The Pit

I have reached a new high... in the bottom of a sand pit.

The trek across the mountainous desert from Vegas to San Diego was nothing short of breathtaking and inspiring. The week's stay in San Diego was filled with adventure, good people, amazing sushi, and beaches. But there's just something about nothing that makes me feel right at home.

I rolled into Joshua Tree a few days ago and took a little 30 mile drive around the National Park, watching the landscape transition from mounds of rubble into huge granite boulders, with pristine cracks splitting them in two -- a climber's dream. The sun was high, the sky clear, the temperature in the 70's, and the wind a gentle breeze. The windows were rolled down, an arm hanging out the window, and we wound our way up and down the hills and winding road.

As the afternoon was drawing to a close and evening settling in, I made my way back to civilization to chat with the locals in the climbing shop. I had heard about a place nearby called The Pit -- literally a hole dug into the ground where people could camp for free, sans amenities -- so I inquired as to its existence. Sure enough, it was still intact and had a handful of residents. Perfect.

That evening I rolled in, found a suitable place to park, and made myself comfortable. There were a few people milling about, so I decided to introduce myself and get the low down. I was kind of surprised to find older people there -- two gentlemen in their 60's -- as well as a couple people my age. After only 15 minutes of conversation I realized how amazing these people were. Their humbleness masked the grandness of their life's achievements, but between the lines you could catch a glimpse of it. Later that night at the campfire, spurred by booze and everyone's favorite herb, the stories started to flow. You wouldn't know it at first glance, but by today's standards they've been wildly successful in their lives, climbing some of the hardest routes in the world, running their own businesses, traveling to every nook and cranny in America, and working in almost every trade in the book. But here they are, living in the bottom of a big hole in the ground, surviving on the most modest of lifestyles.

It's like that everywhere, it seems; beneath the hustle and bustle of the modern world is this subculture, thriving beneath the radar, feeding off the things in life that no one else has time to even notice. It's an alternative that no one talks about, mentions, or probably even knows exists, but here I am, passing through it from one place to the next, getting a taste of all things vagabond. And the more I experience, the more I realize how little I've actually accomplished. The grandeur and magnitude of everything one could potentially achieve is overwhelming, like being a little kid at the base of El Capitan, staring upwards. You feel dwarfed. It rides the very fine line between impossible and improbable: the best kind of challenge.

I wish I could explain the feeling of standing on top of a hill in the middle of a desert, the entire horizon jagged with mountains, and the sun slowing setting. I wish I could tell you how amazing it feels to be surrounded by hundreds of miles of nothingness and the feeling of silence. I wish I could take you to the middle of nowhere and show you the stars, then fill you with the realization that you're stuck to the outside of a giant ball, hurtling through the cosmos at 67,000 miles per hour, then watch as you try to hold onto the ground so you don't fly away.

How to Survive on PB&J

You'd think that being stripped of all responsibilities and, for the most part, possessions would be so freeing and refreshing that you'd adapt immediately; however, and perhaps it's just me, it's taken some time. And strange that a life so susceptible to -- practically begging for -- hedonism generally trends towards altruism, and a sort of cultish-like recruiting.

When your psyche isn't being clouded with deadlines, deliverables, doldrums, and general drudgery, life becomes simple. And a simple life lends itself to simple pleasures: double-ply toilet paper, chopsticks, smiles from strangers, cheese, consecutive green lights, cream soda, and my personal favorite: foaming hand soap dispensers. On any given day, at any given moment, any one of those can turn an otherwise eventless day into hours of bliss.

It's a weird feeling, even now, living an anonymous lifestyle. Everywhere you go you can be someone new, and no one's the wiser. You can choose to go through your day pretending you don't even exist, or go out and change someone's life. You can find new and exciting ways to grow and challenge yourself, or you can just lay in bed all day. Regardless, no one knows, and most of all, no one cares. This is probably the hardest part, believe it or not; most people have a purpose and expectations forced on them, usually through their job, sometimes through their parents or religion, so they never have to think about what they're going to do -- most people have more to do than they have time. But me? My life? All I got is time and nothing to do; I don't have to meet anyone's expectations, or really fulfill any sort of purpose. I'm free to create my own and change it daily if I choose. This is both the blessing and the curse: the scapegoats are gone.

If you know me, you're probably aware that I'm not the most extroverted individual; I'm not unusually introverted by any means, but I'm not the strike-up-conversations-with-random-strangers type. But since I've been on this trip I seem to attract random conversation, and regardless of how they start, they always end up talking about life, freedom, materialism, and breaking free of capitalistic America. No surprise, right? But these people gush; they reveal some really deep, intimate desires with me, a complete stranger! So I just take the opportunity to give them a little nudge in the right direction, a morsel of encouragement to keep that fire alive in hopes that some day they'll join in on giving the bird to corporate America.

It's crazy how many people are going through their lives dissatisfied, thinking that someday things will just magically change and they'll be happy, or finally have what they've always dreamed of. They're following what they've been told to do: get a degree, work hard. So that's what they do. But wait, where's the rainbow? the happiness? When does that come about? You mean it's not intrinsic? Another unhappy customer -- thanks America. The great part is, you can have what you always dreamed of, you just have to want it bad enough to go get it. But everyone I talk to is comfortable; they're making money and have a house full of stuff. Yup, good for you. Way to fill your life with things that don't matter. The initial change is hard and scary, but all of that quickly washes away and reveals something better than you could have ever imagined. So I like to encourage these people to go get it. And I hope they do.

I seem to attract a lot of looks as well -- the jury is still out on whether it's my stench (10 days sans shower and counting) or some careless hippie aura.

Probably the biggest hurdle I've had to conquer in any of my adventures, this one not excluded, is loneliness. With such a confined, isolated, and mobile living environment, you really have to put yourself out there in order to interact with other people. As previously stated, it just sort of happens if I leave the bus, but still the majority of the time I'm alone. Unlike my other travels, though, on this one I've found a way to manage it quite well, though I'm pretty sure I'm well on my way to the loony bin.

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 It was a Wednesday -- hump day. The sun had risen once again and was eagerly warming the inside of the bus. As I rolled around underneath the comforter, shaking off the night's sleep, I began to break a sweat. This is my alarm clock.

A quick trip into the casino to hit the head and brush the teeth and I was on the road. Today I decided I would go hiking, despite my hatred of scaling tall stuff on anything less than vertical terrain. A few things stuffed into the day pack and I was ready to go: pretzels, beef jerky, PB&J, colored pencils, sketchbook, Chogyam Trungpa (one of his books, not the author himself), and a quart of water.

The first mile was pretty tame; a small stream flowed out of the mouth of the canyon on mostly level terrain, meandering through the soft sandstone and around the trees and shrubbery it was sustaining. Before long this fantastical hike turned into a mess of giant red boulders whose general inclination was upwards. Awesome. My favorite part.

Half an hour later I had managed to scale the 1,000 feet of vertical gain and was now resting breathlessly on top of my destination. It's undoubtedly a lot of work, but every time I force myself to do it I wonder why I'm not doing it every day -- the view is astounding! With only a few hours of sunlight left in the day (yeah, about that alarm clock) I quickly removed my shoes and shirt and found some rock that fit my butt. Sitting indian-style, I admired the view and fell into a sort of meditative trance.

A while later I snapped out of it and felt the urge to attempt a sketch of the surrounding view; so many colors and curves that it'd be foolish to not try and capture it with the colored pencils I'd brought along. Just as I was beginning to set my first few lines down on paper I was greeted by my first friend of the day: a ladybug. She came out of nowhere and landed directly on top of my index finger. I'm pretty sure she wanted to chill with me, so after a short conversation I set her down on my hoodie next to the pencils so she could take it all in.

A short while later, having been sitting still sketching away for quite some time, I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye. I glanced to the left and was greeted by a tiny lizard. I called out to him; I said, "Hey, what's up little lizard?!" But I don't think he was feeling very social, as he quickly scurried away. Back to the drawing board.

About an hour later, as I was finishing up -- it gets cold up there when the sun gets close to the horizon -- I was greeted by yet another pal. This time it was a mouse. He came scurrying over to me with a purpose; I'm pretty sure it was the food, not my company he was after. He ran right behind me, completely unafraid, and put his front feet up on the jerky bag and looked over at me. "What's up little mouse?! You hungry?" I didn't want to spoil him, so I reached into the bag of pretzels, pulled a few out, and set them on the ground. He quickly snatched one up and ran back home. "Later little buddy!"

The small pile of pretzels remained, and I was anxiously awaiting his return. Alas, he was gone. I'm pretty sure his family was having some sort of party over the pretzel score. I set down a tiny piece of jerky next to the pretzels, packed up my belongings, walked over to a flat spot and laid down to watch the sun's final plummet beyond the jagged horizon. Before starting my descent, I walked back over to where the food pile was, and it was indeed gone. So long my little friend. 'Til next time.

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See? I'm losing it -- talking to all variety of animals on top of mountains. I'm pretty sure I've talked out loud to myself more in the past week than I have in my entire life combined. It felt weird at first, but now it's starting to feel kind of natural. I'm not sure this is a good thing.

I do apologize for the outlandish delay between posts, but snow-birding in Arizona is not necessarily the most eventful thing to write about. Not to say that I didn't have any adventures down there -- oh I most certainly did -- but I was lacking the inspiration to write about it. You will find some shards of evidence in the photo gallery, however. But now that I'm back on the road I plan on seeking out that inspiration that ultimately sews its way into words. I'll be here in Vegas for the next two weeks, then it's a road trip to the west coast (finally!), through Death Valley for the annual spring bloom, down the Sierras for some snow-capped love, and on over to San Diego to win a tan-off and try my hand at surfing.

Stay tuned, my friends, stay tuned.

Salt River, Symbolism, and Sunsets

The engine purred. Herbert cruised effortlessly down the long, flat stretch of blacktop, parting the air with his big, blue, bread-loaf-shaped nose. The desert spread out for an endless array of miles on each side, interrupted only occasionally by a small plateau.

The air maintained its crisp chill from the night before, a jug of drinking water beside my seat still bearing the abuse of its abrasive powers. I sat tall atop the driver's seat, my scarf-wrapped, hat-adorned head panning back and forth over the awe-inspiring landscape. There's something mesmerizing about nothing. Perhaps the lack of distraction allows one to see things for what they really are -- mother nature in the morning sans makeup.

The baby blue sky unfolded above, taunting us with its infiniteness. Not a cloud dared to obscure its intrinsic perfection. And underneath its watchful gaze, day and night, we drove.

With nowhere left to hide, the magnitude of my decisions began to poke its head out and wave at me from afar. I began to see where I had come from and the faint outline of where I was going. Though still a bit hazy and not well-defined, it was enough to bring a smile to my face -- not a fake, manufactured smile, but the unadulterated manifestation of emotions from deep within. It was borderline overwhelming, thus quickly suppressed, but not without leaving its memorable trace on my psyche.

We quickly wound our way through the Tonto National Forest, peering through the trunks of the Ponderosa pines in hopes of spotting an elk. The majority of the ride was an unlabored downhill roll, but soon we began to parallel the Salt River Canyon and the earth began to take on a more unpredictable appearance. Hills, spires, and plateaus began springing up with every twist and turn, taunting my eyes away from the road. Each and every hill was a new adventure, both for Herbert and myself; for Herbert the adventure was a battle, more or less, his engine zinging at a high rpm, giving it all he had; for me it was cresting another hill and revealing the unknown beauty beyond -- a proverbial kid at Christmas.

If there was any doubt in my mind as to whether or not I had gone the right direction and made the right decisions, it was this day that removed it. The multitude and myriad of emotions this stretch of road provoked are ones that cannot be explained, only experienced.

And like all good things, this too eventually came to an end. Almost 100 miles of pavement devoid of all traces of society -- just me, the bus, and the top of the world -- were covered in a serene, tranquil setting of solitude. And as I descended that final hill, the sun decided that it, too, would follow suit, and down she went.

The perfect end to a phenomenal day: a Phoenix sunset. Have I arrived? And if so, where? These questions will only be answered in time, but I feel a deep sense of rightness, like I'm where I'm supposed to be at this moment in time. And personally I feel that's half the battle -- everything else has a way of working itself out from there. Let the adventure begin.

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I do apologize for the delay in this post, but I've been pretty busy the past week with many random things, from going out to coffee houses and dining on the local Thai (their food, not the people), to going to festivals and surmounting mountains. It's been a very interesting week, filled with many new faces and potential friendships. I was genuinely concerned on my way out here that I wouldn't be able to find enough people to climb with to fill up this vast amount of free time that I have, but as luck would have it, I've been almost overwhelmed with requests and invitations to travel around Arizona, climbing some of the state's best.

I've had such a reaffirmation on this trip as to the inherent good will of complete strangers. Underneath the publicized guise of killing, crime, and random acts of violence is actually a society that still, I think, believes in itself. Given the chance, most people will help you out if you can somehow portray a sense of genuineness, assuring them that you're not trying to take advantage of their altruism. I'm not going to lie, it's a tricky tightrope to traverse, but given a bit of practice and the proper motivation, definitely doable.

For the past week I've been couch surfing with a girl here in Tempe, who graciously offered up her shower and couch for my convenience; as much as I like not having the ability to bathe, it's always nice to wash off the dirt and sweat from the road. I also appreciate being shown around a new city and getting a solid grounding on the layout and the cuisine. On Wednesday we biked over to a festival on campus to look for photo-ops on its last day. In an effort to expand my horizons, continue to come out of my shell, convince myself that no one is ever really paying attention, and publicly mock myself, I let my host photograph me with any hat on that she desired; I should have been a model, obviously.