Mt. San Gorgonio, Bear Cavalry, and No Sorority Girls

I was up at 4:00 am to the sound of my Blackberry's "Sonar Pulse" ring tone.  Coffee, of course, just stronger and blacker than what is required for my typical workaday life.  I was on the road by 5:00, and jamming out to "Hell's Bells" by 5:30.  It is a true statement that the only time you can listen to commercial-free radio is during the times that no one actually has the radio on.

I met Aaron and his group of friends at the ranger station, signed permits, loaded bear canisters, and talked optimistically about our pending assault on Mt. San Gorgonio.  The weight of the pack when it is first loaded onto your shoulders always surprises you, no matter how many times you have done it before.

The first mile of the Vivian Creek Trail is the steepest, removing any possibility of getting a warm-up or stretch in, or really, any of the other recommendations that your Physician may give you regarding exercise.  I hated my pack and I hated whichever goddamn son-of-a-bitch had designed all of these switchbacks on the trail.  We were awarded relief earlier than normal, however.  By some stroke of luck or Aaron's genius planning, our camp was less than 3 miles from the trail-head.  We dropped our packs, set up camp, and hid the food from any marauding bears.

Back on the trail, we moved quickly, free from the weight of all of our belongings, and still relatively fired up on adrenaline and caffeine.  Like a bunch of idiots, we brought minimal water and no clothing other than the t-shirts and shorts that we had on.  For a group of guys experienced enough to know better, I can only chalk this up to amnesia or temporary insanity.  Mile after mile, switch-back after switch-back, one better-equipped hiker after another, we floundered up the tallest mountain in Southern California.

By necessity, we drank less water, rationing some for the return, and our rest stops became longer and longer.  Sitting on the flat rocks with legs stretched out, feasting on small oranges that Adam called "cuties," (of which I have since learned is the real name), it became easy to toy with the idea of just sitting down forever.  Each time that we got back up, our legs protested a little louder.  They started with a "do we have to?" and evolved to a shriller "what the fucking fuck is your problem?"  Temperamental little bastards...

After getting above the tree-line, we realized the extent of our stupidity.  The wind whipped, and with no trees to mute the force, we got lashed by the gales, turning our hands purple and numb, and our minds fondly remembering the "old days" of camping.  You know, the ones with smores and ghost stories.  More and more hikers looked at us strangely as they passed us on the way back down.

"Is that all the clothes you have?"

"Is that all the water you have?"

"I hope you have more clothes than that hidden somewhere."

"Yes," "yes," and "we wish we did too."  But we didn't.  So we kept walking.  We finally got over the false summit, a huge rocky mound that thinks its funny, and lures the unsuspecting into thinking you are almost done.  It then kicks sand in your face, laughs at you, and steals your girlfriend.  Aaron and I jogged the final push, startling a few kindly folks as we jostled past them, and tried not to get taken off of our feet by the wind.

The summit was just under 11,500 feet, and provided the panoramic views of southern California that it is famous for.  The wind was damn near knocking us over.  We posed for a couple of pictures, and then shared our whiskey, a flask of Bulliet Bourbon that was a gift from my cousins.  One of the world's toughest grandmothers had reached the peak as well, and took an impressive slug of the fire water.  We couldn't see, hear, or do anything for the cold and the wind, and estimated the wind-chill factor to be close to freezing, so we got the hell out of there.


Tough Grandma and Aaron


Aaron and I at summit


Exposed along the ridge, the wind got even more intense, and loosening your grip on the earth to take a step forward was to risk being knocked completely ass over tea kettle.


Video from the summit.  Turn up the volume to hear the wind.


We finally got back to camp, and were bitterly disappointed to find that no batch of sorority girls had arrived in our absence, an unlikely scenario I'll admit, but one which had incubated in our minds and discussion so firmly that we had almost come to expect it.  No sorority girls.

After watching me struggle mightily with my tent for what must have been an hour, Eric was kind enough to lend me his engineering assistance.  It went up in no time, of course.  Amazing what can be accomplished when one member of the party actually has some common-sense and ingenuity.  Thanks, Eric.  And thanks for not laughing at me.

Aaron jimmy-rigged one hell of a rope contraption that brought our bag of used dishes high above the head of any normal bear, and we stashed the canisters far from camp.  Despite that, it was a relatively sleepless night.  Obviously half-stupid from whiskey and exertion, I became convinced that a cavalry of bears and armed Vikings were coming to raid our camp, steal the liquor and kill us all.


The bear/Viking cavalry from my imagination


Breakfast was Lucky Charms and powdered milk, beef jerky, power bars, and a shit-heap of energy-Gu.  Adam and Alex led the charge down the mountain, and we were sipping ice-cold beers and mowing down burritos by noon.

Aaron bear-proofing our camp


Alex becoming one with a tree spirit



Another mountain conquered, and good times were had by all.

Victorious

Amnesia and Annoyance in Phnom Penh, Cambodia

I leaned back in the bamboo chair and took in the half spectacular and half disgusting view of Boeung Kak Lake in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.  The orange sun, huge and fierce and setting slowly over the horizon, was beautiful.  The small mountains of garbage and debris on the banks were less so.  I was less conflicted about the heaving mass of pale flesh and babbling idiocy next to me.

"So, where you guys from anyway?"

We looked at each other.  There was a collective sigh.

"We already told you.  He's from Alaska.  We're from California."

She nodded with what appeared to be an attempt at brevity, and then wobbled a bit, not an easy feat to accomplish while sitting, and came dangerously close to falling on me.  She caught herself at the last moment.

"Thank Christ," I muttered.

"Well, I'm from England," she exclaimed proudly.

"We know.  You told us, remember?"  Bryan offered helpfully.

"I did?"

"You did."

The guest house balcony was playing "Buffalo Soldier" from Bob Marley's greatest hits album.  It was probably the 4th or 5th time we had heard it that day.  I think it may have been the only CD they had.  I wished desperately for something louder, angrier, less conducive to conversation.

The bottle of Black Cat whiskey was passed around again.  I couldn't quite put my finger on whether it tasted like formaldehyde or vinegar.  The answer may have been both.  According to local street wisdom, Black Cat could sometimes provide hallucinogenic visions.  From what we could understand, this was less by design, and more due to a standard of quality control that could be best described as...lax.  In short, each bottle was different, even if it originated from the same lot.  Whatever the case, the visions weren't coming fast enough to make her entertaining.  Or cute.

"So, where you guys from?"

Bryan couldn't help himself.  "Oh, Jesus Christ!"

She looked taken aback.  Leaning her bulk towards Travis and I, close enough to smell the reek of alcohol and sweat, she gave a stage whisper.  "Your friend isn't very nice!"

Travis and I nodded with some sympathy.  "Yeah, he's from the Ukraine.  People aren't very nice there."

Beer. Because God wanted us to be happy

The next time you see a yuppie trying to impress his date with an elaborate system of sniffing, shaking and delicately tasting a glass of wine, remind him that it is simply fermented grape juice.  That is all.  Sugar already exists in grapes, and the making of wine is therefore a less complex process than the one that creates God's one and true gift to man (and woman) kind; beer.

There is reference to a beer-like substance in Ancient China as far back as 5,000 years ago.  Brewing was considered a highly respected occupation as far back as during the Mesopotamia civilization, and beer was part of the daily diet of the Egyptian Pharaohs, used in religious practices.  Possibly the coolest factoid I could find is that the Finnish epic poem, "Kalevala," finally recorded in written form during the 19th Century, but based on oral traditions that spanned many generations, actually has more references to beer and beer-making than the origins of mankind.  Awesome. (1)

In a small effort to keep this rich and ancient tradition thriving, I just finished up a batch of a red ale, which should be ready for drinking when my parents get back into town in early September.

A quick primer on beer-brewing:

Create the "wort," which consists of grains and a malt extract, eventually combined after separate boiling processes.  This is eventually brought to a full and roiling boil, with various types of hops added at planned intervals.  This finished wort will be added to a primary fermenter, or plastic container, before adding a large quantity of cold, clean water.  Specialty yeast is added as a final step before closing up the container.  The beer-to-be will be transferred to a glass carboy, or secondary fermenter within 1-2 weeks via a siphon, and it will then continue to ferment for a somewhat subjective length of time that is partially based on the type of beer.  The bottling process uses the siphon as well, and the liquid is combined with priming sugar in the bottles.  This is the final step, and the bottled beer will carbonate and continue to ferment until ready to drink.  The last and most important step is, obviously, to enjoy the fruits of your labors.

* I am leaving out a lot of the details, but this gives you a quick breakdown.

Racking beer to prepare for bottling:


Capping my bottled beer:


44 beers, just waiting for a dance partner:


Happiness, I has it:



(1) - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_beer

Attack Dogs, Cover Bands, and a Reason to Avoid "Short Cuts"

Edit - Not sure why everyone is thinking that this is fiction, but it is not.  This was a story that happened when I was living in China, Spring 2007

I had taken to doing my drinking at the Holiday Inn.  Unlike Bar Street, with its Christmas-style decorations, music play-lists of which half were Chinese Pop and half were the most obnoxious of American Rap, the Holiday Inn was a place apart, a taxi ride away, and it boasted an impressive cover band made up of two beautiful Filipino singers.  There were typically a few expats at the bar, sipping Remy Martin and flirting comfortably with both the singers and the half-dozen or so working girls who would stake out their respective territories.  It was easy for a newcomer to mistake the girls as normal bar patrons (friendly ones), until one would notice that they were always in the same place every night.  It was unclear if there was a professional alliance that they would follow, each responsible for a certain area of the bar, or if the geography was hard-fought battleground, with the more ruthless earning her position as the industry's representative at the pool tables, while a less aggressive younger sister might be relegated to plying her trade among the back section closest to the singers.

In any case, it was a nice change from the noise and chaos of the more central party areas in Zhuhai, China, and you were almost assured of not getting food poisoning there.  The music was quite good actually, both female vocalists had excellent voices, and the guitar player would go on impressive solo riffs now and again, even on American songs who's original did not call for them.

One particular night, capacity for objective thought impaired by an unknown quantity of San Miguel beer and the short skirts of the Filipino singers, I considered my available cash.  I could reward myself for a week well-done with a massage at the upstairs parlor, or I could be driven safely home by a waiting taxi.  This would ensure that I not become the latest drunken expat mugged and beaten in an abandoned alley as I staggered home.

Fifteen minutes later, I was being rubbed down by an exotic beauty in a short skirt.  As I had paid for a 30 minute session, I used the time to rifle through my 15 word lexicon of Cantonese to determine if I knew how to say either "happy" or "ending," or any similar variation.  I did not, and I grumbled bitterly that classrooms never teach you anything "practical."  I was loathe to use any hand gestures to indicate what was required here, so I just thanked her for her time, and wandered into the dark Zhuhai night.  It was probably 3am.

I considered my options, and concluded that they were quite limited.  Home was approximately three miles away.  As the car drives, I would need to follow the main road straight to the coast, and then turn right (south), to get to my apartment.  At least three miles.  Still half-stupid from strong drink, I decided on blazing a new path, taking side streets and alleys in a diagonal fashion, cutting off what I expected would be significant amounts of time.  I had forgotten that unknown short cuts are never short cuts.

The city was mostly quiet, save for small groups of men huddled around dice games on porches and stairways, surrounded by bottles of cheap liquor.  Usually the conversation would stop as I walked by, continuing only after I had passed.  I pulled the hoody up over my head to avoid the instant recognition as a foreigner, but it took away my peripheral vision, and probably drew even more attention to myself.  I pulled it back down as I entered yet another dark alley, and was immediately conscious of a dozen dark and silent shapes streaking towards me.

Dogs defending their territory in the U.S. will usually bark ferociously, warning the intruder back and away from the geography that they consider "theirs."  This pack had apparently decided that my intrusion was too significant  to forgive, and launched a surprise attack where no mercy or mere "lesson" would suffice.  The utter silence of the mangy dogs was far more terrifying than a snarl or loud bark would have been.  I turned to face them, roaring English obscenities which surely meant nothing to them.  Surprised by my aggression, the lead dogs faltered, turned back a few steps, and then remembered that they held a huge advantage in numbers.  They immediately turned back to attack, rushing towards me.  Not ten feet away, a loud command was yelled from somewhere in the darkness of the alley that they had come from, and they immediately halted their onslaught, retreating back the way they came.

I realized that I had been holding my breath, and let it out in a violent expulsion of air.  Turning quickly, I walked on.

An hour later, I was realizing that my short cut was not one, and I was turned around in the maze of dilapidated buildings.  Somewhere up ahead of me, I heard a loud and mournful baying, like some massive hound of the baskervilles.  "More dogs," I thought sadly.  Not trusting my ability to find my way back, I continued on towards the sound.  Sitting on a stoop, a middle-aged man howled at the moon.  He looked at me, and I looked at him, and he turned back to the sky to resume his wailing.  I took a deep breath.  It was time to get home.

Eventually, I found a major street, which I recognized as one a good mile further south than I should have been, and followed it to my apartment.  It was 5am when I walked in the door and collapsed on my unmade bed.

Go Slow

Several times a day over the last few weeks, I have unconsciously stopped what I was doing just to sit and think.

The fact is, I am inspired.  I am also happy.  The books that I am reading, the ideas that I am thinking, the dreams that I am dreaming, how I am spending my time, what I am choosing to go without, all of it reflects an optimism...a positivity that is new to me.

I am pleased with my progress, and I see the potential for further improvements without being in a rush to get there.  I am taking things slower, not rushing through an enjoyable activity just to get to the next item on my to-do list.  When I talk to someone in person or on the phone, I am present.  I do not multi-task, splitting my attention between the conversation and the TV or computer or any other shiny distraction.

Every day, I am reminding myself to move slow and make sure that I enjoy the ride.