not a Gas Jockey
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on November 13, 2011
The cool dark bathed my car, giving way only reluctantly to the sporadic streetlights of the small town I was entering. My speed dropped, the shush of the tires growing gentle and small after miles of constant sound. I glanced at my nav on the dash; it directed me to drive on this road into the small town, then turn left and follow another out the other side, back onto the highway, to let the miles slip by, unremarked in the dark, once again.
The hour was advanced, but not truly late, being only about eleven or midnight. I cruised past a gas station, and was surprised to see it open, and offering a good price even. The gas gauge was still reassuringly high, but considering the hour and the miles yet to go, I decided to err on the side of caution. I put on my blinker, and pulled into a side street to perform a semi legal u turn. I saw blue lights flashing in the darkness ahead as I pulled off the main road. Someone was not having a good night.
Once back on the main road, I retraced my steps to the gas station, and turned off into the lot. A sheriff car slid past me, making a turn in the opposite direction. That was two, must be a busy night. I briefly ruminated on my old superstition that it was best to see cops in threes. It was a shaky superstition based on an old observation of tow trucks. When I first started driving, I saw two tow trucks, and then my car broke down, and I saw the third. This happened twice, and had more to do with the state of my car in those days than some mystical “group of three” thing. I hadn’t noticed the phenomenon in ages, but old habits die hard, and this one was only now giving its last gasp. Two cop cars meant only an unusually busy night in this small town. I didn’t even know the name of the place. A brief widening of the road and the lights, then I would be off into darkness again. After gas. I pulled into the gas station lot.
Blue lights sprang into life, strobing the darkness around me. Startled, I glanced into the rear view mirror. Surely not me….
But there he was, lights shattering the darkness, fencing me in against the pumps. Seemed a little like overkill to me, but whatever. I rolled past the first pump, stopping at the second to leave room for someone to use the pump behind me. Only courtesy. I ran my mind over my actions. Was it that questionably legal u-turn? I reviewed the contents of my car. My food, and my dog, no problem there. A roll of cash I had no desire to donate to crooked cops. Hmm, a bottle of herbal decongestant I had legally purchased in Canada, several years ago. I remembered hearing that it had been illegal in the states for some years now. A grey area of the law, to be sure. Perhaps it was a good time to flex my rights, and politely refuse to consent to a search. The cop could always fabricate some “reasonable suspicion” to toss my car, but refusing consent would give me a legal leg to stand on. I was not so rich that I could afford to give up that cash without a protest.
I shut off my car and pocketed the keys in preparation to step out of my vehicle and lock it behind me, to resist being strong-armed into a search. The cop fussed with his dash before stepping out of his cruiser to advance cautiously on my car. I had the window rolled partway down, and I turned to his approach. As he drew up to my shoulder, I looked back at him with my best harmless look.
“I take it you aren’t here to pump my gas.” I ventured, offering up a wry smile to let him know I was joking, and not actually that dumb.
The officer stopped, a momentary incredulous look passing over his face.
“No ma’am, I am not.” Precious few appreciate my humor, it seems.
He stalked up even with me, and I peered out at him from my half open window. If you roll your window down all the way, a pushy officer may stick his head inside and try to spot some evidence to justify searching your car. Or smell some evidence. Half down is plenty of room to talk. The officer let his eyes rove over my car, over the few things visible. I had all my gear packed into three rubbermaid bins across the back seat, and my passenger seat held only my snacks, water and ipod. My computer was safely out of sight in my backpack, hidden down on the floorboards and covered with a dark sweatshirt. With any luck, it looked like a shadow to the casual glance. If they don’t see it, they won’t break into your car to steal it, or fabricate a reason to search it. Did you know the US airport security can seize your laptop and search it, if you take it on a flight with you? They don’t do it very often, but they can.
Dog peered back at him calmly from where she lay on her bed in the back cargo area. I peered up at him from the drivers seat. His eyes failed to turn anything up.
“Do you have family in the area, ma’am?” he asked me, his eyes wondering what the hell a canadian was doing in his town.
Justify yourself. Just don’t give a reason to be asked more questions. Bad enough I had purple dreads and out of state plates. This is a tricky one, but I get practice. Not usually at blue light point, but still.
“Oh, I am on my way to see the redwoods. I hear they are quite spectacular!” I smiled. Pay no mind to the fact that I am currently south of the redwoods, and that I would have most likely passed thru the redwoods already, to get this far south. You see only a harmless tourist. These are not the droids you are looking for.
“Did you know you have a headlight out?” he gruffed at me. Why yes, I did. The last cop to mention it was in Edmonton at a checkstop. Months ago. I had since tried to replace the bulb, and discovered it to be a wiring problem I hadn’t had the patience to sort out. It was gonna take some time with a multimeter and a soldering gun to tease that mess out, some day.
“A headlight? Why, I swear I just had one replaced. I suppose they will burn out…. Thank you for telling me!” I gushed at him, all smiles and inoffensive cheer. He gave me another hard look. I smiled and watched him with a benevolent air of helpfulness and harmlessness.
“How about license and registration?” He asked me. I chirped my assent and reached towards my glove box.
“Let me see, I think I have my registration right here.” I narrated my action. There have been cases to people being shot just for reaching for their identification too fast, or in a suspicious nature. Of course, that happened to black guys in cities, but small town cops can make life real hard too. The likelihood of this cop shooting me was slim to none, but I figure it is best to treat all cops like one might treat a big dog when you may be trespassing. They bite sometimes, and you never know if someone else just kicked the dog, putting him in a foul mood. Or if that dog just gets off on biting people.
I passed my license and registration to the cop. I briefly gave thanks that I had remembered to renew my registration before I left Alberta last.
“I will be right back.” he said.
“Do you mind if I pump my gas while you check that out?” I asked him as he turned to leave. He wouldn’t find anything on my record, if he could even access my record. I have heard that it takes hours to get an answer on a foreign ID check, past whether the person in question is wanted for any warrants in the USA. I was pretty sure I was good there, as I think I would have remembered warrant worthy things happening if they had. And the border guard had let me cross, if after a rather long wait and question period. Might as well put my time stopped to good use, and let him know how very un-guilty I was.
He looked nonplussed for a moment.
“I will be right back.” he repeated. I took that as a “no, if I knew what was good for me”. I wondered if he was not legally allowed to restrict my movement without officially holding me for questioning. A good way to test if the officer actually has something on you, or is merely fishing for you to make a mistake is to ask if you are being detained, or if you are free to go. If you aren’t being detained, shut your mouth and quietly walk away. So I have been told by sources I trust. (The flexyourrights.org people.) How it actually works in practice I have not found out, and hopefully it stays that way.
He took the foreign ID back to his cruiser, and got in. I rolled my window up to only a crack at the top. If he ordered me out of my car, this would deter him from making free with my belongings without an official reason or warrant type thing. I toyed with my ipod, cueing the audio book I had been listening to back a few minutes. I had left it on play in my haste to put my theoretical coping skills to practice for law enforcement encounters. I watched the store clerk watching me.
A few minutes later, the cop came back up to my car. He handed my papers back to me, and warned me again to get that headlight replaced. I smiled and thanked him for his trouble, and I put my ID away as he got his cruiser back onto the road.
I grabbed my wallet and hopped out of the car. I had already pulled the gas door release, back at the beginning of this odd encounter. I stood a moment, trying to recall if this state was prepay every time, or if this was the “don”t pump your own gas” state. I decided that night time probably meant prepay anyways, and there was no gas jockey creeping out from under cover, so I strode towards the store.
The store clerk eyed me as I came in. She was in her middle years, and her eyes sparkled with a fine curiosity. I smiled as I payed.
“Guess my headlight was out, and he just had to tell me.” I confided.
“Oh Welts!” she exclaimed. “He is always such a prick, stopping people and hassling everybody. Thinks he is such a bigshot!” she derided the brave civil servant.
I privately thought most small town cops were big shots when it came to out of towners, and not shy about tossing around their authority. I took comfort in knowing that he would still be stuck here tomorrow, while I was a hundred miles away, seeing brand new sights. And redwoods. They really are spectacular around here, as I knew from last year.
I commiserated with the clerk for a bit longer, then went out to pump my gas. I stood at the handle, pressing the gas nozzle and its fume sucker hood tight to the side of my car. Only in California were they so aware of fumes. With that, the memory finally surfaced. It was Oregon where you weren’t allowed to pump your own gas. By law, every station was full serve. Here, it was just prepay all the time.
I filled up my teacup, and got back onto the road. The nav still showed the best path out of town, and I could see no reason to waste time. I knew the redwoods were only another one or two hundred miles up the road, and I hoped to get to the edge of them and find a place to sleep in my car. I wanted to wake up among the giants tomorrow morning.
I cleared the town limits, and gently sped up. The tires shushed on the road, and the mist scuttled out from under my car. The darkness wrapped back around me, welcoming me in. I flashed away from the last town light, and into the night.
All my theoretical knowledge comes from flexyourrights.org/
Quite a useful website, with practical videos.
The Solid Earth
Darkness claimed the windows, a pure unrelenting blackness of country night. Nearly unrelenting. Out one side, the faint gleam of the yard light could be seen, pushing feebly at the night. The trees shadowed the starlight, and the moon did not show her face. A mere slip of a thing, she hid from eyes that would see her here. The trees swayed in the breeze, their tops singing in the inhuman undulating voice of the wild things, wind against living wood. I could walk among them, unnoticed and small, place my hands on their trunks, steady and unmoving despite the frolics of their canopy, and be completely unremarkable. The earth held them up, gave their roots the purchase the impossibly tall trees needed. I could wander among them, and contemplate my own insignificance. Had I fear of my own passing, I could take out a sharp knife, metals drawn out of the earth and ground into a shape pleasing to man. I could take this edge and set it against the bark and carve my scratchings into the skin of the tree. Without fear of being swatted. Like a moth beating against a window. Unremarked. Should I suppose this means the trees are less than myself? That I can swat a mosquito, but the plant giants are so very different than I that not even hacking them to death can arouse their response? Perhaps I would better spend my time contemplating the place of all things in the world, how the trees provide paper to write on, logs to build with, wood to burn and keep man alive in the winter. How trees grow lush on graves, the bodies of the fallen feeding the net of life all around us.
My thoughts spin slowly and sedate, contemplating trees and stars and darkness, thinking on the breath rolling in and out of my lungs, the faint hunger in my belly prompting thoughts of what I might have to snack on. Dog is outside the house, and as I idly skim over a small corner of the internet, I can hear her collar jingling as she runs up and down beside the house. She passes by the window once, twice. My eyes flit over a blog post, another mention of the brutality of Oakland police to Occupation protestors.
A shiver, of the very air itself. The door I am sitting beside starts shifting in its frame, creaking and then banging. The house groans, and I feel as if I crouch like a mouse as a herd of horses thunder by. I am crouching, laptop snapped shut in my arms, body low to the ground and eyes frantic. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my blood, my muscles twitching and electric with the ability to move. The floor rocks and trembles under my feet. I scan the air, trying to determine which way to run. Where is the herd of giant horses? What machine could this be? What is falling, over and over?
Before I can fully reason out what to flee from, the shaking stops. The house falls quiet, and the other dog barks once. I stand, eyes wide and limbs trembling. Could that have been….?
I hear the sounds of someone gently stirring in the bed just beyond the room I am currently shivering in. This person is one who is familiar with the area.
“Was… was that an earthquake?” I ask hesitantly. There can be no other explanation for this situation, so far outside of anything I have experienced before.
“Yeah, just a little one. Should be no damage.” The sleepy reply comes back, and all falls still.
A earthquake! I have never experienced an earthquake before, and now that it is over, and nothing has been damaged, and indeed, it is scarcely noticed by the others used to this area. I am thrilled to have been able to experience a small one.
But I feel slightly more wary of the earth, even as I walk about on it’s surface as usual.
Shots in the Dark
The eggs sizzled promisingly, the only sound in the darkened kitchen. Well, there were other sounds, but this was the one I was most interested in. I could hear music from the other room, a song about living simple at the end of a pitted gravel road. Fitting for my current situation. The night air came in through the open kitchen window. Crickets chirped, and I could hear the faint jingle of a dog scratching their collar. The stars were just visible, past the towering trees. The wind was playing in the tops, swaying the leafy canopy far above, merely setting the trunks to quivering ever so slightly. If I listened carefully, I could hear the soft whooshing of the wind, like a river just around the corner.
The smell of the eggs was growing, combining with the sharp cheddar I had grated into the pan, mingling with the spices. Simple fare, but it would keep me going. It was also one of my favorite meals that I can make quickly and easily. That went a long way to endearing it to me as well. I was looking forward to a quiet meal for this quiet evening.
The sound of shots rang out, loud in the otherwise still evening. I jumped in my skin, and would’ve dropped anything I was holding. My host was shooting off rounds into the darkened forest. In the distance, I could hear a neighbor answer with a few rapid shots of his own. After a moment, I could hear some more shots even further down the valley. Just another evening at the end of the gravel road, with people bein’ neighborly. I unwound my shoulders and finished my cooking.
I headed upstairs to watch a movie and enjoy my dinner. After another round, the shooting had died down again, and everyone was back to their drinking. After the movie, after dishes, I headed back outside. The stars were bright above my head, and the moon was less than half full. I listened to the soft night sounds. Dog should be coming up any moment now, sensitive to the sounds of my feet in the front porch. I stood a moment, looking around. Where was she?
“Dog?” I asked, looking about. Have you ever tried to spot a black dog on a near moonless night under the tall trees? I highly recommend it. A wonderful exercise to keep one humble.
When there was no response from my usually attentive dog, I called a bit louder. I stepped away from the front porch and further into the darkness. The inky pools under the trees stared back, unrevealing. Here was the other dog, annoyingly excitable in the face of my attempts to listen for my dog. I shooed away the other dog, and called again.
There. The faint jingle of her collar tags. I listened, but the sound did not repeat.
“Dog?” I queried the darkness. A whine answered me, and I turned.
The front porch was about five feet off the ground, and the open face of it had been fenced in with trellis. Behind the cheerfully crossed pattern of the light wood, I saw the starlight glint off Dog’s eyes. I could hear her panting gently in distress at being unable to come to me, and I could hear the faint whoosh of her tail wagging with pleasure at my attention. Her eyes beseeched me, completely confident I would be able to extract her from this predicament. I sighed.
I went back inside and fetched a light. Sliding down the slight slope of the earth beside the fenced in porch, I came to a corner. I reasoned that this inside right angle was probably where she has forced her way thru the trellis to hide from the gunshots. Sure enough, I found a place where one sheet of trellis could be just pushed in, allowing something frightened and silly to get in. Once in however, there was no way to force back out. I sighed, and teetered on a tumble of concrete clumps to push in the trellis. The other dog figured I was finally coming down to her level, and she immediately wriggled right into my way, attempting to smear my face with her muddy tongue. I shoved the other dog away with a curse, the only language she seemed to pay heed to. One more glare was needed to keep the other dog at bay, and then I pushed at the trellis again. Dog slithered around the corner, claws scrabbling on the debris under the porch. The slope was awkward, but she did manage to squeeze out.
Dog was ecstatic, pouncing all over the ground before me. The other dog leaped on her, teeth nipping her and growling in her exuberant adolescent way. Dog shook her off, and continued to celebrate her freedom and my attention. I sighed, and scratched her behind the ears, pushing away the other dog again. I had no doubt Dog would not hesitate to get under the deck again should more shots be fired off. Of course, then I could rescue her again, and cause such delight. Some things about a dog’s life are pretty simple.
Red Earth, Green Trees
The sky is a chalky blue, contrasting with the red soil. The sun has made it out from the clouds of last week, and you can feel the humidity climb as it disperses the moisture from the ground into the air. The paved road snaking thru the protected forest is dappled in sunlight and shadow, bars of muggy heat and simple mugginess. I have been walking in the forest, getting reacquainted with the area. It has been a time of peace and of rest, and it does me good. I breath and walk, and enjoy the simple things of life.
Sadly, it makes for quite poor story material. I shall have to find a mountain lion tail to tweak, or a silly girl to rescue out of the woods. For my readers, of course.
Message in Time
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on October 2, 2011
The little white lines on the road flashed by, a trail leading to… anywhere. I followed, settling into the shush of tires on pavement. The second step in my journey. Starting in Edmonton, I had driven down to Calgary and spent some time visiting. I had worked a bit more on the car, with the help of my dad, and his tools. Tracking down the faint coolant smell resulted in a new radiator and one hose. Not too bad, all told. The parts for the tiny old civic continue to be cheap. The new seat covers were also admired. I knew my fine taste would be appreciated! That done, I figured my car was pretty likely to make it over the mountains to Vancouver, the next leg of my journey. I had meant to set out that night, but Doris produced a bottle of wine, and I simply had to stay for a glass. By the time visiting was done, and I do loathe to hurry visiting, it was rather late. Since the forecast for the next day looked like rain, I figured my little non-ac car and I could make a day run over the passes. No real need to travel at night. So I stayed one more night in Calgary. My mum was kind enough to put Dog and I up for another night, so we stayed there. The only thing about my mum’s place is her obscene idea of morning. Keep in mind this was on a saturday. She knocked on my door at about 6:30. I muttered and sent out the dog. That ought to distract her for a bit. I did manage to get an early start however, and it turned out well.
It was just after Banff that I started feeling a bit tired. I blamed the early hour of rising, and found a pull out to stop at. I parked the car behind a resting big rig, and lay down across my passenger seat. I closed my eyes, for however long it took to refresh me.
I stood in the mist. Swirling grey patterns all around me, none of it distinctive. A woman came walking out of the mist, dressed in blue jeans and a red t shirt. her long brown hair seemed unaffected by the wet air. Indeed, she seemed to be walking in a beam of sunlight. Odd. She came up to me.
“Do you have your papers in order?” She asked, kindly brown eyes meeting mine. I stared back, uncertain.
“I…I think so.” I replied.
“All your papers? You should check.” She was reassuring, and I found myself smiling back.
With that, I woke up. Glancing around, I reoriented myself. Still parked behind the rig, still raining slightly. The wind moaned thru the straps on the rig in front of me, producing an eerie mournful sound. It reminded me of the Ocean Pipes in Croatia. I smiled at the favored memory. What a strange dream.
Slowly, a thought surfaced, like a sandbar as the tide goes out. Did I have my papers in order? For crossing the border? Yes. What was tugging at my mind? Ah, my car registration was about to expire. Well, at the end of the month, but I would still be in Cali at that time. I checked my iphone. THe BC border loomed just before me, withe the last Alberta registry in Banff, sixteen kilometers behind me. Even happened to be open on a Saturday. Guess I better do that sooner rather than later.
I checked the clock. I had only been asleep for about ten minutes. Just long enough for the message to be delivered.
Flaming Panthers
One of the things I compromised on when I became nomadic was my car. I used to have an older sports coupe, my darling gas drinker, my Supra. I loved that car, I rebuilt the engine with my own two hands (and a bunch of tools). I loved driving that car thru the mountains, hearing the turbo spool up and feeling the thrust from those six cylinders. I spend time under the hood, finetuning. I spend more time than I should have under the car, fixing! She was a finicky bitch. Money in parts, in gas, time spend in a garage, with all my parts supply close, my network of simply knowledge I had built up.
I loved that deep red beast.
I sold it. I sold it for less than I felt it was worth, because I needed to get rid of it. I couldn’t afford to keep it up, to feed it parts and gas. I used the money to build the bus, my new home. I kept my old truck, the one with power nothing and rust holes everywhere. That ran, and ran simply. Sadly, my truck was not suitable for the summer heat. Good thing I spent the summer on a bus.
Winter passed, and my truck did me proud. Summer came, and I needed something to get me around town in the heat, when I was away from the bus. I began to peruse kijiji. There are many cheap cars on that used site, but you really are rolling the dice, even with some mechanical knowledge. I bought an 89 Civic for about the amount of one month’s payment on a nice new car.
Yesterday, I decided that I had taken the game little car for granted long enough. I had barely even looked on the underside, and that ominous clunking was getting louder. I can only stick my head in the sand so long. Besides, the 300 000 km mark was coming up, and I wanted to give my car a present. And keep it running.
When I got the car, it had scratchy fabric seat covers over the original vinyl. Dog got sick in my car while I was in a store last week, and the seat covers took the brunt of her misfortune. I figured it was a sign. I threw out the old ones and sat on cracked and ripped hot vinyl for a week. I clearly needed new seat covers before my upcoming 2 400 km trip. Too bad I needed to be thrifty, like a mother of six thrifty, in this aftermath of the Burn.
I found myself in Princess Auto, home of cheap tools and surplus. They had two choices for seat covers. Old man “velvet feel” for the wrong sized seat, or Taz for almost the right sized seat.
Then, I spied it. There, for bucket seats with detached head rests, just what I had. It bragged of a snug fit for “custom look”. It was cheap. $20 per seat cover. I debated getting just one. Then I noticed it came with a graphic on the front. Surely not…
Oh yes. A panther. And some words. How could I resist? There might even have been flames in the panthers mouth.
I carried two seat covers up to the register, and received the kind of surprise nomads thrive on, and seem to happen right when I need them to. Both covers cost $20. they had been half off, but not really well marked. I plunked down a ragged $20 and some change for tax, and proudly carried out my score.
They sat in my car for another day before I went to Justin’s shop to work on the frightening suspension noise. I decided to go all out, and vacuum the car even. There might be a noise grinding out from the driver’s front wheel over every bump, but those seat covers just begged to be installed. They demanded. I had no choice but to obey.
Once I cleaned out my car, and vacuumed up the debris left from the previous owner (maybe a little from me as well) I couldn’t wait to peel those “lush” covers out of their protective plastic box. I pulled the first one over the drivers seat, unrolling the graphic as I went. Bit by bit, it was revealed in all it’s glory. Oh yes, there was a panther. And what’s this? There is a banner at his feet, proclaiming his badassed-ness. There are flames. Not coming out of his mouth, but all around him. This panther was rampant on a field of flames. I strapped the flimsy elastic straps around the bottom of the seat, and stood back to admire my work.
The panther reached one mighty paw out, baring his teeth in a display sure to frighten away any would-be thieves. The banner proudly rolled below him, setting off the flames. A skull peeked out, just to leave no doubt. I looked at the new seat covers and I thought “that panther sure does have a defined ass.”
Sure, there might be a towel under the new cover to help cushion the cracked vinyl. There might even be worn spots on the carpet, the steering wheel, the dash… pretty much everywhere, really. But damn, those seats look sharp.
Anyone who doesn’t think so can have some panther. To their face. Flaming claws, watch out!
After a description like that, I know you want a picture. And I will oblige. If only to capture the awesomeness before the cheap print bleaches right off.
Flaming Claws, yo. Fear me!
I did make it around to investigating the noise. I had to replace the upper ball joint on the drivers side. It was about as loose as I have ever seen a ball joint be and not break. Whoops. Also, I did the brakes. They were used up, but not dangerous. Riders, You’re Welcome.
I must say, the civic is a damn sight easier to work on than the supra. I still love you supra, I’m just not in love with you any more.
Enjoy Your Coffee Creation
When I tell people I travel more often than the average person, they usually express envy and astonishment on my idyllic life. They recline with $5 cup of coffee in their hand, keys to their shiny leased or bought new car on the table, and house waiting for them at home.
“I wish I could have your life. I would give anything to do what you do, live how you live!” sometimes they gush, after I relate the latest breathtaking adventure.
Would you? Would you give anything? More to the point, would you give everything? Cuz that is what it takes. Anyone can live like this. Few have the peculiar brand of crazy that makes it possible. Most people like stability, things they can count on. Hell, so do I, just in little doses. Why do you think I have so many settled friends? Not just because they let me use the washing machine, but that is part of it. For a little stability in this part of my life, this time of wandering.
So yeah, you can do it. But enjoy what you have. Everyone ends up where they want to be, and it your life looks a certain way, there are parts of you that want it just how it is. Stability, in one form or another, is key to human thriving.
So, can I come over and use your washing machine?
Of Borders and Snakes
Posted by Nadia in Getting There on September 6, 2011
We rolled up to the border crossing of Coutts at about two in the morning. Out of five lanes, only one was open. A big rig and a truck were ahead of us. It only took about ten minutes for it to be our turn. We rolled up to the passage, facing the bank of cameras and sensors. Ahead, the guard peered out of his booth, more of a door in the hulking building we crept around. There were warning signs everywhere, alerting you to the very serious business of crossing. As we inched forward, the cameras flashed, the sensors no doubt sensed, probing our vehicle and trailer for everything, anything. People stowing away, large stashes of cash or drugs, weapons…. goat milk. I blinked in the afterglow of the camera flash.
This would be a bad time to remember you needed a passport to cross the border.
Fortunately, this idea had occurred to me in Edmonton. After I had found and stashed mine, I had asked Justin about his, prompting a sudden look of thankfulness. On one of the subsequent trips to load the truck, he had asked if I thought we should bring the tickets off the fridge, where they had been hanging since March. Long enough to become part of the scenery. I shot him a look of pure gratitude. I might very well have forgotten, and with no tickets for sale at the gate, that would have been disasterous. And embarrassing.
As it was, we had both had our tickets safely stashed, and our documents in order. Though we were making a most respectable crossing, I had some supporting papers as well. A couple crossing over with a trailer pulled by a nice new truck is a great deal more reputable than a bus pulling up filled with long haired hippies. Still, I had grabbed a tax document proving I had a place to come back to in Canada. You never know when a border god is going to be rather… enthusiastic about his job, and decide to make life a little challenging for a while.
We pulled up to the booth and came to a stop. A younger and dare I say rather cute border guard stared back at us. I had the passports ready, both open to the picture and bar code pages like Europe had taught me. At this, the guard actually smiled.
“Hey there folks, how’s it going to today?” he said, surprisingly chipper. Maybe he had just gotten on shift. Or just gotten engaged. Something.
We exchanged pleasantries with the man, confirming our cities of origin and occupations. Then the big question.
“So where are you headed?” he smiled, eyes craving our answer.
Now, there are many schools of thought on this one. I have heard of some guards with a real chip on their shoulder responding with a major search to the news you are going to Burning Man. I have heard the thread of a rumor that one person had their tickets found and taken, no explanation, no recourse. This is just the shadow of a rumor however, and I don’t put too much faith in it until I have actually spoken to a person it happened to. Still, I had our tickets out of sight. Many people think this is best, to simply say you are going camping, or going to Nevada, or anything but the actual event. Not lying, but not coming to the point either. You may not want to try this one if you have a bike rack of blinking fun fur with handlebars and pedals however. Or a big duct tape Man symbol on the side of your rv. Guards usually catch on. They are good at that, and there is a damn lot of us who flock across the border the same weekend, every year.
So, we took the direct approach.
“We are off to Burning Man.” Justin replied, giving good eye contact, a hint of a smile on his face.
The guard mimed shock, rocking back in his chair.
“Well, someone who tells the truth! Despite the websites advising you to lie!” He grinned at us, no malice in his words. We laughed with him, and told him about some of our costumes, in response to his next question. He expressed amazement at what we had cooked up, and wished us a good festival. With that, we drove into Montana.
It only took another hundred kilometers before we both began to feel the late nights and early-ish mornings we had been keeping. At the next rest stop, we pulled in. Nestling next to a dormant big rig under the dim yellow lights, we came to a stop. I hopped out, intent on the washrooms. Padding down the walkway, I noticed a sign, half obscured by shadow.
There have been rattlesnakes observed here…
Rattlesnakes? My goodness! Not in Canada anymore, are we? I tiptoed down the cement walkway, eyeing every shadow suspiciously. I had no idea how rattlesnakes behaved, other than the rattling and biting part. Did they hang out on cement, absorbing the last heat of the sun? Did they lurk in restrooms, to be near the water?
After a wary bathroom break, I made it safely back to the trailer. Needless to say, my sleep was sound indeed. The bed was comfortable as usual, and the rest stop was not too busy. We slept late into the next day, only rousing at about ten. I shuffled about the small trailer for a bit, then decided to brave the outdoors. I had remembered to bring my sunglasses the night before (for a change) and put them on to make my way to the restrooms. Time to watch out for ankle biters…
I crossed the parking lot, eyes open for sinuous shapes on the ground. I glanced up at the sign which had started the fuss, and saw it fully in the light for the first time.
Rattlesnakes have been observed here in the grass. Please stay on path.
Well then, I guess cement dwelling fang snakes are just the figment of an over tired mind.
Pre Burn
Time has passed in a whirl. Faster than I expected, though some drives did drag on. THe festivals have flown by, too close and too quickly to properly mention them. And now this one.
Once again, Burning Man looms on the horizon. More accurate to say it has come to the forefront. For most of the festival season, it has been in my sight, on just the edge. I have gone through some festivals thinking “I can’t wait for the Burn.” Perhaps I have become a touch jaded by the hubris of these other festivals. Not even the small ones. No, I like the small festivals best of all. Freezer Burn is like a warm hug from an old friend. Motion Notion is only really smaller when compared to Shambhala, and I really prefer MoNo. Some of that is music that characterizes the event, and some of that is the various nitpicking manners Shambhala has devolved into. Anyways.
These last two weeks have been packed. After a leisurely week in BC, holing up in cabins and driving the winding roads, my arrival back in Edmonton heralded a time of busy. With all my sewing attention previously on my business, I found my costume wardrobe rather neglected. So I rushed out, bought fabric, sewed, bought new hardware, built, and then ran back to five stores for that one little thing I had forgotten. Then I did it again.
Now, on the eve of our departure, I find myself at loose ends. Sure, there is packing still to do, and yes, I do have to run to the bank, but otherwise I am at rest.
Hmm, there was that one little project did want to do, but figured I wouldn’t have time…
Wherever you are, Be There 